The Three Brides

CHAPTER XXII. Times Out of Joint

Alte der Meere, Komm und hore; Meine Frau, die Ilsebill, Will nicht als ich will!

Life at Compton Poynsett was different from what it had been when the two youngest sons had been at home, and Julius and Rosamond in the house. The family circle had grown much more stiff and quiet, and the chief difference caused by Mrs. Poynsett's presence was that Raymond was deprived of his refuge in her room. Cecil had taken a line of polite contempt. There was always a certain languid amount of indifferent conversation, 'from the teeth outward,' as Rosamond said. Every home engagement was submitted to the elder lady with elaborate scrupulousness, almost like irony. Visitors in the house or invitations out of it, were welcome breaks, and the whirl of society which vaguely alarmed Joanna Bowater was a relief to the inhabitants of the Hall.

Anne's companionship was not lively for her mother-in-law, but she was brightening in the near prospect of Miles's return, and they had established habits that carried them well through the evening. Anne covered screens and made scrap-books, and did other work for the bazaar; and Mrs. Poynsett cut out pictures, made suggestions, and had associations of her own with the combinations of which Anne had little notion. Or she dictated letters which Anne wrote, and through all these was a kindly, peaceful spirit, most unlike the dreary alienation in which Cecil persevered.

To Cecil this seemed the anxious desire for her lawful rights. She had been used to spend the greater part of the evening at the piano, but her awakened eyes perceived that this was a cover to Raymond's conversations at his mother's sofa; so she sat tying knots in stiff thread at her macrame lace pillow, making the bazaar a plea for nothing but work. Raymond used to arm himself with the newspapers as the safest point d'appui, and the talk was happiest when it only languished, for it could do much worse.

"Shall you be at Sirenwood to-morrow, Cecil?" asked Mrs. Poynsett, as she was wheeled to her station by the fire after dinner. "Will you kindly take charge of a little parcel for me? One of the Miss Strangeways asked me to look for some old franks, so Anne and I have been turning out my drawers."

"Are they for sale?" asked Raymond.

"Yes," said Cecil. "Bee Strangeways is collecting; she will pay for all that are new to her, and sell any duplicates."

"Has she many?" asked Mrs. Poynsett, glad of this safe subject.

"Quantities; and very valuable ones. Her grandfather knew everybody, and was in the Ministry."

"Was he?" said Raymond, surprised.

"Lord Lorimer?" said Mrs. Poynsett. "Not when I knew them. He was an old-fashioned Whig, with some peculiar crotchets, and never could work with any Cabinet."

"Beatrice told me he was," said Cecil, stiffly.

"I rather think he was Master of the Buckhounds for a little while in the Grey Ministry," said Mrs. Poynsett, "but he gave it up because he would not vote with ministers on the poor laws."

"I knew I was not mistaken in saying he was in the Ministry," said Cecil.

"The Master of the Buckhounds is not in the Cabinet, Cecil," said her husband.

"I never said he was. I said he was in office," returned the infallible lady.

Mrs. Poynsett thought it well to interrupt by handing in an envelope franked by Sir Robert Peel; but Cecil at once declared that the writing was different from that which Bee already owned.

"Perhaps it is not the same Sir Robert," said Mrs. Poynsett.

"She got it from the Queen, and they are all authenticated. The Queen newspaper, of course" (rather petulantly).

"Indisputable," said Raymond; "but this frank contained a letter from the second Sir Robert to my father."

Mrs. Poynsett made a sign of acquiescence, and Cecil pouted in her dignified way, though Mrs. Poynsett tried to improve matters by saying, "Then it appears that Miss Strangeways will have a series of Peel autographs, all in fact but the first generation."

Common sense showed she was right, but Cecil still felt discontented, for she knew she had been resisted and confuted, and she believed it was all Mrs. Poynsett's doing instead of Raymond's.

And she became as mute as Anne for the next half-hour, nor did either Raymond or his mother venture on starting any fresh topic, lest there might be fresh jarring.

Only Anne presently came up to Mrs. Poynsett and tenderly purred with her over some little preparation for Miles.

