The Three Brides

“But you would not do it again?” repeated Anne.

“I certainly should not make a practice of it, nor go to balls any more than I would be a sportsman or a cricketer, because I am bound to apply my whole self to the more direct service; but this does not show that there is evil necessarily connected with these amusements, or that they may not safely be enjoyed by those who have time, and who need an outlet for their spirits, or by those who wish to guard these pleasures by presiding over them.”

“Don’t persuade me!” exclaimed Anne.  “I gave my word to Mr. Pilgrim that nothing should induce me to dance or play at cards.”

“Mr. Pilgrim had no right—” began Rosamond; but Julius hushed her, saying, “No one wishes to persuade you, Anne.  Your retirement during Miles’s absence is very suitable and becoming.”

“Till we live in the Bush, out of the way of it all,” said Anne.

“I wish you could have seen one of our real old Christmas parties; but those can never be again, without mother herself or Mrs. Douglas.”

“Do tell me about those Douglases,” said Rosamond.  “Cecil hinted at some romance, but seemed to think you had suppressed the connection because he was an attorney.”

“Not exactly,” said Julius, smiling; “but it is a sad story, though we have no doubt he bore the guilt of others.”

“Something about two thousand pounds!”

“Yes.  It was the year that my mother and Raymond were abroad.  She had been buying some property near, and sent home an order from Vevay.  It did not come, and was inquired for; but as it was an order, not a draft, it was not stopped at the bank; and in about a fortnight more it was presented by a stranger, and paid without hesitation, as it was endorsed “Proudfoot and Moy.”  Old Proudfoot was away at Harrogate, and came home to investigate; young Proudfoot denied all knowledge of it, and so did his brother-in-law Moy; but Raymond, working at the other end, found that the waiter at the hotel at Vevay had forgotten to post the letter for more than a week, and it was traced through the post to Wil’sbro’, where the postman remembered delivering a foreign-looking letter to Archie Douglas at the door of the office.  It came alone by the afternoon post.  His account was this: They were all taking it rather easy in old Proudfoot’s absence; and when a sudden summons came to take the old farmer’s instructions for his will, Archie, as the junior, was told off to do it.  He left George Proudfoot and Moy in a private room at the office, with Tom Vivian leaning over the fire talking, as he had a habit of doing in old Proudfoot’s absence.  As he opened the office door the postman put the letter into his hand; and recognizing the writing, he ran back, and gave it in triumph to George Proudfoot, exclaiming that there it was at last, but he was in danger of being late for the train, and did not wait to see it opened; and when he came back he was told that it had been merely a letter of inquiry, with nothing in it, and destroyed at once.  That was his account; but Proudfoot, Moy, and Vivian all denied any knowledge of this return of his, or of the letter.  The night of this inquiry he was missing.  Jenny Bowater, who was with an aunt in London, heard that a gentleman had called to see her while she was out for a couple of days; and a week later we saw his name among the passengers lost in the Hippolyta off Falmouth.”

“Poor Jenny!  Was she engaged to him?”

“On sufferance.  On her death-bed Mrs. Douglas had wrung from Mr. Bowater a promise that if Archie did well, and ever had means enough, he would not refuse consent; but he always distrusted poor Archie, because of his father, and I believe he sent Jenny away to be out of his reach.  If any of us had only been near, I think we could have persuaded him to face it out, and trust to his innocence; but Raymond was abroad, Miles at sea, I at Oxford, and nothing like a counsellor was near.  If Jenny had but seen him!”

“And has nothing happened to clear him?”

“No.  Raymond hurried home, and did his best, but all in vain.  George Proudfoot was indeed known to have been in debt to Vivian; but Moy, his brother-in-law, an older man, was viewed as a person whose word was above all question, and they both declared the signature at the back of the order not to be genuine.  Archie’s flight, you see, made further investigation impossible; and there was no putting on oath, no cross-examination.”

“Then you think those three had it?”

“We can think nothing else, knowing Archie as we did.  Raymond showed his suspicions so strongly, that old Proudfoot threw up all agencies for our property, and there has been a kind of hostility ever since.  Poor Vivian, as you know, came to his sad end the next year, but he had destroyed all his papers; and George Proudfoot has been dead four or five years, but without making any sign.  Moy has almost risen above the business, and—see, there’s Proudfoot Lawn, where he lives with the old man.  He claims to compete with the county families, and would like to contest Wils’bro’ with Raymond.”

