CHAPTER VI
Wedding Visits

Young Mrs. Charnock Poynsett had plenty of elasticity, and her rebuffs were less present to her mind in the morning than to that of her husband, who had been really concerned to have to inflict an expostulation; and he was doubly kind, almost deferential, giving the admiration and attention he felt incumbent on him to the tasteful arrangements of her wedding presents in her own sitting-room.

“And this clock I am going to have in the drawing-room, and these Salviati glasses.  Then, when I have moved out the piano, I shall put the sofa in its place, and my own little table, with my pretty Florentine ornaments.”

Raymond again looked annoyed.  “Have you spoken to my mother?” he said.

“No; she never goes there.”

“Not now, but if ever she can bear any move it will be her first change, and I should not like to interfere with her arrangements.”

“She could never have been a musician, to let the piano stand against the wall.  I shall never be able to play.”

“Perhaps that might be contrived,” said Raymond, kindly.  “Here you know is your own domain, where you can do as you please.”

“Yes; but I am expected to play in the evening.  Look at all those things.  I had kept the choicest for the drawing-room, and it is such a pity to hide them all up here.”

Raymond felt for the mortification, and was unwilling to cross her again, so he said, “I will ask whether my mother would object to having the piano moved.”

“This morning?”

“After eleven o’clock—I never disturb her sooner; but you shall hear before I go to Backsworth.”

“An hour lost,” thought Cecil; but she was too well bred to grumble, and she had her great work to carry on of copying and illustrating her journal.

Mrs. Poynsett readily consented.  “Oh yes, my dear, let her do whatever she likes.  Don’t let me be a bugbear.  A girl is never at home till she has had her will of the furniture.  I think she will find that moving out the piano betrays the fading of the rest of the paper, but that is her affair.  She is free to do just as she likes.  I dare say the place does look antediluvian to young eyes.”

So Raymond was the bearer of his mother’s full permission; and Cecil presided with great energy over the alterations, which she carried out by the aid of the younger servants, to the great disgust of their seniors.  She expected the acclamations of her contemporaries; but it happened that the first of them to cross the room was Julius, on his way to his mother’s room after luncheon, and he, having on a pair of make-shift glasses, till the right kind could be procured from London, was unprepared for obstacles in familiar regions, stumbled over an ottoman, and upset a table with the breakage of a vase.

He apologized, with much regret; but the younger brothers made an outcry.  “What has come to the place?  Here’s the table all over everything!”

“And where are the bronzes?”

“And the humming-birds?  Miles’s birds, that he brought home after his first voyage.”

“And the clock with the two jolly little Cupids?  Don’t you remember Miles and Will Bowater dressing them up for men-of-war’s men?  Mother could not bring herself to have them undressed for a year, and all the time the clock struck nohow!”

“This is an anatomical study instead of a clock,” lamented Frank.  “I say, Cecil, do you like your friends to sit in their bones, like Sydney Smith?”

“I never saw such a stupid old set of conservatives!” broke in Rosamond, feeling for Cecil’s mortification.  “In an unprejudiced eye the room looks infinitely better, quite revivified!  You ought to be much obliged to Cecil for letting you see all her beautiful things.”

“Why don’t you favour us with yours?” said Charlie.

“I know better!  Mine aren’t fit to wipe the shoes of Cecil’s!  When I get into the Rectory you’ll see how hideous they are!” said Rosamond, with the merriest complacency.  “Couvre-pieds to set your teeth on edge, from the non-commissioned officers’ wives; and the awfullest banner-screen you ever saw, worked by the drum-major’s own hands, with Her Majesty’s arms on one side, and the De Courcy ones on the other, and glass eyes like stuffed birds’ to the lion and unicorn.  We nearly expired from suppressed laughter under the presentation.”

Then she went round, extorting from the lads admiration for Cecil’s really beautiful properties, and winning gratitude for her own cordial praise, though it was not the artistic appreciation they deserved.  Indeed, Cecil yielded to the general vote for the restoration of the humming-birds, allowing that, though she did not like stuffed birds in a drawing-room, she would not have banished them if she had known their history.

