The Three Brides. Charlotte M. Yonge
“Was St. Chrysostom over-strained about the hippodrome?” said Julius, thoughtfully.
Mrs. Poynsett looked at him as he leant upon the chimney-piece. Here was another son gone, in a different way, beyond her reach. She had seen comparatively little of him since his University days; and though always a good and conscientious person, there had been nothing to draw her out of secular modes of thought; nor had she any connection with the clerical world, so that she had not, as it were, gone along with the tone of mind that she had perceived in him.
He did not return to the subject, and they were soon joined by his elder brother. At the first opportunity after dinner, Frank got Rosamond up into a corner with a would-be indifferent “So you met Miss Vivian. What did you think of her?”
Rosamond’s intuition saw what she was required to think, and being experienced in raving brothers, she praised the fine face and figure so as to find the way to his heart.
“I am so glad you met her in that way. Even Julius must be convinced. Was not he delighted?”
“I think she grew upon him.”
“And now neither of you will be warped. It is so very strange in my mother, generally the kindest, most open-hearted woman in the world, to distrust and bear a grudge against them all for the son’s dissipation—just as if that affected the ladies of a family!”
“I did not think it was entirely on his account,” said Rosamond.
“Old stories of flirtation!” said Frank, scornfully; “but what are they to be cast up against a woman in her widowhood? It is so utterly unlike mother, I can’t understand it.”
“Would not the natural conclusion be that she knew more, and had her reasons?”
“I tell you, Rosamond, I know them infinitely better than she does. She never saw them since Lady Tyrrell’s marriage, when Eleonora was a mere child; now I saw a great deal of them at Rockpier last year. There was poor Jamie Armstrong sent down to spend the winter on the south coast; and as none of his own people could be with him, we—his Oxford friends, I mean—took turns to come to him; and as I had just gone up for my degree, I had the most time. The Vivians had been living there ever since they went on poor Emily’s account. They did not like to leave the place where she died you see; and Lady Tyrrell had joined them after her husband’s death. Such a pleasant house! no regular gaieties, of course, but a few friends in a quiet way—music and charades, and so forth. Every one knew everybody there; not a bit of our stiff county ways, but meeting all day long in the most sociable manner.”
“Oh yes, I know the style of place.”
“One gets better acquainted in a week than one does in seven years in a place like this,” proceeded Frank. “And you may tell Julius to ask any of the clerics if Lenore was not a perfect darling with the Vicar and his wife, and her sister too; and Rockpier is a regular tip-top place for Church, you know. I’m sure it was enough to make a fellow good for life, just to see Eleonora walking up the aisle with that sweet face of hers, looking more like heaven than earth.”
Rosamond made reply enough to set him off again. “Lady Tyrrell would have been content to stay there for ever, she told me, but she thought it too confined a range for Eleonora; there was no formation of character, though I don’t see how it could have formed better; but Lady Tyrrell is a thoroughly careful motherly sister, and thought it right she should see a little of the world. So they broke up from Rockpier, and spent a year abroad; and now Lady Tyrrell is making great sacrifices to enable her father to come and live at home again. I must say it would be more neighbourly to welcome them a little more kindly!”
“I should think such agreeable people were sure to win their way.”
“Ah! you don’t know how impervious our style of old squire and squiress can be! If even mother is not superior to the old prejudice, who will be? And it is very hard on a fellow; for three parts of my time is taken up by this eternal cramming—I should have no heart for it but for her—and I can’t be going over to Sirenwood as I used to go to Rockpier, while my mother vexes herself about it, in her state. If she were up and about I should not mind, or she would know better; but what can they—Lenore, I mean—think of me, but that I am as bad as the rest?”
“Do you mean that anything has passed between you?”
“No, not with Lenore. Her sister spoke to me, and said it was not right when she had seen nothing but Rockpier; but she as good as promised to stand my friend. And when I get to the office, in two years, I shall have quite enough to begin upon, with what my mother allows us.”
“Then you hope she will wait for that?”
“I feel sure of it—that is, if she is not annoyed by this abominable usage from my family. Oh! Rosamond, you will help us when you get into your own house, and you will get Julius to see it in a proper light. Mother trusts to him almost as much as to Raymond; but it is our misfortune to be so much younger that she can’t believe us grown up.”
“O, Frank,” said Charlie, coming in, “here’s Price come up about the puppies.—What, Rosamond, has he got hold of you? What a blessing for me! but I pity you.”
Frank and Charlie went off together; and Julius was in the act of begging Cecil to illuminate a notice of the services, to be framed and put into the church porch, when Raymond came in from the other room to make up a whist-table for his mother. Rosamond gladly responded; but there was a slight accent of contempt in Cecil’s voice, as she replied, “I never played a game at cards in my life.”
“They are a great resource to my mother,” said Raymond. “Anne, you are too tired to play?—No, Julius, the pack is not there; look in the drawer of the chiffonier.”
Julius handed the list he had been jotting down to Cecil, and followed his brother, with his hands full of cards, unconscious of the expression of dismay, almost horror, with which Anne was gazing after him.
“Oh! let us be resolute!” she cried, as soon as the door was shut. “Do not let us touch the evil thing!”
“Cards?” said Cecil. “If Mrs. Poynsett cannot be amused without them, I suppose we shall have to learn. I always heard she was such an intellectual woman.”
“But we ought to resist sin, however painful it may be,” said Anne, gathering strength; “nay, even if a minister sets the example of defection.”
“You think it wicked,” said Cecil. “Oh no, it is stupid and silly, and an absurd waste of time, but no more.”
“Yes, it is,” said Anne. “Cards are the bane of thousands.”
“Oh yes, gambling and all that; but to play in the evening to amuse an invalid can have no harm in it.”
“An invalid and aged woman ought to have her mind set upon better things,” said Anne. “I shall not withdraw my testimony, and I hope you will not.”
“I don’t know,” said Cecil. “You see I am expected to attend to Mrs. Poynsett; and I have seen whist at Dunstone when any dull old person came there. What a troublesome crooked hand Julius writes—just like Greek! What’s all this? So many services—four on Sunday, two every day, three on Wednesdays and Fridays! We never had anything like this at Dunstone.”
“It is very superstitious,” said Anne.
“Very superfluous, I should say,” amended Cecil. “I am sure my father would consent to nothing of the kind. I shall speak to Raymond about it.”
“Yes,” said Anne; “it does seem terrible that a minister should try to make up for worldly amusements by a quantity of vain ceremonies.”
“I wish you would not call him a minister, it sounds like a dissenter.”
“I think ministers their best name, except pastors.”
“Both are horrid alike,” said Cecil. “I shall