“And Jenny?” asked Anne.  “Did she bear it as a Christian?  I know she would.”

“She did indeed—most nobly, most patiently.  Poor girl! at her own home she knew she stood alone in her faith in Archie’s innocence; but they were kind and forbearing, and kept silence, and the knowledge of our trust in him has bound her very close to us.”

“Was that call, when she did not see him, all she ever heard of him?”

“All! except that he left a fragment of paper with the servant, with the one pencil scrawl, ‘A Dieu!’—a capital D to mark the full meaning.  She once showed it to me—folded so as to fit into the back of a locket with his photograph.”

“Dear Jenny!  And had you traced him on board this ship?”

“No, but his name was in the list; and we knew he had strong fancy for South Africa, whither the Hippolyta was bound.  In fact he ought to have been a sailor, and only yielded to his mother’s wishes.”

“We knew a Mr. Archibald Douglas once,” said Anne; “he came and outspanned by us when he was going north after elephants.  He stayed a fortnight, because his wagon had to be mended.”

“O, Julius! if we could but find him for her again!” cried Rosamond.

“I am afraid Archibald Douglas is not much more individual a name than John Smith,” said Julius, sadly.

“That tells as much against the Hippolyta man,” said Rosamond.

“Poor Archie would not be difficult to identify,” said Julius; “for his hair was like mine, though his eyes were blue, and not short-sighted.”

“That is all right, then,” cried Anne; “for we had a dispute whether he were young or old, and I remember mamma saying he had a look about him as if his hair might have turned white in a single night.”

“Julius!  Now won’t you believe?” cried Rosamond.

“Had he a Scotch accent?” said Julius.

“No; I recollect papa’s telling him he never should have guessed him to be a Scot by his tongue; and he said he must confess that he had never seen Scotland.”

“Now, Julius!” pleaded Rosamond, with clasped hands, as if Jenny’s fate hung on his opinion.

“How long ago was this?” asked he.

“Four years,” said Anne, with a little consideration.  “He came both in going and returning, and Alick was wild to join him if he ever passed our way again.  My father liked him so much that he was almost ready to consent; but he never came again.  Ivory hunters go more from Natal now.”

“You will trace him!  There’s a dear Anne!” exclaimed Rosamond.

“I will write to them at home; Alick knows a good many hunters, and could put Miles into the way of making inquiries, if he touches at Natal on his way home.”

“Miles will do all he can,” said Julius; “he was almost broken-hearted when he found how Archie had gone.  I think he was even more his hero than Raymond when we were boys, because he was more enterprising; and my mother always thought Archie’s baffled passion for the sea reacted upon Miles.”

“He will do it!  He will find him, if he is the Miles I take him for!  How old was he—Archie, I mean?”

“A year older than Raymond; but he always seemed much younger, he was so full of life and animation—so unguarded, poor fellow!  He used to play tricks with imitating hand-writing; and these, of course, were brought up against him.”

“Thirty-four!  Not a bit too old for the other end of the romance!”

“Take care, Rosie.  Don’t say a word to Jenny till we know more.  She must not be unsettled only to be disappointed.”

“Do you think she would thank you for that, you cold-blooded animal?”

“I don’t know; but I think the suspense would be far more trying than the quiet resigned calm that has settled down on her.  Besides, you must remember that even if Archie were found, the mystery has never been cleared up.”

“You don’t think that would make any difference to Jenny?”

“It makes all the difference to her father; and Jenny will never be a disobedient daughter.”

“Oh! but it will—it must be cleared!  I know it will!  It is faithless to think that injustice is not always set right!”

“Not always here,” said Julius, sadly.  “See, there’s the Backsworth race-ground, the great focus of the evil.”

“Were racing debts thought to have any part in the disaster?”

“That I can’t tell; but it was those races that brought George Proudfoot under the Vivian influence; and in the absence of all of us, poor Archie, when left to himself after his mother’s death, had become enough mixed up in their amusements to give a handle to those who thought him unsteady.”