Certainly Anne was the most improved in looks of all the three brides, who had arrived just a year ago. The thin, scraggy Scotch girl, with the flabby, washed-out look alternating with angular rigidity was gone, but the softening and opening of her expression, the light that had come into her eyes, and had made them a lovely blue instead of pale gray; the rose-tint on her cheeks, the delicate rounded contour of her face, the improved carriage of her really fine figure, the traces of style in the braiding of her profuse flaxen hair, and the taste that was beginning to conquer in the dress, were all due to the thought that the Salamanca might soon be in harbour. She sat among them still as a creature whose heart and spirit were not with them.

That some change must come was felt as inevitable by each woman, and it was Mrs. Poynsett who began, one forenoon when her son had brought a lease for her to sign. "Raymond," said she, "you know Church-house is to be vacant at Michaelmas. I wish you would look at it, and see what repairs it wants, and if the drawing-room windows could be made to open on the lawn."

"Are you hoping to tempt Miles to settle there?"

"No, I fear there is no hope of that; but I do not think an old broken-backed invalid ought to engross this great house."

"Mother, I cannot hear you say so! This is your own house!"

"So is the other," she said, trying to smile, "and much fitter for my needs, with Susan and Jenkins to look after me."

"There is no fit place for you but this. You said that once."

"Under very different circumstances. All the younger boys were still under my wing, and needed the home, and I was strong and vigorous. It would not have been acting right by them to have given up the place; but now they are all out in the world, and I am laid by, my stay here only interferes with what can be much better managed without me or my old servants."

"I do not see that. If any one moves, it should be ourselves."

"You are wanted on the spot continually. If Sirenwood were in the market, that might not be so much amiss."

"I do not think that likely. They will delay the sale in the hope of Eleonora's marrying a rich man; besides, Mr. Charnock has set his mind upon Swanslea. I hope this is from nothing Cecil has said or done!"

"Cecil wishes to part then? She has said nothing to me, but I see she has to you. Don't be annoyed, Raymond; it is in the nature of things."

"I believe it is all Lady Tyrrell's doing. The mischief such a woman can do in the neighbourhood!"

"Perhaps it is only what any friend of Cecil would advise."

"It is the very reverse of what I intended," said Raymond, shading his face.

"My dear Raymond, I know what you meant, and what you wish; but I am also certain it is for no one's happiness to go on in this way."

He groaned.

"And the wife's right comes first."

"Not to this house."

"But to this man. Indeed I see more hope of your happiness now than I did last year."

"What, because she has delivered herself over bound hand and foot to Camilla Vivian?"

"No, because she is altered. Last year she was merely vexed at my position in the house. Now she is vexed at my position with you."

"Very unjustly."

"Hardly so. I should not have liked your father to be so much devoted to his mother. Remember, jealousy is a smoke that cannot exist without some warmth."

"If she had any proper feeling for me, she would show it by her treatment of you."

"That would be asking too much when she thinks I engross you."

"Mother, while you show such marvellous candour and generosity, and she-"

"Hush! Raymond, leave it unsaid! We cannot expect her to see more than her own side of the question. She has been put into an avowedly trying position, and does not deserve hard judgment for not being happy in it. All that remains is to relieve her. Whether by my moving or yours is the question. I prefer the Church-house plan."

"Either way is shame and misery to me," broke out Raymond in a choked voice.

"Nonsense," said his mother, trying to be cheerful. "You made an impracticable experiment, that's all. Give Cecil free scope, let her feel that she has her due, and all will come right."

"Nothing can be done till after the Wil'sbro' business," said Raymond, glad of the reprieve. He could not bear the prospect of banishment for his mother or himself from the home to which both were rooted; and the sentence of detachment from her was especially painful when she seemed his only consolation for his wife's perverseness. Yet he was aware that he had been guilty of the original error, and was bound to give such compensation to his wife as was offered by his mother's voluntary sacrifice. He was slow to broach the subject, but only the next morning came a question about an invitation to a dull house.

"But," said Cecil, "it is better than home." She spoke on purpose.

"I am sorry to hear you say so."

"I can't call it home where I am but a guest."

"Well, Cecil, my mother offers to leave the home of her life and retire into Church-house."

Cecil felt as if the screw she had been long working had come off in her hands. She frowned, she gazed, collecting her senses, while Raymond added, "It is to my intense grief and mortification, but I suppose you are gratified."

"Uh, it would never do!" she exclaimed, to his surprise and pleasure.

