CHAPTER IV
Shades In Sunshine

 
My friends would be angered,
My minnie be mad.
 

—Scots Song

“Whom do you think we met, mother?” said Julius, coming into her room, so soon as he had made his evening toilette, and finding there only his two younger brothers.  “No other than Miss Vivian.”

“Ah! then,” broke in Charlie, “you saw what Jenkins calls the perfect picture of a woman.”

“She is very handsome,” soberly returned Julius.  “Rose is quite delighted with her.  Do you know anything of her?”

“Jenny Bowater was very fond of poor Emily,” rejoined the mother.  “I believe that she had a very good governess, but I wish she were in better hands now.”

“I cannot think why there should be a universal prejudice for the sake of one early offence!” exclaimed Frank.

“Oh, indeed!” said Julius, amazed at such a tone to his mother.

“I only meant—mother, I beg your pardon—but you are only going by hearsay,” answered Frank, in some confusion.

“Then you have not seen her?” said Julius.

“I!  I’m the last person she is likely to seek, if you mean Camilla.”

“She inquired a great deal after you, mother,” interposed Frank, “and said she longed to call, only she did not know if you could see her.  I do hope you will, when she calls on Cecil.  I am sure you would think differently.  Promise me, mother!”

“If she asks for me, I will, my boy,” said Mrs. Poynsett, “but let me look!  You aren’t dressed for dinner!  What will Mistress Cecil say to you!  Ah! it is time you had ladies about the house again.”

The two youths retreated; and Julius remained, looking anxiously and expressively at his mother.

“I am afraid so,” she said; “but I had almost rather he were honestly smitten with the young one than that he believed in Camilla.”

“I should think no one could long do that,” said Julius.

“I don’t know.  He met them when he was nursing that poor young Scotsman at Rockpier, and got fascinated.  He has never been quite the same since that time!” said the mother anxiously.  “I don’t blame him, poor fellow!” she added eagerly, “or mean that he has been a bit less satisfactory—oh no!  Indeed, it may be my fault for expressing my objection too’ plainly; he has always been reserved with me since, and I never lost the confidence of one of my boys before!”

That Julius knew full well, for he—as the next eldest at home—had been the recipient of all his mother’s perplexities at the time of Raymond’s courtship.  Mrs. Poynsett had not been a woman of intimate female friends.  Her sons had served the purpose, and this was perhaps one great element in her almost unbounded influence with them.  Julius was deeply concerned to see her eyes glistening with tears as she spoke of the cloud that had risen between her and Frank.

“There is great hope that this younger one may be worthy,” he said.  “She has had a very different bringing up from her sister, and I did not tell you what I found her doing.  She was teaching a little pig-herd boy to draw.”

“Ah!  I heard Lady Tyrrell was taking to the education of the people line.”

“I want to know who the boy is,” said Julius.  “He called himself Reynolds, and said he lived with granny, but was not a son of Daniel’s or Timothy’s.  He seemed about ten years old.”

“Reynolds?  Then I know who he must be.  Don’t you remember a pretty-looking girl we had in the nursery in Charlie’s time?  His ‘Fan-fan’ he used to call her.”

“Ah, yes, I remember; she was a Reynolds, for both the little boys could be excited to fury if we assumed that she was a fox.  You don’t mean that she went wrong?”

“Not till after she had left us, and seemed to be doing well in another place; but unfortunately she was allowed to have a holiday in the race week, and a day at the course seems to have done the mischief.  Susan can tell you all about it, if you want to know.  She was as broken-hearted as if Fanny had been her own child—much more than the old mother herself, I fear.”

“What has become of the girl?”

“Gone from bad to worse.  Alas!  I heard a report that she had been seen with some of the people who appear on the race-course with those gambling shooting-galleries, or something of that sort.”

“Ah! those miserable races!  They are the bane of the country.  I wish no one would go near them.”

“They are a very pleasant county gathering.”

“To you, mother, and such as you; but you could have your county meeting without doing quite so much harm.  If Raymond would only withdraw his subscription.”

“It would be as much as his seat is worth!  Those races are the one great event of Wil’sbro’ and Backsworth, the harvest of all the tradespeople.  Besides, you know what is said of their expedience as far as horses are concerned.”

“I would sacrifice the breed of horses to prevent the evils,” said Julius.

“You would, but—My boy, I suppose this is the right view for a clergyman, but it will never do to force it here.  You will lose all influence if you are over-strained.”

“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 teach all the people to call Julius the Rector.  That’s better than Mr. Charnock—what Raymond ought to be.”

Anne was struck dumb at this fearful display of worldliness; and Cecil betook herself to the piano, but the moment her husband appeared she showed him the list.

“He has cut out plenty of work,” said Raymond, “but three of them must want a field for their energies.”

“It is preposterous.  I want you to speak to him about it.”

“You are not expected to go to them all,” Raymond made answer.

“Then there’s no sense in having them,” responded Cecil.  “Evening services are very bad for the people, bringing them out late.  You ought to tell him so.”

“He is Rector, and I am not,” said Raymond.

“Mr. Venn did nothing without papa’s consent,” exclaimed

“My dear Cecil, don’t let your loyalty make a Harry the Eighth of your father,” said Raymond; “the clergyman ought to be a free agent.”

“You don’t approve?”

“I don’t approve or disapprove.  It is not a matter I know anything about.”

“But I assure you it has been all thought over at Dunstone.”

“Come, my mother wants to go to bed, and you are keeping her waiting.”

Cecil was silenced for the moment, but not daunted; for was it not the foremost duty of the lady of the manor to keep the clergyman in order, more especially when he was her own husband’s younger brother? so she met her brother-in-law with “Julius, when I undertook that notice, I had no notion you were going to have so many services.”

“Is there more than you have time to paint?  Then Bindon can do it, or Jenny Bowater.”

“No! it is not time or trouble; but I do not think such a number of services desirable.”

“Indeed!” said he, looking amused.

“Yes.  An over number of services frequented by no one only brings the Church into contempt.  I heard papa say so.  We only had regular Sunday and Saint’s Day services, and I am sure Dunstone was quite as religious a place as there is any need to be.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Julius, an odd look flickering about his face; “but as I am afraid Compton is not as religious a place as there is need to be, I must try, by your leave, all means of making it so.  Good night.”

He was gone, and Cecil was not sure that he had not presumed to laugh at her.