The Three Brides

“Oh no, thank you, we’ll wait!  Don’t let us keep you, Mrs. Pettitt, it is only on business.”

“Ay!” said the other voice—female, and entirely untamed.  “He’s your great ally about your gutters and drains, isn’t he?”

“The only landowner in Wil’sbro’ who has a particle of public spirit!” said Mrs. Duncombe.

Whereat good-natured Lady Rosamond could not but smile congratulation to the hair-cutter, who looked meekly elevated, while Tom whispered, “Proverb contradicted.”

But the other voice replied, “Of course—he’s a perfumer, learned in smells!  You’d better drop it, Bessie! you’ll never make anything of it.”

“I’ll never drop what the health and life of hundreds of my fellow-creatures depend on!  I wish I could make you understand, Gussie!”

“You’ll never do anything with my governor, if that’s your hope—you should hear him and the mum talking!  ‘It’s all nonsense,’ he says; ‘I’m not going to annoy my tenants, and make myself unpopular, just to gratify a fashionable cry.’  ‘Well,’ says mumsey, ‘it is not what was thought the thing for ladies in my time; but you see, if Gussie goes along with it, she will have the key to all the best county society.’  ‘Bother the county society!’ says I.  ‘Bessie Duncombe’s jolly enough—but such a stuck-up set as they all are at Compton, I’ll not run after, behaving so ill to the governor, too!’  However—”

“There’s a proverb about listeners!” said Rosamond, emerging when she felt as if she ought to hearken no longer, and finding Mrs. Duncombe leaning with her back to the counter, and a tall girl, a few degrees from beauty, in a riding-habit, sitting upon it.

They both laughed; and the girl added, “If you had waited a moment, Lady Rosamond, you would have heard that you were the only jolly one of all the b’iling!”

“Ah! we shall see where you are at the end of Mrs. Tallboys’ lectures!” said Mrs. Duncombe.

“On what?” asked Rosamond.  “Woman’s rights, or sanitary measures? for I can’t in the least understand why they should be coupled up together.”

“Nor I!” said Miss Moy.  “I don’t see why we shouldn’t have our own way, just as well as the men; but what that has to do with drains and gutters, I can’t guess.”

“I’m the other way,” said Rosamond.  “I think houses and streets ought to be made clean and healthy; but as for woman’s rule, I fancy we get more of it now than we should the other way.”

“As an instance,” said Mrs. Duncombe, “woman is set on cleansing Wil’sbro’.  Man will not stir.  Will it ever be done till woman has her way?”

“Perhaps, if woman would be patient, man would do it in the right way, instead of the wrong!” quoth Rosamond.

“Patient!  No, indeed!  Nothing is to be done by that!  Let every woman strive her utmost to get the work done as far as her powers go, and the crusade will be accomplished for very shame!”

Just then Tom, looking highly amused, emerged, followed by Mr. Pettitt, the only enlightened landlord on whom Mrs. Duncombe had been able to produce the slightest impression.  He had owned a few small tenements in Water Lane, which he was about to rebuild, and which were evidently the pivot of operations.

At the door they met Cecil, and Rosamond detained her a moment in the street to say, “My dear Cecil, is that Miss Moy coming on Wednesday?”

“Of course she is.  We greatly want to move her father.  He has the chief house property there.”

“It is too late now,” said Rosamond; “but do you think it can be pleasant to Jenny Bowater to meet her?”

“I know nothing of the old countrified animosities and gossipings, which you have so heartily adopted,” replied Cecil, proudly.  “Firstly, I ignore them as beneath me; secondly, I sacrifice them all to a great cause.  If Miss Bowater does not like my guests, let her stay away.”

Here Mrs. Duncombe stood on the step, crying out, “Well, Cecil, how have you sped with Mrs. Bungay?”

“Horrid woman!” and no more was heard, as Cecil entered Mr. Pettitt’s establishment.

“That might be echoed,” said Tom, who was boiling over at the speech to his sister.  “I knew that ape was an intolerable little prig of a peacock, but I didn’t think she could be such a brute to you, Rosie!  Is she often like that, and does your parson stand such treatment of you?”

“Nonsense, Tom!” said Rosamond; “it doesn’t often happen, and breaks no bones when it does.  It’s only the ignorance of the woman, and small blame to her—as Mrs. M’Kinnon said when Corporal Sims’s wife threw the red herring’s tail at her!”

“But does Julius stand it?” repeated Tom, fiercely, as if hesitating whether to call out Julius or Mrs. Charnock Poynsett.

