The Three Brides. Charlotte M. Yonge
Mrs. Bowater. “Very bad for the poor girl’s spirits. By the bye, I hope Julius does not object to Herbert’s dancing—not at a public ball, you know, but at home—for if he did, I would try to arrange something else, it would be so hard for the poor boy to have to look on.”
“I don’t know, I don’t think he could,” said the mother, considering.
“You see, we thought of a dinner-party for as many as possible. Frank and Charlie won’t mind dining in the schoolroom, I know, and having the rest for a dance in the evening; but if Julius did think it unclerical—Jenny says he won’t, and papa laughs, and says, ‘Poh! poh! Julius is no fool;’ but people are so much more particular than they used to be, and I would not get the dear boy into a scrape for the world.”
Mrs. Poynsett undertook to ascertain his opinions on this knotty point, and to let her know if they were adverse; and then she begged for a visit from Jenny, whose brother had no accommodation for her in his lodgings. She could not be spared till after the entertainment on the 3rd, nor till a visit from her married sister was over; but afterwards, her mother was delighted that she should come and look after Herbert, who seemed as much on the maternal mind as if he had not batted his way through Eton, and boated it through Oxford.
Mrs. Poynsett obtained her word with Julius in good time that evening. He laughed a little. “Poor Herbs! when will people understand that it is the spirit of the thing, the pursuit, not the individual chance participation in any particular amusement, that is unclerical, as they are pleased to call it?”
“What do you think of Herbert?”
“A boy, and a very nice boy; but if he doesn’t get his healthful play somehow, he will burst out like a closed boiler some day.”
“A muscular Christian on your hands?”
“Not theoretically, for he has been well taught; but it’s a great animal that needs to work off its steam, and if I had known it, I would not have undertaken the problem of letting him do that, without setting up bad habits, or scandalizing the parish and Bindon—who is young the other way, and has no toleration. We had this morning’s service in a state of siege from all the dogs. Herbert thought he had shut them safely up, but they were all at his heels in the churchyard; and though he rated them home, and shut all the doors, we heard them whining and scratching at each in turn.”
“I thought I should have died of it,” said Rosamond, entering. “His face grew red enough to set his surplice on fire, and Mr. Bindon glared at him, and he missed his verse in the Psalm; for there was the bull terrier, crouching and looking abject at the vestry-door, just restrained by his eye from coming further.”
“What shall you do about it, Julius?” asked his mother, much amused.
“Oh, that will remedy itself. All dogs learn to understand the bell.”
And then the others began to drop in, and were told of the invitation that was coming.
“I say, Rosamond,” cried Charlie, “can brothers and sisters-in-law dance together?”
“That depends on how the brothers-in-law dance,” returned Rosamond. “Some one, for pity’s sake, play a waltz!—Come along Charlie! the hall is a sweet place for it!—Whistle, Julius!—Frank, whistle!”
And away she whirled. Frank, holding out his hands, was to his surprise accepted by Cecil, and disappeared with her into the hall. Julius stood by the mantelpiece, with the first shadow on his brow his mother had seen since his arrival. Presently he spoke in a defensive apologetic tone: “She has always been used to this style of thing.”
“Most naturally,” said the mother.
“Not that they ever did more than their position required, and Lady Rathforlane is a truly careful mother. Of course some things might startle you stay-at-home people; but in all essentials—”
“I see what you mean.”
“And what seems like rattle is habit.”
“Simple gaieté de cœur!”
“So it is better to acquiesce till it subsides of itself. You see it is hard, after such a life of change and variety, to settle down into a country parsonage.”
“What are you saying there?” said Rosamond, tripping in out of breath.
“That I don’t know how you are to put up with a pink-eyed parson, and a hum-drum life,” said Julius, holding out a caressing hand.
“Now that’s hard,” pleaded she; “only because I took a frolic with Baby Charles! I say, Julius, shall we give it up altogether and stay at home like good children? I believe that is what would suit the told Rabbit much better than his kid gloves,”—and her sweet face looked up at him with a meek candid gaze.
“No,” he said, “that would not do. The Bowaters are our oldest friends. But, Rosie, as you are a clergyman’s wife, could you not give up round dances?”
“Oh no, no! That’s too bad. I’d rather never go to a dance at all, than sit still, or be elbowed about in the square dances. You never told me you expected that!”—and her tones were of a child petulant at injustice.
“Suppose,” he said, as a delightful solution, “you only gratified Frank and Charlie by waltzing with them.”
She burst into a ringing laugh. “My brothers-in-law! How very ridiculous! Suppose you included the curates?”
“You know what I mean,” he said gravely.
“Oh, bother the parson’s wife! Haven’t I seen them figuring away by scores? Did we ever have a regimental ball that they were not the keenest after?”
“So they get themselves talked of!” said Julius, as Anne’s quiet entrance broke up the dialogue.
Mrs. Poynsett had listened, glad there was no appeal to her, conscious that she did not understand the merits of the case, and while she doubted whether her eldest son had love enough, somewhat afraid lest his brother had not rather too much for the good of his lawful supremacy.
CHAPTER VII
Unfruitful Suggestions
“Raymond! Can you spare me a moment before you go into your mother’s room?”
It was Rosamond who, to his surprise, as he was about to go down-stairs, met him and drew him into her apartment—his mother’s own dressing-room, which he had not entered since the accident.
“Is anything the matter?” he said, thinking that Julius might have spared him from complaints of Cecil.
“Oh no! only one never can speak to you, and Julius told me that you could tell me about Mrs. Poynsett. I can’t help thinking she could be moved more than she is.” Then, as he was beginning to speak, “Do you know that, the morning of the fire, I carried her with only one of the maids to the couch under the tent-room window? Susan was frightened out of her wits, but she was not a bit the worse for it.”
“Ah! that was excitement.”
“But if it did not hurt her then, why should it hurt her again? There’s old General M’Kinnon, my father’s old friend, who runs about everywhere in a wheeled-chair with a leg-rest; and I can’t think why she should not do the same.”
Raymond smiled kindly on her, but rather sadly; perhaps he was recollecting his morning’s talk about the occupancy of the drawing-room. “You know it is her spine,” he said.
“So it is with him. His horse rolled over him at Sebastopol, and he has never walked since. I wanted to write to Mary M’Kinnon; but Julius said I had better talk to you, because he was only at home for a fortnight, when she