The Three Brides. Yonge Charlotte Mary

the lady for her suggestion, which she acknowledged by a gracious bow, not without triumph; and the meeting broke up.

      Some one asked after Captain Duncombe as she descended into private life.  “There’s a wonderful filly that absorbs all his attention.  All Wil’sbro’ might burn as long as Dark Hag thrives!  When do I expect him?  I don’t know; it depends on Dark Hag,” she said in a tone of superior good-natured irony, then gathered up the radiant mantle and tripped off along the central street of the little old-fashioned country town, with gravelled not paved side-walks.

      “Isn’t she very superior?” said Cecil, when her husband had put her on horseback.

      “I suppose she is very clever.”

      “And she spoke capitally.”

      “If she were to speak.  What would your father think of her?”

      But for the first time Cecil’s allegiance had experienced a certain shock.  Some sort of pedestal had hitherto been needful to her existence; she was learning that Dunstone was an unrecognized elevation in this new country, and she had seen a woman attain to a pinnacle that almost dazzled her, by sheer resource and good sense.

      All the discussion she afterwards heard did not tend to shake her opinion; Raymond recounted the adventure at his mother’s kettle-drum, telling of his own astonishment at the little lady’s assurance.

      “I do not see why she should be censured,” said Cecil.  “You were all at a loss without her.”

      “She should have got her husband to speak for her,” said Mrs. Poynsett.

      “He was not there.”

      “Then she should have instructed some other gentleman,” said Mrs. Poynsett.  “A woman spoils all the effect of her doings by putting herself out of her proper place.”

      “Perfectly disgusting!” said Julius.

      Cecil had decidedly not been disgusted, except by the present strong language; and not being ready at repartee, she was pleased when Rosamond exclaimed, “Ah! that’s just what men like, to get instructed in private by us poor women, and then gain all the credit for originality.”

      “It is the right way,” said the mother.  “The woman has much power of working usefully and gaining information, but the one thing that is not required of her is to come forward in public.”

      “Very convenient for the man!” laughed Rosamond.

      “And scarcely fair,” said Cecil.

      “Quite fair,” said Rosamond, turning round, so that Cecil only now perceived that she had been speaking in jest.  “Any woman who is worth a sixpence had rather help her husband to shine than shine herself.”

      “Besides,” said Mrs. Poynsett, “the delicate edges of true womanhood ought not to be frayed off by exposure in public.”

      “Yes,” said Raymond.  “The gain of an inferior power of man in public would be far from compensated by the loss in private of that which man can never supply.”

      “Granted,” said Rosamond slyly though sleepily, “that it always is an inferior power of man, which it does not seem to have been in the actual case.”

      “It was a point on which she had special knowledge and information,” said Mrs. Poynsett.

      “And you were forced to thank her,” said Cecil.

      “Yes, in common civility,” said Raymond; “but it was as much as I could do to get it done, the position was a false one altogether.”

      “In fact, you were all jealous,” said Rosamond.

      At which everybody laughed, which was her sole intention; but Cecil, who had said so much less, really thought what Rosamond said in mere play.  Those extorted thanks seemed to her a victory of her sex in a field she had never thought of; and though she had no desire to emulate the lady, and felt that a daughter of Dunstone must remember noblesse oblige, the focus of her enthusiasm was in an odd state of shifting.

      CHAPTER VIII

      Unsatisfactory

      On the evening of the party at Strawyers, Mrs. Poynsett lay on her sofa, thinking, with a trying recurrence, of that unfortunate and excellent German Dauphine, who was pronounced by the Duchess of Orleans to have died of her own stupidity.

      After a fortnight had brought no improvement, but rather the reverse, to poor Anne’s wan looks and feeble languid deportment, Mrs. Poynsett had insisted on her seeing the doctor; and had been assured by him that there was nothing amiss, and that if Mrs Miles Charnock could only be roused and occupied she would be perfectly well, but that her pining and depression might so lower her tone as to have a serious effect on her health.

      There was no hope of her husband’s return for at least a year, likely eighteen months.  What was to be done with her?  What could be a more unpropitious fate than for a Colonial girl, used to an active life of exertion and usefulness, and trained to all domestic arts, to be set down in a great English household where there was really nothing for her to do, and usefulness or superintendence would have been interfering; besides, as Miles had thoughts of settling at the Cape, English experience would serve her little.

      She had not cultivation enough for any pursuit to interest her.  She was not musical, could not draw; and when Mrs. Poynsett had, by way of experiment, asked her to read aloud an hour a day, and selected the Lives of the Lindsays, as an unexceptionable and improving book, full of Scottish history, and even with African interest, she dutifully did her task as an attention to her invalid mother-in-law, but in a droning husky tone, finding it apparently as severe a penance as it was to her auditor.

      The doctor’s chief prescription was horse exercise; but what would a constitutional canter be to one accustomed to free rides through the Bush?  And she would generally be alone; for even if Charlie, her nearest approach to an ally, had not been going away from home in a few weeks, it could not be expected that he could often ride with her.

      It was plain that every one of the whole family was giving continual shocks to Mr. Pilgrim’s disciple, even when they felt most innocent; and though the mother was sometimes disposed to be angry, sometimes to laugh at the little shudder and compression of the lips she began to know, she perceived what an addition this must be to the unhappiness of the poor lonely stranger.

      “She must be set to some good work,” thought Mrs. Poynsett; “Julius might let her go to his old women.  She might get on with them better than with the old women here.  And there’s Cecil’s working affair, it would be just the thing to give her an object.  I think I can get through this evening.  I’ve made Susan bring my desk, with all Miles’s letters from his first voyage.  Shall I suppress the ball?”

      Therewith Cecil made her entrance, in glossy white satin and deep lace, beautiful to behold, set off with rainbow glistening opals.  She made a quiet complacent show of herself, as one not vain of fine clothes, but used to an affectionate family appreciation of her best attire; and it was the most friendly childlike bit of intimacy that had yet been attained between her and Mrs. Poynsett.

      And when she sat down to wait for the others, Mrs. Poynsett ventured on telling her the prescription and her own perplexity, hoping for a voluntary offer to employ Anne at Willansborough; but Cecil only pitied her for having ‘no resources’; and when Mrs. Poynsett ventured to suggest finding a niche for her in the work-room, the answer was—“Our days are all disposed of.”

      “You have two, I think?”

      “True; but it would never do for me to give up one of my times.  If I seemed to slacken, every one else would.”

      “What will you do when the Session begins?”

      “I shall make some arrangement.  I do not think Anne could ever take my place; she would have no authority.”

      Anne herself here entered, took her knitting, and sat down, apparently unaware of the little pluming gesture by which Cecil unconsciously demanded attention to her bridal satin.  One white-gloved gentleman after another dropped in, but none presumed