Enter a sergeant with a rich Irish brogue, and other recruits, forming the awkward squad. The drill was performed with immense spirit, but only one of the soldiers showed any dexterity; but while the sergeant was upholding him as ‘the very moral of a patthern to the rest,’ poor Brutus was seized with agonizing horror at the recognition of Barberina in this disguise!

“Why not?” she argued. “Why should not woman learn to use the arms of which man has hitherto usurped the use?”

Poor Brutus stretched out his arms in despair, and called loudly for the professor to restore him to his original state of silent felicity in the barber’s window.

“Ye needn’t do that, me boy,” quoth the sergeant with infinite scorn. “Be ye where ye will, ye’ll never be aught but a blockhead.”

Therewith carriages were being announced to the heads of families; and with compliments and eager thanks, and assurances that nothing could have been more delightful, the party broke up.

Captain Duncombe, while muffling his boys, declared that he never saw a cleverer hit in his life, and that those two De Lancey brothers ought to be on the stage; while Miss Moy loudly demanded whether he did not feel it personal; and Mrs. Tallboys, gracefully shaking hands with Anne and Rosamond, declared it a grand challenge where the truth had been unconsciously hit off. Cecil was nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER XVIII
Demonstrations

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

—BURNS

The hours of the soirée had been early; but the breakfast was so irregular and undecided as to time, that no one took much notice of an intimation which Jenkins had received from the grim Mrs. Grindstone that Mrs, Charnock Poynsett would take breakfast in her own room. Indeed, they all felt glad that her views of etiquette did not bind them to their places; for Frank was burning to be off to Sirenwood, forgetting that it was far easier to be too early than too late for Sir Harry Vivian, who was wont to smoke till long after midnight, and was never visible till the midday repast.

And thus it was Lady Tyrrell who came to Frank alone. “Early afoot,” she said; “you foolish, impatient fellow! You will outrun my best advice.”

“Ah! but I’m armed. I always told you we might trust to my mother, and it is all right. She loves Lenore with all her heart, and consents freely and gladly.”

“Indeed! Well, the dear child has made her conquest!”

“I always knew she would when once reserve was broken down.”

“Did you get up the alarm on purpose?”

“Really, one would think I had done so. One such moment was worth years of ordinary meetings! Half the battle is won!”

“Have you seen your mother this morning?”

“No; but she knew I was coming.”

“Then you do not know what her feelings are on cooler reflection?”

“My mother would never retract what she has once assured me of,” said Frank, haughtily.

“Forgive me—of what has she assured you?”

“That she regards Eleonora as a dear daughter, and that implies doing the same for me as for my brothers. If Sir Harry would but be so good as to come and see her—’

“Stay, Frank, you have not come that length. You forget that if you have, as you say, gained half the battle, there is another half; and that my father very reasonably feels hurt at being the last to be favoured with the intelligence.”

“Dear Lady Tyrrell, you can see how it was. There was no helping it when once I could speak to Lenore; and then no one would have let me utter a word till I had gone through the examination. We never meant to go on a system of concealment; but you know how every one would have raved and stormed if I had betrayed a thought beyond old Driver, and yet it was only being at rest about Lenore that carried me through without breaking down. Can’t you see?”

“You special pleader! May you win over my father; but you must remember that we are a fallen house, unable to do all we wish.”

“If I might see Sir Harry! I must make him forgive me.”

“I will see whether he is ready.”

Could Frank’s eyes have penetrated the walls, he would have seen Lady Tyrrell received with the words, “Well, my dear, I hope you have got rid of the young man—poor fellow!”

“I am afraid that cannot be done without your seeing him yourself.”

“Hang it! I hate it! I can’t abide it, Camilla. He’s a nice lad, though he is his mother’s son; and Lenore’s heart is set on him, and I can’t bear vexing the child.”

“Lena cares for him only because she met him before she knew what life is like. After one season she will understand what five hundred a year means.”

“Well, you ought to know your sister best; but if the lad has spoken to her, Lena is not the girl to stand his getting his congé so decidedly.”

“Exactly; it would only lead to heroics, and deepen the mischief.”

“Hang it! Then what do you want me to say?”

