The Three Brides. Charlotte M. Yonge
hands, her nostrils dilating with anxiety and suppressed eagerness, there entered a tall, dark, sunburnt man bringing on his arm a little, trim, upright, girlish figure; and bending down, he exclaimed, “There, mother, I’ve brought her—here’s your daughter!”
Two little gloved hands were put into hers, and a kiss exchanged, while Raymond anxiously inquired for his mother’s health; and she broke in by saying, “And here is Anne—Miles’s Anne, just arrived.”
“Ah, I did not see you in the dark,” said Raymond. “There, Cecil, is a sister for you—you never had one.”
Cecil was readier with greeting hand and cheek than was Anne, but at the same moment the tea equipage was brought in, and Cecil, quite naturally, and as a matter of course, began to preside over the low table, while Raymond took his accustomed chair on the further side of his mother’s sofa, where he could lean over the arm and study her countenance, while she fondled the hand that he had hung over the back. He was describing the welcome at the station, and all through the village—the triumphal arches and shouts.
“But how they did miss you, mother,” said Charlie. “Old Gurnet wrung my hand in tears as he said, ‘Yes, sir, ’tis very fine, but it beats the heart out of it that madam bain’t here to see.’ ”
“Good old Gurnet!” responded Raymond. “They are famously loyal. The J. C. P. crowned all above all the Cs and Rs, I was happy to see.”
“J. was for Julius—not Julia,” said the mother.
“No; J. H. C. and R. C. had a separate device of roses all to themselves. Hark! is that a cheer beginning again? Had we not better go into the drawing-room, mother? it will be so many for you all together.”
“Oh no, I must see you all.”
The brothers hurried out with their welcome; and in another minute, a plump soft cheek was pressed to the mother’s, devouring kisses were hailed on her, and a fuller sweeter tone than had yet been heard answered the welcome.
“Thank you. So kind! Here’s Julius! I’ll not be in your way.”
“Dearest mother, how is it with you?” as her son embraced her. “Rose has been longing to be with you.”
“And we’ve all come together! How delicious!” cried Rosamond, enfolding Anne in her embrace; “I didn’t know you were come!—See, Julius!”
But as Julius turned, a startled look came over Anne’s face; and she turned so white, that Rosamond exclaimed, “My dear—what—she’s faint!” And while Cecil stood looking puzzled, Rosamond had her arm round the trembling form, and disappeared with her, guided and assisted by Nurse Susan.
“Isn’t she—?” exclaimed Julius, in a voice of triumph that made all smile.
“Full of sweet kindness,” said Mrs. Poynsett; “but I have only seen and heard her yet, my dear Julius. Susan will take her to her room—my old one.”
“Oh, thank you, mother,” said Julius, “but I hardly like that; it seems like your giving it up.”
“On the contrary, it proves that I do not give it up, since I put in temporary lodgers like you.—Now Cecil is housed as you preferred, Raymond—in the wainscot-rooms.”
“And where have you put that poor Mrs. Miles?” asked Raymond. “She looks quite knocked up.”
“Yes, she has been very ill on the voyage, and waited at Southampton to gather strength for the journey.—I am so grateful to your good Rose, Julius.—Why, where is the boy? Vanished in her wake, I declare!”
“His venerable head is quite turned,” said Frank. “I had to get inside alone, and let them drive home outside together to avoid separation.”
Raymond repeated his question as to the quarters of Miles’s wife.
“I had the old schoolroom and the bedroom adjoining newly fitted up,” answered Mrs. Poynsett. “Jenny Bowater was here yesterday, and gave the finishing touches. She tells me the rooms look very nice.—Cecil, my dear, you must excuse deficiencies; I shall look to you in future.”
“I hope to manage well,” said Cecil. “Had I not better go up now? Will you show me the way, Raymond?”
The mother and her two younger sons remained.
“Haven’t I brought you home a splendid article?” was Frank’s exclamation. “Julius has got the best of it.”
“I back my Cape Gooseberry,” returned Charles. “She has eyes and hair and skin that my Lady can’t match, and is a fine figure of a woman besides.”
“Much you know of Rosamond’s eyes!”
“Or you either, boxed up in the van.”
“Any way, they have made roast meat of his Reverence’s heart! The other two take it much more easily.”
“She’s a mere chicken,” said Charlie. “Who would have thought of Raymond being caught by a callow nestling?”
“And so uncommonly cool,” added Frank.
“It would take much to transform Raymond,” interposed the mother. “Now, boys, away with you; I must have a little quiet, to repair myself for company after dinner.”
Charlie settled her cushions with womanly skill, and followed his brother. “Well, Frank, which is the White Cat? Ah, I thought so—she’s yet to come.”
“Not one is fit to hold a candle to her. You saw that as plain as I did, Charlie; Eleonora beats them all.”
“Ah, you’re not the youngest brother, remember. It was he who brought her home at last. Come, you need not knock me down; I shall never see any one to surpass the mother, and I’ll have no one till I do.”
CHAPTER II
The Population of Compton Poynsett
He wanted a wife his braw hoose to keep,
But favour wi’ wooin’ was fashous to seek.—Laird o’ Cockpen
In the bright lamplight of the dining-table, the new population first fully beheld one another, and understood one another’s looks.
There was much family resemblance between the five brothers. All were well-grown well-made men, strong and agile, the countenance pleasing, rather square of mould, eyebrows straight and thick, nose well cut and short, chin firm and resolute-looking, and the complexion very dark in Raymond, Frank, and the absent Miles. Frank’s eyes were soft, brown, rather pensive, and absent in expression; but Raymond’s were much deeper and darker, and had a steadfast gravity, that made him be viewed as formidable, especially as he had lost all the youthful glow of colouring that mantled in his brother’s olive cheek; and he had a short, thick, curly brown beard, while Frank had only attained to a black moustache, that might almost have been drawn on his lip with charcoal.
Charlie was an exception—fair, blue-eyed, rosy, and with a soft feminine contour of visage, which had often drawn on him reproaches for not being really the daughter all his mother’s friends desired for her.
And Julius, with the outlines of the others, was Albino, with transparent skin mantling with colour that contrasted with his snowy hair, eyebrows, and the lashes, veiling eyes of a curious coral hue, really not unpleasing under their thick white fringes, but most inconveniently short of sight, although capable of much work; in fact, he was a curiously perfect pink-and-white edition of his dark and bronzed brother the sailor.
The dark eyes came from the father’s side; Cecil had them, and very observing orbs they seemed to be, travelling about from one face to another, and into every corner of the room, scrutinizing