“Don’t be so ridiculous, Tom!  I’d rather stand a whole shower of red herrings’ tails at once than bother Julius about his brother’s wife.  How would you and Terry like it, if your wives took to squabbling, and setting you together by the ears?  I was demented enough to try it once, but I soon saw it was worse than anything.”

“What?  He took her part?”

“No such thing!  Hold your tongue, Tommy, and don’t talk of married folk till you’re one yourself!”

“Papa never meant it,” repeated the indignant Tom.  “I’ve a great mind to write and tell him how you are served!”

“Now, Tom,” cried Rosamond, stopping short, “if you do that, I solemnly declare I’ll never have you here again!  What could papa do?  Do you think he could cure Raymond’s wife of being a ridiculous little prig?  And if he could—why, before your letter got to Meerut, she will be gone up to London; and by the time she comes back we’ll be safe in our own Rectory.  Here, come in, and get our string and basket at Mrs. Bungay’s.”

“I’ll pay her out!” muttered Tom, as he followed his sister into Mrs. Bungay’s shop, one of much smaller pretensions, for the sale of baskets, brushes, mats, &c.

The mistress, a stout, red-faced woman, looked as if she had been ‘speaking a bit of her mind,’ and was at first very gruff and ungracious, until she found they were real customers; and moreover, Tom’s bland Irish courtesy perfectly disarmed her, when Rosamond, having fixed her mind on a box in the very topmost pigeon-hole, they not only apologized for the trouble they were giving, but Tom offered to climb up and bring it down, when she was calling for the errand-boy in vain.

“It’s no trouble, sir, thank you; I’d think nothing of that for you, my lady, nor for Mr. Charnock—which I’m sure I’ll never forget all he did for us at the fire, leading my little Alferd out like a lamb!  I beg your ladyship’s pardon, ma’am, if I seemed a bit hasty; but I’ve been so put about—and I thought at first you’d come in on the same matter, which I’m sure a lady like you wouldn’t ever do—about the drains, and such like, which isn’t fit for no lady to speak of!  As if Water Lane weren’t as sweet and clean as it has any call to be, and as if we didn’t know what was right by our tenants, which are a bad lot, and don’t merit no money to be laid out on them!”

“So you have houses in Water Lane, Mrs. Bungay?  I didn’t even know it!”

“Yes, Lady Rosamond!  My husband and I thought there was no better investment than to buy a bit of land, when the waste was inclosed, and run ’em up cheap.  Houses always lets here, you see, and the fire did no damage to that side.  But of course you didn’t know, Lady Rosamond; a real lady like you wouldn’t go prying into what she’s no call to, like that fine decked-out body Duncombe’s wife, which had best mind her own children, which it is a shame to see stravaging about the place!  I know it’s her doing, which I told young Mrs. Charnock Poynsett just now, which I’m right sorry to see led along by the like of her, and so are more of us; and we all wish some friend would give her a hint, which she is but young—and ’tis doing harm to Mr. Charnock Poynsett, Lady Rosamond, which all of us have a regard for, as is but right, having been a good customer, and friend to the town, and all before him; but we can’t have ladies coming in with their fads and calling us names for not laying out on what’s no good to nobody, just to satisfy them!  As if Wil’sbro’ hadn’t been always healthy!”

Tom was wicked enough to put in a good many notes of sympathy, at the intervals of the conjunctive whiches, and to end by declaring, “Quite right, Mrs. Bungay!  You see how much better we’ve brought up my sister!  I say—what’s the price of that little doll’s broom?”

“What do you want of it, Tom?”

“Never you mind!”

“No mischief, I hope?”

CHAPTER XVII

The Enchantments

“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,“To play them such a trick,After we’ve brought them out so far,And made them trot so quick.”The carpenter said nothing, but“The butter’s spread too thick.”—LEWIS CARROLL

A telegram arrived from Frank, in the midst of the preparations on Wednesday, announcing that ‘he was all right, and should be at Hazlitt’s Gate at 8.10 p.m.’

At 6.30 children of all sizes, with manes of all colours, were arriving, and were regaled in the dining-room by Anne, assisted by Jenny and Charlie.  Anne had a pretty pink colour in her cheeks, her flaxen locks were bound with green ribbons, and green adorned her white dress, in which she had a gracious, lily-like look of unworldly purity.  She thoroughly loved children, was quite equal to the occasion, and indeed enjoyed it as much as the recent Christmas-tree in the village school.