"Quite right," he returned. "Just what I felt. Nothing can make me so glad as to see that you think the idea as socking as I do."

"Our going to Swanslea would be much better-far more natural, and no one could object. We could refurnish, and make it perfect; whereas nothing can be done to this place, so inconveniently built and buried in trees. I should feel much freer in a place of my own."

"So that is what you meant when I thought you were thinking of my mother?"

"I am obliged to take thought for myself when you take heed to no one but her," said Cecil; and as the carriage was at that moment announced, she left him. Which was the most sick at heart it would be hard to say, the wife with the sense that she was postponed in everything to the mother, the husband at the alienation that had never before been so fully expressed. Cecil's errand was a council about the bazaar; and driving round by Sirenwood, Lady Tyrrell became her companion in the carriage. The quick eyes soon perceived that something had taken place, and confidence was soon drawn forth.

"The ice is broken; and by whom do you think?"

"By la belle mere? Skilful strategy to know when the position is not tenable."

"She wants to retreat to Church-house."

"Don't consent to that."

"I said I should prefer Swanslea for ourselves."

"Hold to that, whatever you do. If she moves to the village you will have all the odium and none of the advantages. There will be the same daily haunt; and as to your freedom of action, there are no spies like the abdicated and their dependents. A very clever plan, but don't be led away by it."

"No," said Cecil, resolutely; but after a moment: "It would be inconvenient to Raymond to live so far away from the property."

"Swanslea will be property too, and a ride over on business is not like strolling in constantly."

"I know I shall never feel like my own mistress in a house of hers."

"Still less with her close by, with the Rectory family running in and out to exchange remarks. No, no, hold fast to insisting that she must not leave the ancestral halls. That you can do dutifully and gracefully."

Cecil knew she had been betrayed into the contrary; but they were by this time in the High Street, bowing to others of the committee on their way to the town-hall, a structure of parti-coloured brick in harlequin patterns, with a peaked roof, all over little sham domes, which went far to justify its title of the Rat-house, since nothing larger could well use them. The facade was thus somewhat imposing; of the rear the less said the better; and as to the interior, it was at present one expanse of dust, impeded by scaffold-poles, and all the windows had large blotches of paint upon them.

It required a lively imagination to devise situations for the stalls; but Mrs. Duncombe valiantly tripped about, instructing her attendant carpenter with little assistance except from the well-experienced Miss Strangeways. The other ladies had enough to do in keeping their plumage unsoiled. Lady Tyrrell kept on a little peninsula of encaustic tile, Cecil hopped across bird-like and unsoiled, Miss Slater held her carmelite high and dry, but poor Miss Fuller's pale blue and drab, trailing at every step, became constantly more blended!

The dust induced thirst. Lady Tyrrell lamented that the Wil'sbro' confectioner was so far off and his ices doubtful, and Miss Slater suggested that she had been making a temperance effort by setting up an excellent widow in the lane that opened opposite to them in a shop with raspberry vinegar, ginger-beer, and the like mild compounds, and Mrs. Duncombe caught at the opportunity of exhibiting the sparkling water of the well which supplied this same lane. The widow lived in one of the tenements which Pettitt had renovated under her guidance, and on a loan advanced by Cecil, and she was proud of her work.

"Clio Tallboys would view this as a triumph," said Mrs. Duncombe, as, standing on the steps of the town-hall, she surveyed the four tenements at the corner of the alley. "Not a man would stir in the business except Pettitt, who left it all to me."

"Taking example by the Professor," said Lady Tyrrell.

"It is strange," said Miss Slater, "how much illness there has been ever since the people went into those houses. They are in my district, you know."

"You should make them open their windows," said Mrs. Duncombe.

"They lay it on the draughts."

"And stuff up my ventilators. That is always the way they begin."

The excellent widow herself had a bad finger, which was a great impediment in administering the cooling beverages, but these were so excellent as to suggest the furnishing of a stall therewith for the thirsty, as something sure to be popular and at small expense. Therewith the committee broke up, all having been present but Miss Moy, whose absence was not regretted, though apologized for by Mrs. Duncombe. "I could not get her away from the stables," she said. "She and Bob would contemplate Dark Hag day and night, I believe."

"I wouldn't allow it," said Lady Tyrrell.

