The Three Brides. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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      “Ladies’ lectures would startle the natives,” said Lady Tyrrell.

      “Besides, the town-hall is lacking,” said Mrs. Duncombe; “but when the Tallboys come we might arrange a succession of soirées, where she might gather her audience.”

      “But where?” said Lady Tyrrell.  “It would be great fun, and you might reckon on me; but where else?  Mrs. Charnock Poynsett has to think of la belle mère.”

      “She has given up the management of all matters of society to me,” said Cecil with dignity; “you may reckon on me.”

      “No hope of the Bowaters, of course,” said Mrs. Duncombe.

      “Miss Bowater is coming to stay with us,” volunteered Cecil.

      “To be near that unlucky Life Guardsman manqué,” said Mrs. Duncombe.

      “Come, I’ll not have honest Herbert abused,” said the other lady.  “He is the only one of the Bowaters who has any go in him.”

      “More’s the pity, if he can’t use it.  Is his sister coming to help the Reverend Julius to drill him?”

      “On Mrs. Poynsett’s account too, I fancy,” said Lady Tyrrell; “Jenny Bowater is her amateur companion.  Indeed, I believe it was no slight disappointment that her sons’ appreciation did not quite reach the pitch of the mother’s.”

      “Indeed!” asked Mrs. Duncombe; “I thought there had been a foolish affair with poor young Douglas.”

      “Celà n’empêche pas.  By the bye, have you finished Fleurange?”

      “Oh, you are quite welcome to it.  It is quite as goody as an English tale in one volume.”

      This opened the way to Cecil’s desire to borrow Lanfrey, not concealing the reason why; and she was gratified by the full sympathy of both ladies, who invited her in self-defence to join in their subscription to Rolandi, to which she eagerly agreed, and would have paid her subscription at once if there had not been a term to be finished off first.

      The gong summoned them to luncheon, and likewise brought down Miss Vivian, who shook hands rather stiffly, and wore a cold, grave manner that did not sit badly on her handsome classical features.  The countenance was very fine, but of the style to which early youth is less favourable than a more mature development; and she was less universally admired than was her sister.  Her dress was a dark maroon merino, hanging in simple, long, straight folds, and there was as little distortion in her coiffure as the most moderate compliance with fashion permitted; and this, with a high-bred, distinguished deportment, gave an air almost of stern severity.  This deepened rather than relaxed at the greeting from Frank—who, poor fellow! had an uncontrollably wistful eager look in his face, a sort of shy entreaty, and was under an incapacity of keeping up a conversation with anybody else, while trying to catch the least word of hers.

      She, however, seemed to have more eyes and ears for her father than for any one else, and he evidently viewed her as the darling and treasure of his life.  His first question, after performing the duties of a host, was, “Well, my little Lenore, what have you been doing?”

      “The old story, papa,” raising her clear, sweet voice to reach his rather deaf ears.

      “Got on with your drawing?—The child is competing with a club, you must know.”

      “Not exactly, papa: it is only a little society that was set on foot at Rockpier to help us to improve ourselves.”

      “What is your subject this month?” Frank asked.

      “A branch of blackberries,” she answered briefly.

      “Ah!” said Lady Tyrrell, “I saw your pupil bringing in a delicious festoon—all black and red fruit and crimson and purple leaves.  He is really a boy of taste; I think he will do you credit.”

      “The new Joshua Reynolds,” said Frank, glad of an excuse to turn towards Eleonora.  “Rosamond mentioned her discovery.”

      “You might have seen him just now figuring as Buttons,” said Lady Tyrrell.  “Degradation of art, is it not?  But it was the only way to save it.  Lenore is teaching him; and if his talent prove worth it we may do something with him.  Any way, the produce of native genius will be grand material for the bazaar.”

      “Card-board prettinesses!” said Mrs. Duncombe; “you spoil him with them; but that you’ll do any way—make him fit for nothing but a flunkey.”

      “Unappreciated zeal!” said Lady Tyrrell, glancing at her sister, who flushed a little, and looked the more grave.

      “Eh, Lenore,” said her father, “wasn’t it to please you that Camilla made me take your pet to make havoc of my glasses?”

      “You meant it so, dear papa,” said Eleonora, calling up a smile that satisfied the old gentleman.  “It was very kind in you.”

      Fresh subjects were started, and on all the talk was lively and pleasant, and fascinated Cecil, not from any reminiscence of Dunstone—for indeed nothing could be more unlike the tone that prevailed there: but because it was so different from that of Compton Poynsett, drifting on so unrestrainedly, and touching so lightly on all topics.

      By the close of the meal, rain had set in, evidently for the afternoon.  Frank offered to ride home, and send the carriage for Cecil; but the Duncombes proposed to take her and drop her at home; and to this she consented, rather to Frank’s dismay, as he thought of their coach appearing at his mother’s door.

      Lady Tyrrell took her up to resume her hat; and on the way, moved by distaste to her double surname, and drawn on by a fresh access of intimacy, she begged to be called Cecil—a privilege of which she had been chary even in her maiden days; but the caressing manner had won her heart, and spirit of opposition to the discouragement at home did the rest.

      The request was reciprocated with that pensive look which was so touching.  “I used to be Camilla to all the neighbourhood, and here I find myself—miles’—no, leagues further off—banished to Siberia.”

      “How unjust and unkind!” cried Cecil.

      “My dear, you have yet to learn the gentle uncharitableness of prejudice.  It is the prevailing notion that my married life was a career of dissipation.  Ah! if they only knew!”

      “The drag is round,” said Mrs. Duncombe’s voice at the door, in all its decisive abruptness, making both start.

      “Just ready,” called Lady Tyrrell; adding, in a lower tone, “Ah! she is startling, but she is genuine!  And one must take new friends when the old are chilly.  She is the only one—”

      Cecil’s kiss was more hearty than any she had given at Compton, and she descended; but just as she came to the door, and was only delaying while Frank and Captain Duncombe were discussing the merits of the four horses, the Compton carriage appeared in the approach, and Raymond’s head within.  Lady Tyrrell looked at Cecil, and saw it was safe to make a little gesture with the white skin of her fair brow, expressing unutterable things.

      Mrs. Duncombe lost no time in asking if any steps were being taken for improving the drainage; to which Raymond replied, “No, that was not the business in hand.  This was the architecture of the town-hall.”

      “Splendour СКАЧАТЬ