“Stand up for your rights, and reduce him to submission by displeasure at not having been consulted. Then explain how there can be no engagement at once; put him on his honour to leave her free till after her birthday in November.”

“What! have him dangling after her? That’s no way to make her forget him.”

“She never will under direct opposition—she is too high-spirited for that; but if we leave it alone, and they are unpledged, there is a fair chance of her seeing the folly both for her and for him.”

“I don’t know that. Lena may be high-flown; but things go deep with the child—deeper than they did with you, Camilla!”

Perhaps this was a stab, for there was bitterness in the answer. “You mean that she is less willing to give up a fancy for the family good. Remember, it is doubly imperative that Lena should marry a man whose means are in his own power, so that he could advance something. This would be simply ruin—throwing up the whole thing, after all I have done to retrieve our position.”

“After all, Camilla, I am growing an old man, and poor Tom is gone. I don’t know that the position is worth so much to me as the happiness to her, poor child!” said Sir Harry, wistfully.

“Happiness!” was the scornful answer. “If you said ‘her own way,’ it would be nearer the truth. A back street in London—going about in a cab—and occasional holidays on sufferance from Mrs. Poynsett.”

However little happiness either father or daughter had derived from their chosen ways, this idea was abhorrent to both; and Lady Tyrrell pressed her advantage. “If we keep him waiting much longer he will be rushing after Lena, and if you show the least sign of relenting he will insist on dragging you to an interview with his mother.”

The threat was effectual; for Sir Harry had had passages-at arms enough with Mrs. Poynsett to make him dread her curt dry civility far more than either dun or bailiff, and he was at once roused to the determination to be explicit.

Frank met him, with crimson face and prepared speech. “Good morning, Sir Harry! I am afraid you may think that you have reason to complain of my not having spoken to you sooner; but I trusted to your previous knowledge of my feelings, and I was anxious to ascertain my position before laying it before you, though I don’t believe I should have succeeded unless my mind had been set at rest.”

Soft-hearted Sir Harry muttered, “I understand, but—”

The pause at that ‘but’ was so long that Frank ventured on going on. “I have not had an official communication, but I know privately that I have passed well and stand favourably for promotion, so that my income will go on increasing, and my mother will make over to me five thousand pounds, as she has done to Miles and Julius, so that it can be settled on Eleonora at once.”

“There, there, that’s enough!” said Sir Harry, coerced by his daughter’s glances; “there’s plenty of time before coming to all that! You see, my dear boy, I always liked you, and had an immense respect for your—your family; but, you see, Eleonora is young, and under the circumstances she ought not to engage herself. She can’t any way marry before coming of age, and—considering all things—I should much prefer that this should go no further.”

“You ought both to be free!” said Lady Tyrrell.

“That I can never be!”

“Nor do you think that she can—only it sounds presumptuous,” smiled Lady Tyrrell. “Who can say? But things have to be proved; and considering what young untried hearts are, it is safer and happier for both that there should be perfect freedom, so that no harm should be done, if you found that you had not known your own minds.”

“It will make no difference to me.”

“Oh yes, we know that!” laughed Sir Harry. “Only suppose you changed your mind, we could not be angry with you.”

“You don’t think I could!”

“No, no,” said Lady Tyrrell; “we think no such thing. Don’t you see, if we did not trust your honour, we could not leave this in suspense. All we desire is that these matters may be left till it is possible to see our way, when the affairs of the estate are wound up; for we can’t tell what the poor child will have. Come, don’t repeat that it will make no difference. It may not to you; but it must to us, and to your mother.”

“My mother expects nothing!” said Frank, eagerly; but it was a false step.

Sir Harry bristled up, saying, “Sir, my daughter shall go into no family that—that has not a proper appreciation of—and expectations befitting her position.”

“Dear papa,” exclaimed Lady Tyrrell, “he means no such thing. He is only crediting his mother with his own romantic ardour and disinterestedness.—Hark! there actually is the gong. Come and have some luncheon, and contain yourself, you foolish boy!”

“I am sorry I said anything that seemed unfitting,” said Frank, meekly. “You know I could not mean it!”