Mrs. Duncombe shrugged her shoulders and laughed. "That's Mr. Moy's look-out," she said.

"You don't choose to interfere with her emancipation," said Lady Tyrrell.

"Clio would tell you she could take care of herself at the stables as well as anywhere else."

"Query?" said Lady Tyrrell. "Don't get into a scrape, Bessie. Does your Captain report on the flirtation with young Simmonds?"

"Who is he?" asked Cecil

"The trainer's son," said Bessie. "It is only a bit of imitation of Aurora Floyd."

"You know she's an heiress," said Lady Tyrrell. "You had better take care how you put such a temptation in his way."

"I don't suppose the Moys are anybody," said Cecil.

"Not in your sense, my dear," said Lady Tyrrell, laughing; "but from another level there's a wide gap between the heiress of Proudfoot Lawn and the heir of the training stables."

"Cecil looks simply disgusted," said Bessie. "She can't bear the Moys betwixt the wind and her nobility."

"They are the great drawback to Swansea, I confess," said Cecil.

"Oh! are you thinking of Swanslea?" cried Mrs Duncombe.

"Yes," said Lady Tyrrell, "she is one to be congratulated on emancipation."

"Well can I do so," said Mrs. Duncombe. "Don't I know what mothers-in-law are? Mine is the most wonderful old Goody, with exactly the notions of your meek Mrs. Miles."

"Incompatibility decidedly," said Lady Tyrrell.

"Only she was the Spartan mother combined with it," continued Mrs. Duncombe. "When Bob was a little urchin, he once, in anticipation of his future tastes, committed the enormity of riding on a stick on Sunday; so she locked him up till he had learnt six verses of one of Watts's hymns about going to church being like a little heaven below, isn't it?"

"Increasing his longing that way," said Lady Tyrrell.

"She doesn't even light the drawing-room fire on Sunday, for fear people should not sit in their rooms and meditate," continued Mrs. Duncombe. "Bob manages to be fond of her through all; but she regularly hates me."

"Not very wonderful," said Lady Tyrrell, laughing. "I suppose there is a charming reciprocity of feeling."

"I think I can afford to pity her," said Mrs. Duncombe, lightly. "Just fancy what I must have been to her! You know I was brought up in a convent at Paris. The very bosom of the scarlet woman."

"But," interrupted Cecil, "you were never a Roman Catholic, Bessie!"

"Oh dear, no; the Protestant boarders were let entirely alone. There were only two of us, and we lay in bed while the others went to mass, and played while they went to confession, that was all. I was an orphan; never remember my mother, and my father died abroad. Luckily for me, Bob was done for by my first ball. Very odd he should have liked a little red-haired thing like me; but every one is ticketed, I believe. My uncle was glad enough to get rid of me, and poor old Mrs. Duncombe was unsuspecting till we went home-and then!"

"And then?"

"Cecil may have some faint idea."

"Of what you underwent?"

"She wanted to begin on me as if I were a wild savage heathen, you know! I believe she nearly had a fit when I declined a prayer- meeting, and as to my walking out with Bob on Sunday evening!"

"Did she make you learn Watts's hymns?"

"No! but she did what was much worse to poor Bob. She told him she had spent the time in prayer and humiliation, and the poor fellow very nearly cried."

"Ah, those mothers have such an advantage over their sons," said Lady Tyrrell.

"I determined I would never go near her again after that," said Mrs. Duncombe. "Bob goes; he is really fond of her; but I knew we should keep the peace better apart. I let her have the children now and then, when it is convenient, and oddly enough they like it; but I shall soon have to stop that, for I won't have them think me a reprobate; and she has thought me ten times worse ever since I found out that I had brains and could use them."

"Quite true," said Camilla; "there's no peacemaker like absence."

"The only pity is that Swanslea is no further off," returned Bessie.

And so it was that Cecil, backed by her two counsellors, held her purpose, and Raymond sadly spoke of the plan of separation to Julius. Both thought Mrs. Poynsett's own plan the best, though they could not bear the idea of her leaving her own house. Raymond was much displeased.

"At least," he said, "there is a reprieve till this frantic fortnight is over. I envy your exemption from the turmoil."

"I wish you would exempt yourself from the races," said Julius. "The mischief they have done in these villages is incalculable! The very men-servants are solicited to put into sweepstakes, whenever they go into Wil'sbro'; and only this morning Mrs. Hornblower has been to me about her son."

