“I assure you, Fanny, now that the children are growing up, I am obliged to cut and contrive,” said Mrs. Gascoigne. “I am not a good manager by nature, but Henry has taught me. He is wonderful for making the best of everything; he allows himself no extras, and gets his curates for nothing. It is rather hard that he has not been made a prebendary or something, as others have been, considering the friends he has made and the need there is for men of moderate opinions in all respects. If the Church is to keep its position, ability and character ought to tell.”
“Oh, my dear Nancy, you forget the old story—thank Heaven, there are three hundred as good as I. And ultimately, we shall have no reason to complain, I am pretty sure. There could hardly be a more thorough friend than Lord Brackenshaw—your landlord, you know, Fanny. Lady Brackenshaw will call upon you. And I have spoken for Gwendolen to be a member of our Archery Club—the Brackenshaw Archery Club—the most select thing anywhere. That is, if she has no objection,” added Mr. Gascoigne, looking at Gwendolen with pleasant irony.
“I should like it of all things,” said Gwendolen. “There is nothing I enjoy more than taking aim—and hitting,” she ended, with a pretty nod and smile.
“Our Anna, poor child, is too short-sighed for archery. But I consider myself a first-rate shot, and you shall practice with me. I must make you an accomplished archer before our great meeting in July. In fact, as to neighborhood, you could hardly be better placed. There are the Arrowpoints—they are some of our best people. Miss Arrowpoint is a delightful girl—she has been presented at Court. They have a magnificent place—Quetcham Hall—worth seeing in point of art; and their parties, to which you are sure to be invited, are the best things of the sort we have. The archdeacon is intimate there, and they have always a good kind of people staying in the house. Mrs. Arrowpoint is peculiar, certainly; something of a caricature, in fact; but well-meaning. And Miss Arrowpoint is as nice as possible. It is not all young ladies who have mothers as handsome and graceful as yours and Anna’s.”
Mrs. Davilow smiled faintly at this little compliment, but the husband and wife looked affectionately at each other, and Gwendolen thought, “My uncle and aunt, at least, are happy: they are not dull and dismal.” Altogether, she felt satisfied with her prospects at Offendene, as a great improvement on anything she had known. Even the cheap curates, she incidentally learned, were almost always young men of family, and Mr. Middleton, the actual curate, was said to be quite an acquisition: it was only a pity he was so soon to leave.
But there was one point which she was so anxious to gain that she could not allow the evening to pass without taking her measures toward securing it. Her mamma, she knew, intended to submit entirely to her uncle’s judgment with regard to expenditure; and the submission was not merely prudential, for Mrs. Davilow, conscious that she had always been seen under a cloud as poor dear Fanny, who had made a sad blunder with her second marriage, felt a hearty satisfaction in being frankly and cordially identified with her sister’s family, and in having her affairs canvassed and managed with an authority which presupposed a genuine interest. Thus the question of a suitable saddle-horse, which had been sufficiently discussed with mamma, had to be referred to Mr. Gascoigne; and after Gwendolen had played on the piano, which had been provided from Wanchester, had sung to her hearers’ admiration, and had induced her uncle to join her in a duet—what more softening influence than this on any uncle who would have sung finely if his time had not been too much taken up by graver matters?—she seized the opportune moment for saying, “Mamma, you have not spoken to my uncle about my riding.”
“Gwendolen desires above all things to have a horse to ride—a pretty, light, lady’s horse,” said Mrs. Davilow, looking at Mr. Gascoigne. “Do you think we can manage it?”
Mr. Gascoigne projected his lower lip and lifted his handsome eyebrows sarcastically at Gwendolen, who had seated herself with much grace on the elbow of her mamma’s chair.
“We could lend her the pony sometimes,” said Mrs. Gascoigne, watching her husband’s face, and feeling quite ready to disapprove if he did.
“That might be inconveniencing others, aunt, and would be no pleasure to me. I cannot endure ponies,” said Gwendolen. “I would rather give up some other indulgence and have a horse.” (Was there ever a young lady or gentleman not ready to give up an unspecified indulgence for the sake of the favorite one specified?)
“She rides so well. She has had lessons, and the riding-master said she had so good a seat and hand she might be trusted with any mount,” said Mrs. Davilow, who, even if she had not wished her darling to have the horse, would not have dared to be lukewarm in trying to get it for her.
“There is the price of the horse—a good sixty with the best chance, and then his keep,” said Mr. Gascoigne, in a tone which, though demurring, betrayed the inward presence of something that favored the demand. “There are the carriage-horses—already a heavy item. And remember what you ladies cost in toilet now.”
“I really wear nothing but two black dresses,” said Mrs. Davilow, hastily. “And the younger girls, of course, require no toilet at present. Besides, Gwendolen will save me so much by giving her sisters lessons.” Here Mrs. Davilow’s delicate cheek showed a rapid blush. “If it were not for that, I must really have a more expensive governess, and masters besides.”
Gwendolen felt some anger with her mamma, but carefully concealed it.
“That is good—that is decidedly good,” said Mr. Gascoigne, heartily, looking at his wife. And Gwendolen, who, it must be owned, was a deep young lady, suddenly moved away to the other end of the long drawing-room, and busied herself with arranging pieces of music.
“The dear child has had no indulgences, no pleasures,” said Mrs. Davilow, in a pleading undertone. “I feel the expense is rather imprudent in this first year of our settling. But she really needs the exercise—she needs cheering. And if you were to see her on horseback, it is something splendid.”
“It is what we could not afford for Anna,” said Mrs. Gascoigne. “But she, dear child, would ride Lotta’s donkey and think it good enough.” (Anna was absorbed in a game with Isabel, who had hunted out an old back-gammon-board, and had begged to sit up an extra hour.)
“Certainly, a fine woman never looks better than on horseback,” said Mr. Gascoigne. “And Gwendolen has the figure for it. I don’t say the thing should not be considered.”
“We might try it for a time, at all events. It can be given up, if necessary,” said Mrs. Davilow.
“Well, I will consult Lord Brackenshaw’s head groom. He is my fidus Achates in the horsey way.”
“Thanks,” said Mrs. Davilow, much relieved. “You are very kind.”
“That he always is,” said Mrs. Gascoigne. And later that night, when she and her husband were in private, she said—
“I thought you were almost too indulgent about the horse for Gwendolen. She ought not to claim so much more than your own daughter would think of. Especially before we see how Fanny manages on her income. And you really have enough to do without taking all this trouble on yourself.”
“My dear Nancy, one must look at things from every point of view. This girl is really worth some expense: you don’t often see her equal. She ought to make a first-rate marriage, and I should not be doing my duty if I spared my trouble in helping her forward. You know yourself she has been under a disadvantage with such a father-in-law, and a second family, keeping her always in the shade. I feel for the girl, And I should like your