“Yes, yes, yes, I bear no malice; only one does not like to see one’s own child courted without a voice in the matter, and to hear she is to be taken as a favour, expecting nothing. But, there, we’ll say no more. I like you, Frank Charnock! and only wish you had ten thousand a year, or were any one else; but you see—you see. Well, let’s eat our luncheon.”

“Does she know this decision?” asked Frank, aside, as he held open the door for Lady Tyrrell.

“Yes, she knows it can go no further; though we are too merciful to deny you the beatific vision, provided you are good, and abstain from any more little tendresses for the present.—Ah!”—enter Cecil—“I thought we should see you to-day, my dear!”

“Yes; I am on my way to meet my husband at the station,” said Cecil, meeting her in the hall, and returning her kiss.

“Is Raymond coming home to-day?” said Frank, as he too exchanged greetings. “Ah! I remember; I did not see you at breakfast this morning.”

“No!” and there was signification in the voice; but Frank did not heed it, for coming down-stairs was Eleonora, her face full of a blushing sweetness, which gave it all the beauty it had ever lacked.

He could do no more than look and speak before all the rest; the carriage was ordered for the sisters to go out together, and he lingered in vain for a few words in private, for Sir Harry kept him talking about Captain Duncombe’s wonderful colt, till Cecil had driven off one way, and their two hostesses the other; and he could only ride home to tell his mother how he had sped.

Better than Rosamond, better even than Charlie, was his mother as a confidante; and though she had been surprised into her affectionate acceptance of Eleonora, it was an indescribable delight to mother and son to find themselves once more in full sympathy; while he poured out all that had been pent up ever since his winter at Rockpier. She almost made common cause with him in the question, what would Raymond say? And it proved to be news to her that her eldest son was to be immediately expected at home. Cecil had not come to see her, and had sent her no message; but ungracious inattention was not so uncommon as to excite much remark from one who never wished to take heed to it; and it was soon forgotten in the praise of Eleonora.

Cecil meanwhile was receiving Raymond at the station. He was pleased to see her there in her pony-carriage, but a little startled by the brief coldness of her reply to his inquiry after his mother, and the tight compression of her lips all the time they were making their way through the town, where, as usual, he was hailed every two or three minutes by persons wanting a word with him. When at last there was a free space, she began: “Raymond, I wish to know whether you mean me to be set at naught, and my friends deliberately insulted?”

“What?”

A gentleman here hurried up with “I’ll not detain you a minute.”

He did, however, keep them for what seemed a great many, to the chafing spirit which thought a husband should have no ears save for his wife’s wrongs; so she made her preface even more startling—“Raymond, I cannot remain in the house any longer with Lady Rosamond Charnock and those intolerable brothers of hers!”

“Perhaps you will explain yourself,” said Raymond, almost relieved by the evident exaggeration of the expressions.

“There has been a conspiracy to thwart and insult me—a regular conspiracy!”

“Cecil! let me understand you. What can have happened?”

“When I arranged an evening for my friends to meet Mrs. Tallboys, I did not expect to have it swamped by a pack of children, and noisy nonsensical games, nor that both she and I should be insulted by practical jokes and a personal charade.”

“A party to meet Mrs. Tallboys?”

“A ladies’ party, a conversazione.”

“What—by my mother’s wish?”

“I was given to understand that I had carte blanche in visiting matters.”

“You did not ask her consent?”

“I saw no occasion.”

“You did not?”

“No.”

“Then, Cecil, I must say that whatever you may have to complain of, you have committed a grave act of disrespect.”

“I was told that I was free to arrange these things!”

“Free!” said Raymond, thoroughly roused; “free to write notes, and order the carriage, and play lady of the house; but did you think that made you free to bring an American mountebank of a woman to hold forth absurd trash in my mother’s own drawing-room, as soon as my back was turned?”

“I should have done the same had you been there.”

“Indeed!” ironically; “I did not know how far you had graduated in the Rights of Women. So you invited these people?”

“Then the whole host of children was poured in on us, and everything imaginable done to interrupt, and render everything rational impossible. I know it was Rosamond’s contrivance, she looked so triumphant, dressed in an absurd fancy dress, and her whole train doing nothing but turning me into ridicule, and Mrs. Tallboys too. Whatever you choose to call her, you cannot approve of a stranger and foreigner being insulted here. It is that about which I care—not myself; I have seen none of them since, nor shall I do so until a full apology has been made to my guest and to myself.”