"I thought he was the great feather in Herbert Bowater's cap."

"Showing the direction of the wind only too well. Since Herbert has been infected with the general insanity, poor Harry Hornblower has lapsed into his old ways, and is always hanging about the 'Three Pigeons' with some of the swarm of locusts who have come down already to brawl round the training stables. This has come to Truelove's ears, and he has notice of dismissal. At the mother's desire I spoke to Truelove, but he told me that at last year's races the lad had gambled at a great rate, and had only been saved from dishonesty by detection in time. He was so penitent that Truelove gave him another trial, on condition that he kept out of temptation; but now he has gone back to it, Mr. Truelove thinks it the only way of saving him from some fresh act of dishonesty. 'It is all up with them,' he says, 'when once they take that turn.'"

"You need not speak as if I were accountable for all the blackguardism."

"Every man is accountable who lends his name and position to bolster up a field of vice."

"Come, come, Julius. Remember what men have been on the turf."

"If those men had withheld their support, fashion would not have led so many to their ruin."

"Hundreds are present without damage. It is a hearty out-of-doors country amusement, and one of the few general holidays that bring all ranks together."

"You speak of racing as it has been or might be in some golden age," said Julius. "Of course there is no harm in trying one horse's speed against another; but look at the facts and say whether it is right to support an amusement that becomes such an occasion of evil."

"Because a set of rascals choose to bring their villainies there you would have the sport of the whole neighbourhood given up. 'No cakes and ale' with a vengeance!"

"The cakes and ale that make a brother offend ought to be given up."

"That sentences all public amusements."

"Not necessarily. The question is of degree. Other amusements may have evil incidentally connected with them, and may lead to temptation, but it is not their chief excitement. The play or the opera is the prime interest, and often a refined and elevated one, but at races the whole excitement depends upon the horses, and is so fictitious that it needs to be enhanced by this betting system. No better faculty is called into play. Some few men may understand the merits of the horse; many more, and most of the ladies, simply like the meeting in numbers; but there is no higher faculty called out, and in many cases the whole attraction is the gambling, and the fouler wickedness in the background."

"Which would be ten thousand times worse if all gentlemen stood aloof."

"What good do these gentlemen do beyond keeping the contest honourable and the betting in which they are concerned? Do not they make themselves decoys to the young men on the border-land who would stay away if the turf were left to the mere vulgar? Why should they not leave it to drop like bull-baiting or cock-fighting?"

"Well done, Julius!" said Raymond. "You will head a clerical crusade against the turf, but I do not think it just to compare it with those ferocious sports which were demoralizing in themselves; while this is to large numbers simply a harmless holiday and excuse for an outing, not to speak of the benefit to the breed of horses."

"I do not say that all competitions of speed are necessarily wrong, but I do say that the present way of managing races makes them so mischievous that no one ought to encourage them."

"I wonder what Backsworth and Wil'sbro' would say to you! It is their great harvest. Lodgings for those three days pay a quarter's rent; and where so many interests are concerned, a custom cannot lightly be dropped."

"Well," said Raymond with a sigh, "it is not pleasure that takes me. I shall look on with impartial eyes, if that is what you wish."

Poor Raymond! it was plain that he had little liking for anything that autumn. He rode over to Swanslea with Cecil, and when he said it was six miles off, she called it four; what he termed bare, marshy, and dreary, was in her eyes open and free; his swamp was her lake; and she ran about discovering charms and capabilities where he saw nothing but damp and dry rot, and, above all, banishment.

Would she have her will? Clio would have thought her lecture had taken effect, and mayhap, it added something to the general temper of self-assertion, but in fact Cecil had little time to think, so thickly did gaieties and preparations crowd upon her. It was the full glory and importance of the Member's wife, her favourite ideal, but all the time her satisfaction was marred by secret heartache as she saw how wearily and formally her husband dragged through whatever fell to his lot, saw how jaded and depressed he looked, and heard him laugh his company laugh without any heart in it. She thought it all his mother's fault, and meant to make up for everything when she had him to herself.