“As if any one must be unsteady who goes to the races!” cried Rosamond.  “You were so liberal about balls, I did expect one little good word for races; instead of which, you are declaring a poor wretch who goes to them capable of embezzling two thousand pounds, and I dare say Anne agrees with you!”

“Now, did I ever say so, Anne?”

“You looked at the course with pious horror, and said it justified the suspicion!” persisted Rosamond.

“That’s better,” said Julius; “though I never even said it justified the suspicion, any more than I said that balls might not easily be overdone, especially by some people.”

“But you don’t defend races?” said Anne.

“No; I think the mischief they do is more extensive, and has less mitigation than is the case with any other public amusement.”

“H’m!” said Rosamond.  “Many a merry day have I had on the top of the regimental drag; so perhaps there’s nothing of which you would not suspect me.”

“I’ll tell you what I more than suspect you of,” said Julius, “of wearing a gay bonnet to be a bait and a sanction to crowds of young girls, to whom the place was one of temptation, though not to you.”

“Oh, there would be no end to it if one thought of such things.”

“Or the young men who—”

“Well,” broke in Rosamond, “it was always said that our young officers got into much less mischief than where there was a straight-laced colonel, who didn’t go along with them to give them a tone.”

“That I quite believe.  I remember, too, the intense and breathless sense of excitement in the hush and suspense of the multitude, and the sweeping by of the animals—”

“Then you’ve been!” cried his wife.

“As a boy, yes.”

“Not since you were old enough to think it over?” said Anne eagerly.

“No.  It seemed to me that the amount of genuine interest in the sport and the animals was infinitesimal compared with the fictitious excitement worked up by betting.”

“And what’s the harm of betting when you’ve got the money?”

“And when you haven’t?”

“That’s another question.”

“Do you approve it at the best?”

“It’s a man’s own concern.”

“That’s arguing against your better sense.”

“Can’t be helped, with two such solemn companions!  There would be no bearing you if I didn’t take you down sometimes, when you get so didactic, and talk of fictitious excitement, indeed!  And now you are going to Rood House, what will you be coming back?”

Rood House stood about two miles on the further side of Backsworth.  It was an ancient almshouse, of which the mastership had been wisely given to Dr. Easterby, one of the deepest theological scholars, holiest men, and bravest champions of the Church, although he was too frail in health to do much, save with his pen, and in council with the numerous individuals who resorted to him from far and wide, and felt the beautiful old fragment of a monastic building where he dwelt a true court of peace and refreshment, whence they came forth, aided by prayer and counsel, for their own share of the combat.

Julius Charnock had, happily for himself, found his way thither when his character and opinions were in process of formation, and had ever since looked to Rood House for guidance and sympathy.  To be only fourteen miles distant had seemed to him one great perfection of Compton Poynsett; but of course he had found visits there a far more possible thing to an unoccupied holiday son of the great house than to a busy parish priest, so that this opportunity was very valuable to him.

And so it proved; not so much for the details as for the spirit in which he was aided in looking at everything, from the mighty questions which prove the life of the Church by the vehement emotion they occasion, down to the difficulties of theory and practice that harassed himself—not named, perhaps, but still greatly unravelled.

Those perpetual questions, that have to be worked out again and again by each generation, were before him in dealing with his parish; and among them stood in his case the deeper aspects of the question that had come forward on the drive, namely, the lawfulness and expedience of amusement.

Granting the necessity of pastimes and recreation for most persons, specially the young, there opened the doubtful, because ever-varying, question of the kind and the quantity to be promoted or sanctioned, lest restraint should lead to reaction, and lest abstinence should change from purity and spirituality to moroseness or hypocrisy.  And if Julius found one end of the scale represented by his wife and his junior curate, his sister-in-law and his senior curate were at the other.  Yet the old recluse was far more inclined to toleration than he had been in principle himself, though the spur of the occasion had led him to relaxations towards others in the individual cases brought before him, when he had thought opposition would do more harm than the indulgence.  His conscience had been uneasy at this divergence, till he could discuss the subject.