Such of Cecil’s guests as were mothers for the most part came with their children; but Lady Tyrrell, her sister, and others, who were unattached, arrived later, and were shown to the library, where she entertained them on the specified refreshment, biscuits and coffee, and enthroned Mrs Tallboys in the large arm-chair, where she looked most beautiful and gorgeous, in a robe of some astonishing sheeny sky-blue, edged with paly gold, while on her head was a coronal of sapphire and gold, with a marvellous little plume.  The cost must have been enormous, and her delicate and spirituelle beauty was shown to the greatest advantage; but as the audience was far too scanty to be worth beginning upon, Cecil, with a sigh at the folly of maternal idolatry, went to hunt up her ladies from gazing at the babyish amusements of their offspring; and Miss Moy, in spite of her remonstrance, jumped up to follow her; while Mrs. Duncombe, the only good mother in this new sense, remained, keeping guard lest curiosity, and the echo of piano music, which now began to be heard, should attract away any more of the ladies.

Cecil was by no means prepared for the scene.  The drawing-room was crowded—chiefly indeed with ladies and children, but there was a fair sprinkling of gentlemen—and all had their faces turned towards the great glass doors opening into the conservatory, which was brilliantly lighted and echoing with music and laughter.  Cecil tried to summon some of the ladies of her own inviting, announcing that Mrs. Tallboys was arrived; but this appeared to have no effect.  “Yes, thank you,” was all she heard.  Penetrating a little farther, “Mrs. Tallboys is ready.”  “Thank you, I’ll come; but my little people are so anxious to have me with them.”—“Mrs. Tallboys is waiting!” to the next; who really did not hear, but only responded, “Did you ever see anything more charming?”

By this time Cecil could see over the heads of the front rank of children.  She hardly knew the conservatory.  All the veteran camellia and orange-trees, and a good many bay and laurel boughs besides, were ranged along the central alley, gorgeous with fairy lamps and jewels, while strains of soft music proceeded from some unseen quarter.  “Very pretty!” said Cecil, hastily, trying another of her intended guests with her intelligence.  “Really—yes, presently, thank you,” was the absent answer.  “There is some delightful mystery in there.”

Cecil found her attempts were vain, and was next asked, as one of the household, what delicious secret was going on there; and as it hurt her feelings to be left out, she pressed into the conservatory, with some vague intention of ordering Anne, if not Rosamond, to release her grown-up audience, and confine their entertainment to the children; but she found herself at once caught by the hand by a turbaned figure like a prince in the Arabian Nights, who, with a low salaam, waved her on.

“No, thank you.  I’m looking for—”

But retreat was impossible, for many were crowding up in eager curiosity; moreover, a muslin bandage descended-on her eyes.  “Don’t!” she expostulated; “I’m not at play—I’m—” but her words were lost.

“Hush! the Peri’s cave is near,No one enters scatheless here;Lightly tread and lowly bend,Win the Peri for your friend,”

sung a voice to the mysterious piano accompaniment; and Cecil found both hands taken, and was forced to move on, as she guessed the length of the conservatory, amid sounds of suppressed laughter that exceedingly annoyed her, till there was a pause and repetition of the two last lines with an attempt to make her obey them.  She was too impatient and angry to perceive that it would have been much better taste to enter into the humour of the thing; and she only said with all her peculiar cold petulance, just like sleet, “Let me go, if you please; I am engaged.  I am waited for.”

“Peri gracious,She’s contumacious;Behold, every hair shall bristleWhen she hears the magic whistle!”

and a whistle, sharp, long, and loud, sounded behind her, amid peals of merriment.  She turned sharply round, but still the whistle was behind her, and rang out again and again, till she was half deafened, and wholly irate; while the repetition of

“Bend, bend, lowly bend,Win the Peri for your friend,”

forced on her the conviction that on no other condition should she be set free, though the recognition of Terry’s voice made the command doubly unpalatable, and as she made the stiffest and most reluctant of courtesies, a voice said,

“Homage done, you may beOf this merry company;”

and with a last blast of the whistle the bandage was removed, and she found herself in the midst of a half circle of laughing children and grown people; in front of her a large opening, like a cavern, hung with tiny lamps of various colours, in the midst of which stood the Peri, in a Persian pink robe, white turban, and wide white trousers, with two oriental genies attendant upon her.