Julius had his troubles. When Rosamond found that races were what she called his pet aversion, she resisted with all her might. Her home associations were all on fire again. She would not condemn the pleasures she had shared with her parents, by abstinence from them, any more than she would deviate from Lady Rathforlane's nursery management to please Mrs. Poynsett and Susan. A bonnet, which Julius trusted never to see in church, was purchased in the face of his remark that every woman who carried her gay attire to the stand made herself an additional feather on the hook of evil. At first she laughed, and then grew tearfully passionate in protests that nothing should induce her to let her brothers see what their own father did turned into a crime; and if they went without her to take care of them, and fell into mischief, whose fault would that be?

It was vain to hint that Tom was gone back to school, and Terry cared more for the Olympic dust than that of Backsworth. She had persuaded herself that his absence would be high treason to her father, whom she respected far more at a distance than when she had been struggling with his ramshackle, easy-going ways. Even now, she was remonstrating with him about poor Terry's present misery. His last half year had been spent under the head-master, who had cultivated his historical and poetical intelligence, whereas Mr. Driver was nothing but an able crammer; and the moment the lad became interested and diverged from routine, he was choked off because such things would not 'tell.' If the 'coach' had any enthusiasm it was for mathematics, and thitherwards Terry's brain was undeveloped. With misplaced ingenuity, he argued that sums came right by chance and that Euclid was best learnt by heart, for 'the pictures' simply confused him; and when Julius, amazed at finding so clever a boy in the novel position of dunce, tried to find out what he did know of arithmetic, his ignorance and inappreciation were so unfathomable that Julius doubted whether the power or the will was at fault. At any rate he was wretched in the present, and dismal as to the future, and looked on his brother-in-law as in league with the oppressors for trying to rouse his sense of duty.

Remonstrance seemed blunted and ineffective everywhere. When Herbert Bowater tried to reclaim Harry Hornblower into giving up his notorious comrades, he received the dogged reply, "Why should not a chap take his pleasure as well as you?" With the authority at once of clergyman and squire's son, he said, "Harry, you forget yourself. I am not going to discuss my occupations with you."

"You know better," rudely interrupted the lad. "Racketing about all over the country, and coming home late at night. You'd best not speak of other folks!"

As a matter of fact, Herbert had never been later than was required by a walk home from a dinner, or a very moderate cricket supper; and his conscience was clear as to the quality of his amusements; but instead of, as hitherto, speaking as youth to youth, he used the language of the minister to the insulting parishioner. "I am sorry I have disturbed Mrs. Hornblower, but the case is not parallel. Innocent amusement is one thing-it is quite another to run into haunts that have already proved dangerous to your principles."

Harry Hornblower laughed. "It's no go coming the parson over me, Mr. Bowater! It's well known what black coats are, and how they never cry out so loud upon other folks as when they've had a jolly lark among themselves. No concealment now, we're up to a thing or two, and parsons, and capitalists, and squires will have to look sharp."

This oration, smacking of 'The Three Pigeons,' was delivered so loud as to bring the mother on the scene. "O, Harry, Harry, you aren't never speaking like that to Mr. Bowater!"

"When folks jaw me about what's nothing to them I always give them as good as they bring. That's my principle," said Harry, flinging out of the house, while the curate tried to console the weeping mother, and soon after betook himself to his Rector with no mild comments on the lad's insolence.

"Another warning how needful it is for us to avoid all occasion for misconstruction," said Julius.

"We do, all of us," said Herbert. "Even that wretched decoction, Fuller, and that mere dictionary, Driver, never gave cause for imputations like these. What has the fellow got hold of?"

"Stories of the last century 'two-bottle men,'" said Julius, "trumped up by unionists now against us in these days. The truth is that the world triumphs and boasts whenever it catches the ministry on its own ground. Its ideal is as exacting as the saintly one."

"I say Rector," exclaimed the curate, after due pause, "you'll be at Evensong on Saturday? The ladies at Sirenwood want me to go to Backsworth with them to hear the band."

"Cannot young Strangeways take care of his sisters?"

"I would not ask it, sir, but they have set their heart on seeing Rood House, and want me to go with them because of knowing Dr. Easterby. Then I'm to dine with them, and that's the very last of it for me. There's no more croquet after this week."

"I am thankful to hear it," said Julius, suppressing his distaste that the man he most reverenced, and the place which was his haven of rest, should be a mere lion for Bee and Conny, a slight pastime before the regimental band!