The higher the aspiration of the soul, the less, of course, would be the craving for diversion, the greater the shrinking from those evil accompaniments that soon mar the most innocent delights.  Some spirits are austere in their purity, like Anne; some so fervent in zeal, as to heed nothing by the way, like Mr. Bindon; but most are in an advanced stage of childhood, and need play and pleasure almost as much as air or food; and these instincts require wholesome gratification, under such approval as may make the enjoyment bright and innocent; and yet there should be such subduing of their excess, such training in discipline, as shall save them from frivolity and from passing the line of evil, prevent the craving from growing to a passion, and where it has so grown, tone it back to the limits of obedience and safety.

Alas! perhaps there lay the domestic difficulty of which Julius could not speak; yet, as if answering the thought, Dr. Easterby said, “After all, charity is the true self-acting balance to many a sweet untaught nature.  Self-denials which spring out of love are a great safeguard, because they are almost sure to be both humble and unconscious.”

And Julius went away cheered as he thought of his Rosamond’s wells of unselfish affection, confident that all the cravings for variety and excitement, which early habit had rendered second nature, would be absorbed by the deeper and keener feelings within, and that these would mount higher as time went on, under life’s great training.

Pleasant it was to see the triumphant delight of the two sisters over their purchases.  Such a day’s English shopping was quite a new experience to Anne; and she had not been cautioned against it, so her enjoyment was as fresh and vivid as a child’s; and they both chattered all the way home with a merriment in which Julius fully shared, almost surprised to see Anne so eager and lively, and—as her cheeks glowed and her eyes brightened—beginning to understand what had attracted Miles.

Mrs. Poynsett had not had quite so pleasant a day, for Cecil knocked at her door soon after luncheon with an announcement that Lady Tyrrell wished for admission.  Expecting an exposition of the Clio scheme, she resigned herself, looking with some curiosity at the beautiful contour of face and drooping pensive loveliness, that had rather gained than lost in grace since the days when she had deemed them so formidable.

“This is kind, dear Mrs. Poynsett,” said the soft voice, while the hand insisted on a pressure.  “I have often wished to come and see you, but I could not venture without an excuse.”

“Thank you,” was the cold reply.

“I have more than an excuse—a reason, and I think we shall be fully agreed; but first you must let me have the pleasure of one look to recall old times.  It is such a treat to see you so unchanged.  I hope you do not still suffer.”

“No, thank you.”

“And are you always a prisoner here?  Ah!  I know your patience.”

“What was the matter on which you wanted to speak to me?” said Mrs. Poynsett, fretted beyond endurance by the soft, caressing tone.

“As I said, I should hardly venture if I did not know we agreed—though perhaps not for the same reasons.  We do agree in our love and high opinion of your dear Frank!”

“Well!” repressing a shudder at the ‘dear.’

“I am afraid we likewise agree that, under all circumstances, our two young people are very unfortunately attached, and that we must be hard-hearted, and let it go no further.”

“You mean your sister?”

“My dear Lena!  I cannot wonder!  I blame myself excessively, for it was all through my own imprudence.  You see, when dear Frank came to Rockpier, it was so delightful to renew old times, and they both seemed such children, that I candidly confess I was off my guard; but as soon as I had any suspicion, I took care to separate them, knowing that, in the state of my poor father’s affairs, it would be most unjustifiable to let so mere a youth be drawn into an attachment.”

“Frank is no prize,” said his mother with some irony.

“I knew you would say that, dear Mrs. Poynsett.  Pecuniarily speaking, of course, he is not; though as to all qualities of the heart and head, he is a prize in the true sense of the word.  But, alas! it is a sort of necessity that poor Lena, if she marry at all, should marry to liberal means.  I tell you candidly that she has not been brought up as she ought to have been, considering her expectations or no expectations.  What could you expect of my poor father, with his habits, and two mere girls?  I don’t know whether the governess could have done anything; but I know that it was quite time I appeared.  I tell you in confidence, dear Mrs. Poynsett, there was a heavy pull on my own purse before I could take them away from Rockpier; and, without blaming a mere child like poor dear Lena you can see what sort of preparation she has had for a small income.”

It is hard to say which tried Mrs. Poynsett’s patience most, the ‘dears’ or the candour; and the spirit of opposition probably prompted her to say, “Frank has his share, like his brothers.”