A string was thrust into Cecil’s hand, apparently fastened to her, and accounting for some sharp pulls she had felt during the whistling.  She drew it in front in sharp haste, to be rid of the obnoxious instrument; but instead of a whistle, she found in her hand a little dust-pan and brush, fit for a baby-house, drawn through a ring, while the children eagerly cried, “What have you got?  What have you got?”

“Some nonsense.  I do not approve of practical jokes,” began Cecil; but the song only replied,

“Away, away,In the cave no longer stay;Others come to share our play;”

and one of the genies drew her aside, while another blindfolded victim was being introduced with the same rites, only fare more willingly.  The only way open to here was that which led to the window of the dining-room, where she found Anne with the children who had had their share, and were admiring their prizes.  Anne tried to soothe her by saying, “You see every one is served alike.  They thought it would be newer than a tree.”

“Did you mean to give me this?” asked a little girl, in whose hands Cecil had thrust her dust-pan, without a glance at it.

“Oh the ring!” said Anne.  “You must keep that, Mrs. Poynsett thought you would like it.  It is a gem—some Greek goddess, I think.”

“Is this her arrangement?” asked Cecil, pointing to the dust-pan.

“Oh no! she knew nothing about that, nor I; but you see every one has something droll.  See what Mr. Bowater has!”

And Herbert Bowater showed that decidedly uncomplimentary penwiper, where the ass’s head declares “There are two of us;” while every child had some absurdity to show; and Miss Moy’s shrieks of delight were already audible at a tortoise-shell pen-holder disguised as a hunting-whip.

“I must go to my friends,” said Cecil, vouchsafing no admiration of the ring, though she had seen enough to perceive that it was a beautifully engraved ruby; and she hurried back to the library, but only to find all her birds flown, and the room empty!  Pursuing them to the drawing-room, she saw only the backs of a few, in the rearmost rank of the eager candidates for admission to the magic cave.

Lady Tyrrell alone saw her, and turned back from the eager multitude, to say in her low, modulated voice, “Beaten, my dear.  Able strategy on la belle mère’s part.”

“Where’s Mrs. Tallboys?”

“Don’t you see her blue feather, eagerly expectant?  Just after you were gone, Edith Bowater came in, and begged us to come and see the conservatory lighted up; and then came a rush of the Brenden children after their aunt, exclaiming wildly it was delicious—lights, and a fairy, and a secret, and every one got something, if they were ever so old.  Of course, after that there was nothing but to follow the stream.”

“It is a regular plot for outwitting us!  Rosamond is dressed up for the fairy.  They are all in league.”

“Well, we must put a good face on it for the present,” said Lady Tyrrell.  “Don’t on any account look as if you were not in perfect accordance.  You can show your sentiments afterwards, you know.”

Cecil saw she must acquiesce, for Mrs. Tallboys was full in the midst.  With an infinitely better grace than her hostess, she yielded herself to the sports, bowed charmingly to the Peri, whirled like a fairy at the whistling, and was rewarded with a little enamel padlock as a brooch, and two keys as ear-rings; indeed she professed, with evident sincerity, that she was delighted with these sports of the old country, and thought the two genies exquisite specimens of the fair, useless, gentle English male aristocracy.

Mrs. Duncombe, too, accepted the inevitable with considerable spirit and good-humour, though she had a little passage-at-arms with Julius; when showing him the ivory card-case that had fallen to her lot, she said, “So this is the bribe!  Society stops the mouth of truth.”

“That is as you choose to take it,” he said.

“Exactly.  When we want to go deep into eternal verities you silence us with frivolous din and dainty playthings for fear of losing your slaves.”

“I don’t grant that.”

“Then why hinder an earnest discussion by all this hubbub?”

“Because this was not the right place or time.”

“It never is the right time for the tyrants to let their slaves confer, or to hear home-truths.”

“On the contrary, my curiosity is excited.  I want to hear Mrs. Tallboys’ views.”

“Then when will you dine with us?  Next Wednesday?”

“Thank you.  Wednesday has an evening service.”

“Ah!  I told you it was never the right time!  Then Thursday?  And you’ll trust your wife with us?”

“Oh yes, certainly.”

“It is a bargain, then?  Seven o’clock, or there will be no time.”

Julius’s attention suddenly wandered.  Was not a whisper pervading the room of a railway accident?  Was not Frank due by that night’s train?

There were still so many eager to visit the magic cave, that Julius trusted his wife would remain there sheltered from the report; Jenny Bowater was behind a stand of trees, acting orchestra; but when Terry came to the outskirts of the forest in search of other knights of the whistle, Julius laid a hand on him, and gave instructions in case any rumour should reach Rosamond to let her know how vague it was, tell her that he was going to ascertain the truth, and beg her to keep up the game and cause no alarm.

