The Three Brides. Yonge Charlotte Mary

to my household!  They are not a bit worse than the company he came from!  You don’t believe in rural simplicity, eh?”

      “I believe that taking that boy from his home makes us responsible.”

      “And do I hinder you from catechizing him to your heart’s content? or sending him to the school of design?”

      Again Eleonora was silent.  Perhaps the balancing of the footman’s head occupied her mind.  At any rate, no more was said till the sisters had reached their home.  Then, at the last moment, when there was no time left for a reply, Eleonora cleared and steadied her voice, and said, “Camilla, understand two things for truth’s sake.  First, I mean what I say.  Nothing shall ever induce me to marry a man who bets.  Next, I never have forgotten Frank Charnock for one moment.  If I have been cold and distant to him, it is because I will not draw him near me to be cruelly scorned and disappointed!”

      “I don’t mind the why, if the effect is the same,” were Lady Tyrrell’s last words, as the door opened.

      Eleonora’s little white feet sped quickly up the steps, and with a hasty good night, she sped across the hall, but paused at the door.  “Papa must not be disappointed,” she whispered to herself, and dashed her hand over her eyes; and at the moment the lock turned, and a gray head appeared, with a mighty odour of smoke.  “Ah!  I thought my little Lena would not pass me by!  Have you had a pleasant party, my dear?  Was young Strangeways there?”

      She had nestled in his arms, and hoped to avoid notice by keeping her head bent against him, as she hastily responded to his questions; but he detected something.

      “Eh?  Camilla been lecturing?  Is that it?  You’ve not been crying, little one?  It is all right, you know!  You and I were jolly enough at Rockpier; but it was time we were taken in hand, or you would have grown into a regular little nun, among all those black coats.”

      “I wish I were.”

      “Nonsense!  You don’t know life!  You’ll tell another story one of these days; and hark childie, when you’ve married, and saved the old place, you’ll keep the old room for the old man, and we’ll have our own way again.”

      She could but kiss him, and hide her agitation in caresses, ere hurrying up the stairs she reached her own rooms, a single bed-chamber opening into a more spacious sitting-room, now partially lighted by the candles on the toilette-table within.

      She flung herself down on a chair beyond the line of light, and panted out half aloud, “Oh!  I am in the toils!  Oh for help!  Oh for advice!  Oh! if I knew the right!  Am I unfair? am I cold and hard and proud?  Is she telling me true?  No, I know she is not—not the whole truth, and I don’t know what is left out, or what is false!  And I’m as bad—making them think I give in and discard Frank!  Oh! is that my pride—or that it is too bad to encourage him now I know more?  He’ll soon scorn me, and leave off—whatever he ever thought of me.  She has taken me from all my friends—and she will take him away!  No one is left me but papa; and though she can’t hurt his love, she has got his confidence away, and made him join against me!  But that one thing I’ll never, never do!”

      She started up, and opened a locked purple photograph-album, with ‘In Memoriam’ inscribed on it—her hands trembling so that she could hardly turn the key.  She turned to the likeness of a young man—a painful likeness of a handsome face, where the hard verities of sun-painting had refused to veil the haggard trace of early dissipation, though the eyes had still the fascinating smile that had made her brother Tom, with his flashes of fitful good-nature, the idol of his little sister’s girlhood.  The deadly shock of his sudden death had been her first sorrow; and those ghastly whispers which she had heard from the servants in the nursery, and had never forgotten, because of the hushed and mysterious manner, had but lately started into full force and meaning, on the tongues of the plain-spoken poor.

      She gazed, and thought of the wrecked life that might have been so rich in joys; nay, her tenderness for her father could not hide from her how unlike his old age was from that of Mr. Bowater, or of any men who had done their service to their generation in all noble exertion.  He had always indeed been her darling, her charge; but she had never known what it was to look up to him with the fervent belief and enthusiasm she had seen in other girls.  To have him amused, loitering from reading-room to parade or billiard-room, had been all that she aspired to, and only lately had she unwillingly awakened to the sense how and why this was—and why the family were aliens in their ancestral home.

      “And Camilla, who knew all—knew, and lived through the full force of the blight and misery—would persuade me that it all means nothing, and is a mere amusing trifle!  Trifle, indeed, that breaks hearts and leads to despair and self-destruction and dishonour!  No, no, no—nothing shall lead me to a gamester! though Frank may be lost to me!  He will be! he will be!  We deserve that he should be!  I deserve it—if family sins fall on individuals—I deserve it!  It is better for him—better—better.  And yet, can he forget—any more than I—that sunny day—?  Oh! was she luring him on false pretences?  What shall I do?  How will it be?  Where is my counsellor?  Emily, Emily, why did you die?”

      Emily’s portrait—calm, sweet, wasted, with grave trustful eyes—was in the next page.  The lonely girl turned to it, and gazed, and drank in the soothing influence of the countenance that had never failed to reply with motherly aid and counsel.  It rested the throbbing heart; and presently, with hands clasped and head bent, Eleonora Vivian knelt in the little light closet she had fitted as an oratory, and there poured out her perplexities and sorrows.

      CHAPTER X

      A Truant

      Since for your pleasure you came here,

      You shall go back for mine.

—COWPER

      “How like Dunstone you have made this room!” said Raymond, entering his wife’s apartment with a compliment that he knew would be appreciated.

      Cecil turned round from her piano, to smile and say, “I wish papa could see it.”

      “I hope he will next spring; but he will hardly bring Mrs. Charnock home this winter.  I am afraid you are a good deal alone here, Cecil.  Is there no one you would like to ask?”

      “The Venns,” suggested Cecil; “only we do not like them to leave home when we are away; but perhaps they would come.”

      Raymond could not look as if the proposal were a very pleasing one.  “Have you no young-lady friends?” he asked.

      “We never thought it expedient to have intimacies in the neighbourhood,” said Cecil.

      “Well, we shall have Jenny Bowater here in a week or two.”

      “I thought she was your mother’s friend.”

      “So she is.  She is quite young enough to be yours.”

      “I do not see anything remarkable about her.”

      “No, I suppose there is not; but she is a very sensible superior person.”

      “Indeed!  In that commonplace family.”

      “Poor Jenny has had an episode that removes her from the commonplace.  Did you ever hear of poor Archie Douglas?”

      “Was not he a good-for-nothing relation of your mother?”

      “Not that exactly.  He was the son of a good-for-nothing, I grant, whom a favourite cousin had unfortunately married, but he was an excellent fellow himself; and when his father died, she had Mrs. Douglas to live in that cottage by the Rectory, and sent the boy to school with us; then she got him into Proudfoot’s office—the solicitor at Backsworth, agent for everybody’s estates hereabouts.  Well, there arose an attachment between him and Jenny; the Bowaters did not much like it, of course; but they are kind-hearted and good-natured, and gave consent, provided Archie got on in his profession.  It was just at the time when poor Tom Vivian was exercising a great deal more influence than was good among the young men in the neighbourhood; and George Proudfoot was rather a joke for imitating him