“I understand, and for many girls the provision would be ample; but poor Lena has no notion of economizing—how should she?  I am afraid there is no blinking it, that, dear children as they both are, nothing but wretchedness could result from their corning together; and thus I have been extremely sorry to find that the affair has been renewed.”

“It was not an unnatural result of their meeting again.”

“Ah! there I was to blame again; but no one can judge whether an attachment be real between such children.  I thought, too, that Frank would be gone out into the world, and I confess I did not expect to find that he had absolutely addressed her, and kept it secret.  That is what my poor father feels so much.  Eleonora is his special darling, and he says he could have overlooked anything but the concealment.”

Maternal affection assumed the defensive; and, though the idea of concealment on the part of one of her sons was a shock, Mrs. Poynsett made no betrayal of herself, merely asking, “How did it come to light?”

“I extorted the confession.  I think I was justified, standing in a mother’s position, as I do.  I knew my vigilance had been eluded, and that your son had walked home with her after the skating; and you know very well how transparent young things are.”

The skating!  The mother at once understood that Frank was only postponing the explanation till after his examination; and besides, she had never been ignorant of his attachment, and could not regard any display thereof more or less as deception towards herself.  The very fact that Lady Tyrrell was trying to prejudice her beforehand, so as to deprive him of the grace of taking the initiative towards his own mother, enlisted her feelings in his defence, so she coldly answered, “I am sorry if Sir Harry Vivian thinks himself unfairly treated; but I should have thought my son’s feelings had been as well known in the one family as in the other.”

“But, dear Mrs. Poynsett,” exclaimed Lady Tyrrell, “I am sure you never encouraged them.  I am quite enough aware—whatever I may once have been—of the unfortunate contrast between our respective families.”

Certainly there was no connection Mrs. Poynsett less wished to encourage; yet she could not endure to play into Camilla’ hands, and made reply, “There are many matters in which young men must judge for themselves.  I have only once see Miss Vivian, and have no means of estimating my son’s chance of happiness with her.”

Her impenetrability ruffled Lady Tyrrell; but the answer was softer than ever.  “Dear Mrs. Poynsett, what a happy mother you are, to be able so freely to allow your sons to follow their inclinations!  Well! since you do not object, my conscience is easy on that score; but it was more than I durst hope.”

To have one’s approval thus stolen was out of the question and Mrs. Poynsett said, “Regret is one thing, opposition another.  Sir Harry Vivian need not doubt that, when my son’s position is once fixed, he will speak openly and formally, and it will then be time to judge.”

“Only,” said Lady Tyrrell, rising, “let this be impressed on your son.  Eleonora cannot marry till she is of age, and my father cannot sanction any previous entanglement.  Indeed it is most unfortunate, if her affections have been tampered with, for me, who have outgrown romance, and know that, in her position, a wealthy match is a necessity.  I have spoken candidly,” she repeated; “for I like Frank too well to bear that he should be trifled with and disappointed.”

“Thank you!”

The ladies parted, liking one another, if possible, less than before.

Mrs. Poynsett’s instinct of defence had made her profess much less distaste to the marriage than she really felt; she was much concerned that another son should be undergoing Raymond’s sad experiences, but she had no fear that Lady Tyrrell would ever allow it to come to a marriage, and she did not think Frank’s poetical enthusiasm and admiration for beauty betokened a nature that would suffer such an enduring wound as Raymond’s had done.

So she awaited his return, without too much uneasiness for amusement in Rosamond’s preparations.  One opening into the conservatory was through her room, so that every skilful device, or gay ornament, could be exhibited to her; and she much enjoyed the mirth that went on between the queen of the revels and her fellow-workers.

Cecil did not interfere, being indeed generally with her friends at Sirenwood, Aucuba Villa, or the working-room, in all of which she had the pleasure of being treated as a person of great consideration, far superior to all her natural surroundings, and on whom hinged all the plans for the amelioration of Willansborough.

Sometimes, however, it happens that the other side of a question is presented; and thus it was on the day before the entertainment, when Rosamond had taken her brother Tom to have his hair cut, and to choose some false moustaches, and the like requisites for their charades.