The Three Brides. Yonge Charlotte Mary

not had it on since the wedding.

      “And she came in so late,” said Cecil.

      “That was my fault,” he said.  “We came through the village to leave a message at the doctor’s;” and he then insisted that the other pair should set off, taking Frank and Charlie, and prevent dinner from being kept waiting; at which the boys made faces, and declared that it was a dodge of his to join Jenny’s party in the schoolroom, instead of the solemn dinner; but they were obliged to submit; and it was not till twenty minutes later, that in glided something white, with blue cashmere and swan’s-down over it, moving, as usual, with languid grace.

      “Poor Julius!” smiled Rosamond with her dawdling dignity.  “Every single thing turned out a misfit!  As it is, there’s a monstrous hole in my glove, which demands the benevolent fiction of my having torn it by the way.  There, one second for the effect!—Good-bye, dear Mrs. Poynsett;—good-bye, Anne.  Come, you monument of patience and resignation!”

      For one moment she had slipped back her little mantle, then drawn it on, as, taking her husband’s arm, she left the room; but that moment had set Anne’s cheeks aflame, and left Mrs. Poynsett in a startled state of uncertainty, hoping her glance had been mistaken, wondering what could have been more amiss, and feeling incapable of entering on the subject with that severe young judge, of narrow experience.

      Never had her eldest son failed to come and bid her good night on his way to his own room: it was the great break in her long sleepless hours, and she used to call it a reversal of the relations of those days when he used to watch for her kiss on her way to bed.  Nor did he fail her now, but came and stood over her with his fragmentary tidings.

      “An immense party—oh yes, there was he persuading them not to wait.  Mr. Bowater took Rosamond in to dinner, Cecil went with Sir Harry Vivian.  Yes, Lady Tyrrell was there, wonderfully handsome, but her expression strikes me as altered; there is the sort of pathetic look that, as Cecil said, is like the melancholy Medusa—I wonder if it is genuine.  She seems greatly disposed to cultivate Cecil—I wonder what she does it for.”

      “Is Cecil attracted?  I fancied she was.”

      “Yes, a good deal; and I fear the Wil’sbro’ business will throw them together.  It is unlucky on Frank’s account likewise.  I see we shall have it all over again there.”

      “I have great hope in his office taking him away.  How was it with them to-night?”

      “What I should call arrant coquetry, such as even Camilla never indulged in.  The girl kept out of his way—was absolutely chill and repelling half the evening—throwing herself at the officers from Backsworth, till at last Frank obtained a waltz, and after that they were perfectly inseparable.”

      “If she coquets, she will soon disgust him!  Did Cecil enjoy herself?”

      “Oh yes: Phil Bowater opened the ball with her, and she dances very nicely—so quietly, Mrs. Bowater remarked it.  As to Rosamond, she was in her native element—is indeed, for she would not hear of coming away when we did.”

      “And Julius?”

      “Standing in a doorway, with others of his kind, absently talking, and watching Rosamond out of the tail of his eye.  I say, mother,” lowering his voice, “can’t you give Rosamond a hint about her dress?  Cecil says she can’t go out with her again like that.  Ah,” as he heard a sigh, “I should not have worried you at night.”

      “No, you have not.  Tell Cecil I will see about it.  Rosamond will take it best from an old woman like me.”

      Mrs. Poynsett was quite conscious that Cecil had more high breeding and refinement than Rosamond, who was essentially the Irish Colonel’s daughter, and that the cold temperament of the one irritated the warm nature of the other.  More than one flash had revealed Rosamond’s contempt for Cecil’s assumptions and intolerance for her precision—besides, she was five years older, and had not an ideal in Dunstone.

      After revolving what form of remonstrance would be least offensive during half the night and day, Mrs. Poynsett was not prepared for the appearance, about noon, of her son Julius, when, coming to what she termed the confidential side of her couch, he asked hesitatingly, and colouring, “Mother, I want you to tell me, was there anything amiss in Rose’s dress last night?”

      “You did not perceive—”

      “I’m not used to the style of thing.  Is it not the way with what you call full dress?”

      “To a certain degree—” she began.

      He caught her up.  “And here has Cecil been putting my poor Rose into a perfect agony!  It is only woman’s censorious nonsense, isn’t it, mother?  Mere folly to think otherwise!  I knew you would set my mind at rest; and if you would tell Cecil that you will not have Rosamond insulted, it would be as well.”

      “Stay, Julius,” as he was walking off complacently, “I grieve, but I must confess that I was going to speak to Rosamond myself.”

      He looked very blank.

      “Mind, I am certain that it is only an innocent following of what she has been brought up to;” and as he signed a sort of hurt acquiescence, as if trying to swallow the offence, she added, “When do you go out again?”

      “Not till Monday, when we dine at Colonel Ross’s.  He is an old friend of Lord Rathforlane.”

      “Then I am inclined to let it cool.  Sometimes advice that has been resented does its work.”

      “You don’t think the interference justifiable?”

      “Not from that quarter.”

      “And can it be needful to attend to it?”

      “My dear Julius, it is not a style of dress I could ever have worn, nor have let my daughters have worn, if I had had any.”

      “Conclusive, that!” said Julius, getting up, more really angered with his mother than he had been since his childhood.

      However, he conquered himself by the time he had reached the door, and came back to say, “I beg your pardon, mother, I know you would not say so without need.”

      “Thank you, my boy!” and he saw tears in her eyes, the first time he was conscious of having brought them.  As he bent down to kiss her, she rallied, and cheerfully said, “I have no doubt it will all come right—Rosamond is too nice not to feel it at once.”

      No such thing; Rosamond was still furious.  If he disapproved, she would submit to him; but he had seen nothing wrong, had he?

      “My dear Rose, I told you I was no judge: you forget what my eyes are; and my mother—”

      “You have been to your mother?”

      “My dear, what could I do?”

      “And you think I am going to insult my own mother and sisters to please any woman’s finical prudish notions’?  Pray what did Mrs. Poynsett say?”

      The excuse of custom, pleaded by Mrs. Poynsett, only made Rosamond fiercer.  She wished she had never come where she was to hear that her own mother was no judge of propriety, and her husband could not trust her, but must needs run about asking everybody if she were fit to be seen.  Such a tempest Julius had never seen outside a back street in the garrison town.  There seemed to be nothing she would not say, and his attempts at soothing only added to her violence.  Indeed, there was only one thing which would have satisfied her, and that was, that she had been perfectly right, and the whole world barbarously wrong; and she was wild with passion at perceiving that he had a confidence in his own mother which he could not feel in hers.

      Nor would he insist that Raymond should force Cecil to apologize.  “My dear,” he said, “don’t you know there are things easier to ask than to obtain?”

      To which Rosamond replied, in another gust, that she would never again sit down to table with Cecil until she had apologized for the insult, not to herself, she did not care about that, but to the mother who had seen her dresses tried on: Julius must tell Raymond so, or take her away