The Three Brides. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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      “The Venns,” suggested Cecil; “only we do not like them to leave home when we are away; but perhaps they would come.”

      Raymond could not look as if the proposal were a very pleasing one.  “Have you no young-lady friends?” he asked.

      “We never thought it expedient to have intimacies in the neighbourhood,” said Cecil.

      “Well, we shall have Jenny Bowater here in a week or two.”

      “I thought she was your mother’s friend.”

      “So she is.  She is quite young enough to be yours.”

      “I do not see anything remarkable about her.”

      “No, I suppose there is not; but she is a very sensible superior person.”

      “Indeed!  In that commonplace family.”

      “Poor Jenny has had an episode that removes her from the commonplace.  Did you ever hear of poor Archie Douglas?”

      “Was not he a good-for-nothing relation of your mother?”

      “Not that exactly.  He was the son of a good-for-nothing, I grant, whom a favourite cousin had unfortunately married, but he was an excellent fellow himself; and when his father died, she had Mrs. Douglas to live in that cottage by the Rectory, and sent the boy to school with us; then she got him into Proudfoot’s office—the solicitor at Backsworth, agent for everybody’s estates hereabouts.  Well, there arose an attachment between him and Jenny; the Bowaters did not much like it, of course; but they are kind-hearted and good-natured, and gave consent, provided Archie got on in his profession.  It was just at the time when poor Tom Vivian was exercising a great deal more influence than was good among the young men in the neighbourhood; and George Proudfoot was rather a joke for imitating him in every respect—from the colour of his dog-cart to the curl of his dog’s tail.  I remember his laying a wager, and winning it too, that if he rode a donkey with his face to the tail, Proudfoot would do the same; but then, Vivian did everything with a grace and originality.”

      “Like his sister.”

      “And doubly dangerous.  Every one liked him, and we were all more together than was prudent.  At last, two thousand pounds of my mother’s money, which was passing through the Proudfoots’ hands, disappeared; and at the same time poor Archie fled.  No one who knew him could have any reasonable doubt that he did but bear the blame of some one else’s guilt, most likely that of George Proudfoot; but he died a year or two back without a word, and no proof has ever been found; and alas! the week after Archie sailed, we saw his name in the list of sufferers in a vessel that was burnt.  His mother happily had died before all this, but there were plenty to grieve bitterly for him; and poor Jenny has been the more like one of ourselves in consequence.  He had left a note for Jenny, and she always trusted him; and we all of us believe that he was innocent.”

      “I can’t think how a person can go about as usual, or ever get over such a thing as that.”

      “Perhaps she hasn’t,” said Raymond, with a little colour on his brown cheek.  “But I’m afraid I can’t make those visits with you to-day.  I am wanted to see the plans for the new town-hall at Wil’sbro’.  Will you pick me up there?”

      “There would be sure to be a dreadful long waiting, so I will luncheon at Sirenwood instead; Lady Tyrrell asked me to come over any day.”

      “Alone?  I think you had better wait for me.”

      “I can take Frank.”

      “I should prefer a regular invitation to us both.”

      “She did not mean to make a formal affair.”

      “Forms are a protection, and I do not wish for an intimacy there, especially on Frank’s account.”

      “It would be an excellent match for Frank.”

      “Indeed, no; the estate is terribly involved, and there are three daughters; besides which, the family would despise a younger son.  An attachment could only lead to unhappiness now, besides the positive harm of unsettling him.  His tutor tells me that as it is he is very uneasy about his examination—his mind is evidently preoccupied.  No, no, Cecil, don’t make the intercourse unnecessarily close.  The Vivians have not behaved well to my mother, and it is not desirable to begin a renewal.  But you shall not lose your ride, Cecil; I’ll ask one of the boys to go with you to the Beeches, and perhaps I shall meet you there.”

      “He talks of my lonely life,” said Cecil, to herself, “and yet he wants to keep me from the only person who really understands me, all for some rancorous old prejudice of Mrs. Poynsett’s.  It is very hard.  There’s no one in the house to make a friend of—Rosamond, a mere garrison belle; and Anne, bornée and half a dissenter; and as soon as I try to make a friend, I am tyrannized over, and this Miss Bowater thrust on me.”

      She was pounding these sentiments into a sonata with great energy, when her door re-opened, and Raymond again appeared.  “I am looking for two books of Mudie’s.  Do you know where they can be?  I can’t make up the number.”

      “They are here,” said Cecil; “Lanfrey’s Vie de Napoleon; but I have not finished them.”

      “The box should have gone ten days ago.  My mother has nothing to read, and has been waiting all this time for the next part of Middlemarch,” said Raymond.

      “She said there was no hurry,” murmured Cecil.

      “No doubt she did; but we must not take advantage of her consideration.  Reading is her one great resource, and we must so contrive that your studies shall not interfere with it.”

      He waited for some word of regret, but none came; and he was obliged to add, “I must deprive you of the books for the present, for she must not be kept waiting any longer; but I will see about getting them for you in some other way.  I must take the box to the station in the dog-cart.”  He went without a word from her.  It was an entirely new light to her that her self-improvement could possibly be otherwise than the first object with everyone.  At home, father and mother told one another complacently what Cecil was reading, and never dreamt of obstructing the virtuous action.  Were her studies to be sacrificed to an old woman’s taste for novels?

      Cecil had that pertinacity of nature that is stimulated to resistance by opposition; and she thought of the Egyptian campaign, and her desire to understand the siege of Acre.  Then she recollected that Miss Vivian had spoken of reading the book, and this decided her.  “I’ll go to Sirenwood, look at it, and order it.  No one can expect me to submit to have no friends abroad nor books at home.  Besides, it is all some foolish old family feud; and what a noble thing it will be for my resolution and independence to force the two parties to heal the breach, and bridge it over by giving Miss Vivian to Frank.”

      In this mood she rang the bell, and ordered her horses; not however till she had reason to believe the dog-cart on the way down the avenue.  As she came down in her habit, she was met by Frank, returning from his tutor.

      “Have I made a mistake, Cecil!  I thought we were to go out together this afternoon!”

      “Yes; but Raymond was wanted at Willansborough, and I am going to lunch at Sirenwood.  I want to borrow a book.”

      “Oh, very well, I’ll come, if you don’t mind.  Sir Harry СКАЧАТЬ