“Cecil has behaved very ill to you,” said Julius, granting her rather over much; “but she is a foolish conceited child, who does not deserve that Raymond should be worried about her. I foresee plenty of grievances from her; but, Rosie, we must and will not let her come between us and Raymond. You don’t know what a brother he has been to me—I hardly think I could have got through my first year at school but for him; and I don’t think my sweet Rose could wish to do me such an ill turn as to stir up a feud with such a brother because his wife is provoking.”
The luncheon-bell began to sound, and she sobbed out, “There then, go down, leave me alone! Go to them, since you are so fond of them all!”
“I don’t think you could come down as you are,” said Julius, gravely; “I will bring you something.”
“It would choke me—choke me!” she sobbed out.
Julius knew enough of the De Lancy temperament to be aware that words carried them a long way, and he thought solitude would be so beneficial, that he summoned resolution to leave her; but he had not the face to appear alone, nor offer fictions to excuse her absence, so he took refuge in his dressing-room, until he had seen Cecil and Anne ride away from the hall door together.
For the two sisters-in-law had held a little indignation meeting, and Rosamond’s misdemeanour had so far drawn them together, that Cecil had offered to take Anne to see the working party, and let her assist thereat.
The coast being clear, Julius went down, encountering nothing worse than the old butler, who came in while he was cutting cold beef, and to whom he said, “Lady Rosamond is rather knocked up; I am going to take her something up-stairs.”
Jenkins received this as the result of a dance, but much wanted to fetch a tray, which Julius refused, and set off with an ale-glass in one hand, and in the other the plates with the beef and appliances, Jenkins watching in jealous expectation of a catastrophe, having no opinion of Mr. Julius’s powers as a waiter. He was disappointed. The downfall was deferred till the goal was reached, and was then most salutary, for Rosamond sprang to pick up the knife and fork, laughed at his awkwardness, refused to partake without him, produced implements from her travelling-bag, and was as merry as she had been miserable.
Not a word on the feud was uttered; and the pair walked down to the village, where she was exemplary, going into all those more distasteful parts of her duties there, which she sometimes shirked.
And on her return, finding her long-expected letter from Miss M’Kinnon awaiting her, she forgot all offences in her ardour to indoctrinate everybody with the hopes it gave of affording Mrs. Poynsett a change of room, if not even greater variety. Unfortunately, this eagerness was not met with a corresponding fervour. There was in the household the acquiescence with long-established invalidism, that sometimes settles down and makes a newcomer’s innovations unwelcome. Raymond had spoken to the old doctor, who had been timid and discouraging; Susan resented the implication that the utmost had not been done for her dear mistress; and Mrs. Poynsett herself, though warmly grateful for Rosamond’s affection, was not only nervously unwilling to try experiments, but had an instinctive perception that there was one daughter-in-law to whom her increased locomotion would scarcely be welcome, and by no means wished to make this distaste evident to Raymond. Cecil would not have been so strong against the risk and imprudence, if her wishes had been the other way. Moreover, she had been warned off from interference with the Rector’s wife in the village, and she did not relish Rosamond’s making suggestions as to her province, as she considered the house—above all, when she viewed that lady as in a state of disgrace. It was nothing less than effrontery; and Cecil became stiffer and colder than ever. She demanded of her mother-in-law whether there had been any promise of amendment.
“Oh! Julius will see to all that,” said Mrs. Poynsett.
“It is a woman’s question,” returned Cecil.
“Not entirely.”
“Fancy a clergyman’s wife! It Mrs. Venn had appeared in that way at Dunstone!”
“You would have left it to Mr. Venn! My dear, the less said the sooner mended.”
Cecil was silenced, but shocked, for she was far too young and inexperienced to understand that indecorous customs complied with as a matter of course, do not necessarily denote lack of innate modesty—far less, how they could be confounded with home allegiance; and as to Anne, poor Rosamond was, in her eyes, only too like the ladies who impeded Christiana on her outset.
So her ladyship retreated into languid sleepy dignity towards both her sisters-in-law; and on Monday evening showed herself, for a moment, more decolletée, if possible, than before. Mrs. Poynsett feared lest Julius were weak in this matter; but at night she had a visit from him.
“Mother,” he said, “it will not happen again. Say no more.”
“I am only too thankful.”
“What do you think settled it? No less than Lady Tyrrell’s admiration.”
“What could she have said?”
“I can’t make out. Rose was far too indignant to be comprehensible, when she told me on the way home; but there was something about adopting the becoming, and a repetition of—of some insolent praise.” And his mother felt his quiver of suppressed wrath. “If Rose had been what that woman took her for, she would have been delighted,” he continued; “but—”
“It was horrible to her!” said his mother. “And to you. Yes, I knew it would right itself, and I am glad nothing passed about it between us.”
“So am I; she quite separates you from Cecil and Anne, and indeed all her anger is with Lady Tyrrell. She will have it there was malice in inciting her to shock old friends and annoy you—a sort of attempt to sympathize her into opposition.”
“Which had a contrary effect upon a generous nature.”
“Exactly! She thinks nothing too bad for that woman, and declares she is a serpent.”
“That’s dear Rosamond’s anger; but I imagine that when I occur to Camilla’s mind, it is as the obstructive old hag, who once stood in her way; and so, without any formed designs, whatever she says of me is coloured by that view.”
“Quite possible; and I am afraid the sister is just such another. She seems quite to belong to Mrs. Duncombe’s set. I sat next her at dinner, and tried to talk to her, but she would only listen to that young Strangeways.”
“Strangeways! I wonder if that is Susan Lorimer’s son?”
“Probably, for his Christian name is Lorimer.”
“I knew her rather well as a girl. She was old Lord Lorimer’s youngest daughter, and we used to walk in the Square gardens together; but I did not see much of her after I married; and after a good while, she married a man who had made a great fortune by mining. I wonder what her son is like?”
“He must be the man, for he is said to be the millionaire of the regiment. Just the match that Lady Tyrrell would like.”
“Ah! that’s well,” said Mrs. Poynsett.
“From your point of view,” said Julius, smiling.
“If he will only speak out before it has had time to go deep with Frank!”
CHAPTER IX
Cold Heart
At that very moment the two sisters in question were driving home in the opposite corners of the carriage in the dark.
“Really, Lenore,” was Lady Tyrrell saying, “you are a very impracticable girl.”
There was a little low laugh in answer.
“What blast has come and