Next encountering Anne, he begged her to go to his mother and guard her from any alarm, until there was some certainty.

“Can’t we send all these people away?” she asked.

“Not yet.  We had better make no unnecessary disturbance.  There will be time enough if anything be amiss.  I am going down to Hazlitt’s Gate.”

Anne was too late.  Charlie had not outgrown the instinct of rushing to his mother with his troubles; and he was despairingly telling the report he had heard of a direful catastrophe, fatal to an unknown quantity of passengers, while she, strong and composed because he gave way, was trying to sift his intelligence.  No sooner did he hear from Anne that Julius was going to the station, than he started up to accompany him—the best thing he could do in his present state.  Hardly, however, had he closed the door, before he returned with fresh tears in his eyes, leading in Eleonora Vivian, whom he had found leaning against the wall outside, white and still, scarce drawing her breath.

“Come,” he said; and before she knew what he was doing, she was at Mrs. Poynsett’s side.  “Here, mother,” he said, “take her.”  And he was gone.

Mrs. Poynsett stretched out her arms.  The hearts of the two women who loved Frank could not help meeting.  Eleonora sank on her knees, hiding her face on the mother’s breast, with two tender arms clasped round her.

Anne was kneeling too, but she was no longer the meek, shy stranger.  Now, in the hour of trouble, she poured forth, in a voice fervent and sweet, a prayer for protection and support for their beloved one, so that it might be well with him, whatever might be his Heavenly Father’s Will.

As she paused, Mrs. Poynsett, in a choked voice, said, “Thank you, dear child;” when there were steps in the hall.  Anne started up, Lenore buried her face on Mrs. Poynsett’s bosom, the mother clasped her hands over her convulsively, then beheld, as the door opened, a tall figure, with a dark bright face full of ineffable softness and joy.  Frank himself, safe and sound, with his two brothers behind him.  They stayed not to speak, but hastened to spread the glad tidings; while he flung himself down, including both his mother and Lenore in one rapturous embrace, and carrying his kiss from one to the other—conscious, if no one else was, that this first seal of his love was given in his mother’s arms.

Lenore did indeed extricate herself, and stand up as rosy red as she had been pale; but she had no room for any thought beyond his mother’s trembling “Not hurt, my dear?”

“Not hurt!  Not a scratch!  Thank God!  Oh! thank God!” answered Frank, quivering all over with thankfulness, though probably far more at the present joy than the past peril.

“Yes—oh, thanks for His mercy!” echoed Anne, giving fervent hand and tearful cheek to the eager salutation, which probably would have been as energetic to Clio or old Betty at that moment!

“But there’s blood on your wristband,” cried the mother.  “You are hurt!”

“No; it’s not mine.  I didn’t know it.  It is from the poor fellow I helped to carry into the public-house at Knoll, just this side Backsworth, a good deal hurt, I’m afraid.  Something had got on the lines, I believe.  I was half asleep, and knew nothing till I found ourselves all crushed up together in the dark, upside-down, my feet above my head.  There was but one man in my carriage, and we didn’t get foul of one another, and found we were all right, when we scrambled out of the window.  So we helped out the others, and found that, besides the engineer and stoker—who I don’t suppose can live, poor fellows!—there was only this man much damaged.  Then, when there seemed no more to be done, I took my bag and walked across country, to reach home before you heard.  But oh, this is worth anything!”

He had to bend down for another embrace from his mother whose heart was very full as she held his bright young healthful face between her hands, though all she said was, “You have walked eleven miles and more!  You must be half starved!—Anne, my dear, pray let him have something.  He can eat it here.”

“I’ll see,” said Anne, hastening away.

“Oh, don’t go, Lenore,” cried Frank, springing up.  “Stay, I’ve not seen you!—Mother, how sweet of you!  But I forgot!  You don’t know!  I was only waiting till I was through.”

“I understand, my dear boy.”

“But how?  How did you find out?  Was it only that you knew she was the precious darling of my heart? and now you see and own why,” cries Frank, almost beside himself with excitement and delight.

“It was Lady Tyrrell who told me,” said Mrs. Poynsett, sympathizing too much with the lovers to perceive that her standpoint of resistance was gone from her.

“Yes,” said Lenore.  “She knew of our walk, and questioned me so closely that I could not conceal anything without falsehood.”

“After she met me at Aucuba Villa?” asked Frank.