This lasted till Charlie spied a carriage coming up the drive, which could be seen a long way off, so that there was the opportunity for a general sauve qui peut.  Cecil represented that Rosamond ought to stay and receive her bridal visits; but she was unpersuadable.  “Oh no!  I leave all that for you!  My time will come when I get into the Rectory.  We are going in the dog-cart to the other end of the parish.—What’s its name—Squattlesea Marsh, Julius?”

“Squattlesford!” said Charlie.  “If Julius means to drive you, look out for your neck!”

“No, it’s the other way, I’m going to drive Julius!—Come along, or we shall be caught!”

Cecil stood her ground, as did Anne, who was too weary and indifferent to retreat, and Frank, who had taken another view of the carriage as it came nearer.

“I must apologize for having brought nothing but my father’s card,” said Lady Tyrrell, entering with her sister, and shaking hands: “there’s no such thing as dragging him out for a morning call.”

“And Mr. Charnock Poynsett is not at home,” replied Cecil.  “He found so much county business waiting for him, that he had to go to Backsworth.”

“It is the better opportunity for a little private caucus with you,” returned Lady Tyrrell, “before the meeting to-morrow.  I rather fancy the gentlemen have one of their own.”

“Some are to dine here to-night,” said Cecil.

“We ladies had better be prepared with our proposals,” said Lady Tyrrell.

At the same time Frank drew near Miss Vivian with a large book, saying, “These are the photographs you wished to see.”

He placed the book on the ottoman, and would thus have secured a sort of tête-à-tête; but Eleonora did not choose to leave Mrs Miles Charnock out, and handed her each photograph in turn, but could only elicit a cold languid “Thank you.”  To Anne’s untrained eye these triumphs of architecture were only so many dull representations of ‘Roman Catholic churches,’ and she would much rather have listened to the charitable plans of the other two ladies, for the houseless factory women of Wil’sbro’.

The bazaar, Lady Tyrrell said, must be first started by the Member’s wife; and there should be an innermost committee, of not more than three, to dispose of stalls and make arrangements.

“You must be one,” said Cecil.  “I know no one yet.”

“You will, long before it comes off.  In fact, I am as great a stranger as yourself.  Ah! there’s an opportunity!” as the bell pealed.  “The Bowaters, very likely; I saw their Noah’s ark as I passed the Poynsett Arms, with the horses taken out.  I wonder how many are coming—worthy folks!”

Which evidently meant insufferable bores.

“Is there not a daughter?” asked Cecil.

“You need not use the singular, though, by the bye, most of them are married.”

“Oh, pray stay!” entreated Cecil, as there were signs of leave-taking.

“I should do you no good.  You’ll soon learn that I am a sort of Loki among the Asagötter.”

Cecil laughed, but had time to resume her somewhat prim dignity before the lengthened disembarkation was over, and after all, produced only four persons; but then none were small—Mrs. Bowater was a harsh matron, Mr. Bowater a big comely squire, the daughters both tall, one with an honest open face much like Herbert’s, only with rather less youth and more intelligence, the other a bright dark glowing gipsy-faced young girl.

Eleonora Vivian, hitherto gravely stiff and reserved, to poor Frank’s evident chagrin, at once flashed into animation, and met the elder Miss Bowater with outstretched hands, receiving a warm kiss.  At the same time Mr. Bowater despatched Frank to see whether his mother could admit a visitor; and Lady Tyrrell observed, “Ah!  I was about to make the same petition; but I will cede to older friends, for so I suppose I must call you, Mr. Bowater—though my acquaintance is of long standing enough!”

And she put on a most charming smile, which Mr. Bowater received with something inarticulate that might be regarded as a polite form of ‘fudge,’ which made Cecil think him a horribly rude old man, and evidently discomposed his wife very much.

Frank brought back his mother’s welcome to the Squire; but by this time Eleonora and Miss Bowater had drawn together into a window, in so close and earnest a conversation that he could not break into it, and with almost visible reluctance began to talk to the younger sister, who on her side was desirous of joining in the bazaar discussion, which had been started again in full force; until there was a fresh influx of visitors, when Lady Tyrrell decidedly took leave with her sister, and Frank escorted them to their carriage, and returned no more.

