“Oh, that will remedy itself. All dogs learn to understand the bell.”
And then the others began to drop in, and were told of the invitation that was coming.
“I say, Rosamond,” cried Charlie, “can brothers and sisters-in-law dance together?”
“That depends on how the brothers-in-law dance,” returned Rosamond. “Some one, for pity’s sake, play a waltz!—Come along Charlie! the hall is a sweet place for it!—Whistle, Julius!—Frank, whistle!”
And away she whirled. Frank, holding out his hands, was to his surprise accepted by Cecil, and disappeared with her into the hall. Julius stood by the mantelpiece, with the first shadow on his brow his mother had seen since his arrival. Presently he spoke in a defensive apologetic tone: “She has always been used to this style of thing.”
“Most naturally,” said the mother.
“Not that they ever did more than their position required, and Lady Rathforlane is a truly careful mother. Of course some things might startle you stay-at-home people; but in all essentials—”
“I see what you mean.”
“And what seems like rattle is habit.”
“Simple gaieté de cœur!”
“So it is better to acquiesce till it subsides of itself. You see it is hard, after such a life of change and variety, to settle down into a country parsonage.”
“What are you saying there?” said Rosamond, tripping in out of breath.
“That I don’t know how you are to put up with a pink-eyed parson, and a hum-drum life,” said Julius, holding out a caressing hand.
“Now that’s hard,” pleaded she; “only because I took a frolic with Baby Charles! I say, Julius, shall we give it up altogether and stay at home like good children? I believe that is what would suit the told Rabbit much better than his kid gloves,”—and her sweet face looked up at him with a meek candid gaze.
“No,” he said, “that would not do. The Bowaters are our oldest friends. But, Rosie, as you are a clergyman’s wife, could you not give up round dances?”
“Oh no, no! That’s too bad. I’d rather never go to a dance at all, than sit still, or be elbowed about in the square dances. You never told me you expected that!”—and her tones were of a child petulant at injustice.
“Suppose,” he said, as a delightful solution, “you only gratified Frank and Charlie by waltzing with them.”
She burst into a ringing laugh. “My brothers-in-law! How very ridiculous! Suppose you included the curates?”
“You know what I mean,” he said gravely.
“Oh, bother the parson’s wife! Haven’t I seen them figuring away by scores? Did we ever have a regimental ball that they were not the keenest after?”
“So they get themselves talked of!” said Julius, as Anne’s quiet entrance broke up the dialogue.
Mrs. Poynsett had listened, glad there was no appeal to her, conscious that she did not understand the merits of the case, and while she doubted whether her eldest son had love enough, somewhat afraid lest his brother had not rather too much for the good of his lawful supremacy.
CHAPTER VII
Unfruitful Suggestions
“Raymond! Can you spare me a moment before you go into your mother’s room?”
It was Rosamond who, to his surprise, as he was about to go down-stairs, met him and drew him into her apartment—his mother’s own dressing-room, which he had not entered since the accident.
“Is anything the matter?” he said, thinking that Julius might have spared him from complaints of Cecil.
“Oh no! only one never can speak to you, and Julius told me that you could tell me about Mrs. Poynsett. I can’t help thinking she could be moved more than she is.” Then, as he was beginning to speak, “Do you know that, the morning of the fire, I carried her with only one of the maids to the couch under the tent-room window? Susan was frightened out of her wits, but she was not a bit the worse for it.”
“Ah! that was excitement.”
“But if it did not hurt her then, why should it hurt her again? There’s old General M’Kinnon, my father’s old friend, who runs about everywhere in a wheeled-chair with a leg-rest; and I can’t think why she should not do the same.”
Raymond smiled kindly on her, but rather sadly; perhaps he was recollecting his morning’s talk about the occupancy of the drawing-room. “You know it is her spine,” he said.
“So it is with him. His horse rolled over him at Sebastopol, and he has never walked since. I wanted to write to Mary M’Kinnon; but Julius said I had better talk to you, because he was only at home for a fortnight, when she was at the worst, and you knew more about it.”
“Yes,” said Raymond, understanding more than the Irish tongue fully expressed. “I never saw a woman sit better than she did, and she looked as young and light in the saddle as you could, till that day, when, after the rains, the bank where the bridle-path to Squattles End was built up, gave way with the horse’s feet, and down she went twenty feet, and was under the horse when Miles and I got down to her! We brought her on a mattress to that room, not knowing whether she were alive; and she has never moved out of it! It was agony to her to be touched.”
“Yes but it can’t be that now. Was not that three years ago?”
“Not so much. Two and a half. We had Hayter down to see her, and he said perfect rest was the only chance for her.”
“And has not he seen her lately?”
“He died last winter; and old Worth, who comes in once a week to look at her, is not fit for more than a little watching and attention. I dare say we all have learnt to acquiesce too much in her present state, and that more might be done. You see she has never had a lady’s care, except now and then Jenny Bowater’s.”
“I do feel sure she could bear more now,” said Rosamond, eagerly. “It would be such a thing if she could only be moved about that down-stairs floor.”
“And be with us at meals and in the evening,” said Raymond, his face lightening up. “Thank you, Rosamond!”
“I’ll write to Mary M’Kinnon to-morrow, to ask about the chair,” cried Rosamond; and Raymond, hearing the door-bell, hurried down, to find his wife standing alone over the drawing-room fire, not very complacent.
“Where have you been, Raymond?”
“I was talking to Rosamond. She has seen a chair on which it might be possible to move my mother about on this floor.”
“I