“You have not told me the offence.”

“In the first place, there was an absurd form of Christmas-tree, to which one was dragged blindfold, and sedulously made ridiculous; and I—I had a dust-pan and brush. Yes, I had, in mockery of our endeavours to purify that unhappy street.”

“I should have taken it as a little harmless fun,” said Raymond. “Depend on it, it was so intended.”

“What, when Mrs. Tallboys had a padlock and key? I see you are determined to laugh at it all. Most likely they consulted you beforehand.”

“Cecil, I cannot have you talk such nonsense. Is this all you have to complain of?”

“No. There was a charade on the word Blockhead, where your brother Charles and the two De Lanceys caricatured what they supposed to be Mrs. Tallboys’ doctrines.”

“How did she receive it?”

“Most good-humouredly; but that made it no better on their part.”

“Are you sure it was not a mere ordinary piece of pleasantry, with perhaps a spice of personality, but nothing worth resenting?”

“You did not see it. Or perhaps you think no indignity towards me worth resentment?”

“I do not answer that, Cecil; you will think better of those words another time,” said Raymond, sternly. “But when you want your cause taken up, you have to remember that whatever the annoyance, you brought it upon yourself and her, by your own extraordinary proceeding towards my mother—I will not say towards myself. I will try to smooth matters. I think the De Lanceys must have acted foolishly; but the first step ought to be an expression of regret for such conduct towards my mother.”

“I cannot express regret. I ought to have been told if there were things forbidden.”

“Must I forbid your playing Punch and Judy, or dancing on the tight-rope?” cried Raymond, exasperated.

Cecil bit her lip, and treated the exclamation with the silent dignity of a deeply injured female; and thus they reached home, when Raymond said, “Come to your senses, Cecil and apologize to my mother. You can explain that you did not know the extent of your powers.”

“Certainly not. They all plotted against me, and I am the person to whom apology is due.”

Wherewith she marched up-stairs, leaving Raymond, horribly perplexed, to repair at once to his mother’s room, where Frank still was; but after replying about his success in the examination, the younger brother retreated, preferring that his story should be told by his mother; but she had not so much as entered on it when Raymond demanded what had so much disturbed Cecil.

“I was afraid she would be vexed,” said Mrs. Poynsett; “but we were in a difficulty. We thought she hardly knew what she had been led into, and that as she had invited her ladies, it would do less harm to change the character of the party than to try to get it given up.”

“I have no doubt you did the best you could,” said Raymond, speaking with more like censure of his mother than he had ever done since the hot days of his love for Camilla Vivian; “and you could have had nothing to do with the personalities that seem to have been the sting.”

Mrs. Poynsett, true boy-lover that she was, had been informed of the success of Tom’s naughtiness—not indeed till after it was over, when there was nothing to be done but to shake her head and laugh; and now she explained so that her son came to a better understanding of what had happened.

As to the extinguishing Women’s Rights in child’s play, he saw that it had been a wise manœuvre of his mother, to spare any appearance of dissension, while preventing what she disapproved and what might have injured his interests; but he was much annoyed with the De Lanceys for having clogged the measure with their own folly; and judging of cause by effect, he would hear of no excuse for Rosamond or her brothers, and went away resolved that though nothing should induce him to quarrel with Julius, yet he should tell him plainly that he must restrain his wife and her brothers from annoying Cecil by their practical jokes. He was, as usual, perfectly gentle to his mother, and thanked her for her arrangement. “It was not her fault that it had not turned out better,” he said; and he did not seem to hear her exoneration of Rosamond.

He had scarcely gone when Rosamond came in from the village, asking whether he had arrived, as she had seen his hat in the hall.

“Yes, Rosamond. You did not tell me of Cecil’s vexation!”

“Cecil? Have I seen her since? No, I remember now. But is she angry? Was it the dust-pan? Oh! Tom, Tom!”

“That and the Blockhead. Did Tom say anything very cutting?”

“Why it was an old stock charade they acted two years ago! I had better tell her so.”