In the new shuffling of partners, the elder Miss Bowater found herself close to Anne, and at once inquired warmly for Miles, with knowledge and interest in naval affairs derived from a sailor brother, Miles’s chief friend and messmate in his training and earlier voyages.  There was something in Joanna Bowater’s manner that always unlocked hearts, and Anne was soon speaking without her fence of repellant stiffness and reserve.  Certainly Miles was loved by his mother and brothers more than he could be by an old playfellow and sisterly friend, and yet there was something in Joanna’s tone that gave Anne a sense of fellow-feeling, as if she had met a countrywoman in this land of strangers; and she even told how Miles had thought it right to send her home, thinking that she might be a comfort to his mother.  “And not knowing all that was going to happen!” said poor Anne, with an irrepressible sigh, both for her own blighted hopes, and for the whirl into which her sore heart had fallen.

“I think you will be,” said Joanna, brightly; “though it must be strange coming on so many.  Dear Mrs. Poynsett is so kind!”

“Yes,” said Anne, coldly.

“Ah! you don’t know her yet.  And Lady Rosamond!  She is delightful!”

“Have you seen her!”

“We met them just now in the village, but my brother is enchanted.  And do you know what was Julius’s first introduction to her?  It was at a great school-feast, where they had the regimental children as well as the town ones.  A poor little boy went off in an epileptic fit, and Julius found her holding him, with her own hand in his mouth to hinder the locking of the teeth.  He said her fingers were bitten almost to the bone, but she made quite light of it.”

“That was nice!” said Anne; but then, with a startled glance, and in an undertone, she added, “Are they Christians?”

Joanna Bowater paused for a moment between dismay and desire for consideration, and in that moment her father called to her, “Jenny, do you remember the dimensions of those cottages in Queckett’s Lane?” and she had to come and serve for his memory, while he was indoctrinating a younger squire with the duties of a landlord.

Meanwhile Mrs. Bowater was, for the tenth time, consulting her old friend upon Mrs. Hornblower’s capabilities of taking care of Herbert, and betraying a little disappointment that his first sermon had not yet been heard; and when his voice was complimented, she hoped Julius would spare it—too much exertion could not be good for so young a man, and though dear Herbert looked so strong, no one would believe how much sleep he required.  Then she observed, “We found Camilla Vivian—Lady Tyrrell I mean—calling.  Have you seen her?”

“No.”

“Well, she really seems improved!”

“Mr. Bowater has been telling me she is handsomer than ever!”

“Oh yes!  That’s all gentlemen think of; but I meant in other ways.  She seems full of the rebuilding of St. Nicholas, and to be making great friends with your new daughter.  You don’t think,” lowering her voice, “that Raymond would have any objection to meeting her?”

“Certainly not!”

“I did not suppose he would, but I thought I would just ask you.  It would be rather marked not to invite him for the 3rd, you know; and Jenny was always so fond of poor Emily, kept up a correspondence with her to the last.  It was the first time she had met the little one since they came back.  Not that she is little now, she is very tall and quite handsome even by the side of Edith.  We just saw Lady Rosamond—a sweet face—and Herbert perfectly raves about her!”

“She is a most unselfish warm-hearted creature!” said Mrs. Poynsett.

“I am so glad!  And Miles’s wife, I hope she will come.  Poor thing, she looks very poorly.”

“Yes, I am very anxious about her.  If she is not better in a day or two, I shall insist on her having advice.”

“Poor dear, I don’t wonder!  But she had better come to Strawyers; Jenny will cheer her if any one can, and we shall have a nice lively party, I hope!  She will only mope the more if she never goes out.”

“I am afraid she is hardly equal to it; besides, poor child,” added Mrs. Poynsett, “she seems to have been strictly brought up, and to think our ways rather shocking; and Miles wrote to me not to press her to go into society till he comes home.”

“Ah! well, I call that a mistake!” puffed out good-humoured 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.