“If you would it would be an immense relief, my dear. Raymond is very much annoyed; she says she will speak to nobody till she has had an apology.”

“Then she can be as great a goose as I! Why, the Yankee muse and Mrs. Duncombe took all in good part; but Cecil has not atom of fun in her. Don’t you think that was the gift the fairies left out at the christening of the all-endowed princess?”

Mrs. Poynsett laughed, but anxiously. “My dear, if you can make peace, it will be a family blessing.”

“I! I’ll eat any dirt in the world, and make Tom eat it too, rather than you should be vexed, or make discord in the house,” cried Rosamond, kissing her, and speeding away to Cecil’s door.

It was Raymond who opened it, looking perturbed and heated, but a good deal amazed at seeing his intended scapegoat coming thus boldly to present herself.

“Let me in,” she breathlessly said. “I am come to tell Cecil how sorry I am she was so much vexed; I really did not know it before.”

“I am ready to accept any proper apology that is offered me,” said Cecil, with cold dignity; “but I cannot understand your profession that you did not know I was vexed. You could have intended nothing else.”

“But, Cecil, you misunderstood—” began Rosamond.

“I never misunderstand—”

“No human creature can say that!” interposed Raymond, immensely thankful to Rosamond—whatever her offence—for her overtures, and anxious they should be accepted.

“I could not,” continued Cecil, “misunderstand the impertinent insults offered to my friends and to myself; though if Lady Rosamond is willing to acknowledge the impropriety I will overlook it.”

Raymond’s face and neck crimsoned, but Raymond’s presence helped her to rein in her temper; and she thought of Julius, and refrained from more than a “Very well. It was meant as a harmless joke, and—and if you—you did not take it so, I am very sorry.”

Raymond saw the effort, and looked at his wife for softening; but as he saw none, he met the advance by saying kindly, “I am sure it was so meant, though the moment was unfortunate.”

“Indeed it was so,” cried Rosamond, feeling it much easier to speak to him, and too generous to profess her own innocence and give up Tom. “It was just a moment’s idle fancy—just as we’ve chaffed one another a hundred times; and for the Blockhead, it is the boys’ pet old stock charade that they’ve acted scores of times. It was mere thoughtlessness; and I’ll do or say anything Cecil pleases, if only she won’t bother Julius or Mrs. Poynsett about our foolishness.” And the mist of tears shone in the dark lashes as she held out her hand.

“I cannot suppose it mere thoughtlessness—” began Cecil; but Raymond cut her short with angry displeasure, of which she had not supposed him capable. “This is not the way to receive so kind an apology. Take Rosamond’s hand, and respond properly.”

To respond properly was as little in Cecil’s power as her will; but she had not been an obedient daughter for so large a proportion of her life without having an instinct for the voice of real authority, and she did not refuse her hand, with the words, “If you express regret I will say no more about it.”

And Rosamond, thinking of Julius and his mother, swallowed the ungraciousness, and saying “Thank you,” turned to go away.

“Thank you most heartily for this, my dear Rosamond,” said Raymond, holding out his hand as he opened the door for her; “I esteem it a very great kindness.”

Rosamond, as she felt the strong pressure of his hand, looked up in his face with a curious arch compassion in her great gray eyes. He shut the door behind her, and saw Cecil pouting by the mantelpiece, vexed at being forced into a reconciliation, even while she knew she could not persist in sending all the family except Frank to Coventry. He was thoroughly angry at the dogged way in which she had received this free and generous peace-making, and he could not but show it. “Well,” he said, “I never saw an apology made with a better grace nor received with a worse one.”

Cecil made no reply. He stood for a minute looking at her with eyes of wondering displeasure, then, with a little gesture of amazement, left the room.

Cecil felt like the drowning woman when she gave the last scissor-like gesture with her fingers. She was ready to fall into a chair and cry. A sense of desolateness was very strong on her, and that look in his dark eyes had seemed to blast her.

But pride came to her aid. Grindstone was moving about ready to dress her for dinner. No one should see that she was wounded, or that she took home displeasure which she did not merit. So she held up her head, and was chilling and dignified all dinner-time; after which she repaired to Lady Tyrrell’s conversazione.