The design was taking shape when young Strangeways, who was willing to exchange chaff with Gussie Moy, but was gentleman enough to feel the indecorum of the whole thing, moved across to his sister, and muttered, “I say, Con, they are getting up that stupid trick of election of a queen of beauty. Does Lady Tyrrell know it?”
“Wouldn’t it be rather fun?”
“Horrid bad form, downright impudence. Mother would squash it at once. Go and warn one of them,” signing with his head.
Constance made her way to Eleonora, who had already been perplexed and angered by more than one critical stare, as one and another man loitered past and gazed intrepidly at her. She hurried at once to her sister, who was sitting passively behind her counter as if wearied out, and who would not be stirred to interference. “Never mind, Lenore, it can’t be helped. It is all for the cause, and to stop it would be worse taste, fitting on the cap as an acknowledged beauty, and to that I’m not equal.”
“It is an insult.”
“Never fear, they’ll never choose you while you look so forbidding, though perhaps it is rather becoming. They have not the taste.”
Eleonora said no more, but went over to the window where Raymond was keeping his guard, with his old-fashioned sense of protection. She had no sooner told him than he started into incredulous indignation, in which he was joined by his wife who only wished him to dash forward to prevent the scheme before he would believe it real.
However, when the ballot-box came his way, and a simpering youth presented him with a card, begging for his opinion, he spoke so as to be heard by all, “No, thank you, sir. I am requested by the ladies present to state that such competition was never contemplated by their committee and would be repugnant to all their sentiments. They beg that the election may be at once dropped and the money returned.”
Mr. Charnock Poynsett had a weight that no one resisted. There was a moment’s silence, a little murmur, apologetic and remonstrant, but the deed was done.
Only a clear voice, with the thrillings of disappointed vanity and exultation scarcely disguised by a laugh, was heard saying, louder than the owner knew, “Oh, of course Mr. Charnock Poynsett spoiled sport. It would have been awkward between his wife and his old flame.”
“For shame, Gussie,” hushed Mrs. Duncombe, “they’ll hear.”
“I don’t care! Let them! Stuck-up people!”
Whoever heard, Cecil Charnock Poynsett did, and felt as if the ground were giving way with her.
CHAPTER XXIV
The Lady Green Mantle
The night, just like the night before,
In terrors passed away,
Nor did the demons vanish thence
Before the dawn of day.
—MOORE
The turmoil was over, the gains had been emptied into bags to be counted at leisure, the relics of the sale left to be disposed of through the Exchange and Mart. Terry, looking tired to death, descended from his post as assistant showman; and, with some gentlemen who were to dine at Compton Poynsett, Cecil drove home to dress in haste, and act hostess to a large dinner-party. All the time she felt giddy at the words she had heard—“Mr. Poynsett’s old flame.” It was constantly ringing in her ears, and one conviction was before her mind. Her cheeks burnt like fire, and when she reached her own room at night, and leant from the window to cool them, they only burnt the more.
Had she been wilfully deceived? had she been taking the counsel of a jealous woman about her husband? Had not Camilla assured her that the object of his first love was not in the country? Ay; but when that was spoken Camilla herself was in London, and Cecil knew enough of her friend to be aware that she viewed such a subterfuge as ingenious. Even then she had perceived that the person alluded to could only have been a Vivian, and the exclamation of careless spite carried assurance to her that she had been tricked into confidence, and acceptance of the advice of a rival. She had a feverish longing to know more, and obtain explanation and external certainty. But how?
Raymond was one of the very tired that night. He fell asleep the instant his head touched the pillow; but it was that sobbing, sighing sleep which had before almost swept away, from very ruth, her resolution; and on this night there were faltering words, strangely, though unconsciously, replying to her thoughts. “Camilla, a cruel revenge!” “Poor child! but for you she might have learnt.” “My mother!” “Why, why this persistent hatred?” “Cannot you let us alone?” “Must you destroy our home?”
These were the mutterings at intervals. She listened, and in the darkness her impulse was to throw herself on her husband, tell him all, show him how she had been misled, and promise to give up all to which that true Vivienne had prompted her. She did even try to wake him, but the attempt caused only a more distinct expostulation of “Cannot you let her alone?” “Cannot you let us learn to love one another?” “It may be revenge on me or my mother; but what has she done?” “Don’t!—oh, don’t!”
The distress she caused forced her to desist, and she remembered how Raymond had always warned her. The intimacy with Lady Tyrrell had been in the teeth of his remonstrances. He had said everything to prevent it short of confessing his former attachment, and though resentful that the warning had been denied her, she felt it had been well that she had been prevented from putting the question on her first impulse. Many ways of ascertaining the fact were revolved by her as with an aching head she lay hopelessly awake till morning, when she fell into a doze which lasted until she found that Raymond had risen, and that she must dress in haste, unless she meant to lose her character for punctuality. Her head still ached, and she felt thoroughly tired; but when Raymond advised her to stay at home, and recruit herself for the ball, she said the air of the downs would refresh her. Indeed, she felt as if quiet and loneliness would be intolerable until she could understand herself and what she had heard.
Raymond took the reins of the barouche, and a gentleman who had slept at the Hall went on the box beside him, leaving room for Rosamond and her brother, who were to be picked up at the Rectory; but when they drew up there, only Rosamond came out in the wonderful bonnet, just large enough to contain one big water-lily, which suited well with the sleepy grace of her movements, and the glossy sheen of her mauve silk.
“Terry is not coming. He has a headache, poor boy,” she said, as Julius shut her into the barouche. “Take care of him and baby.”
“Take care of yourself, Madam Madcap,” said Julius, with a smile, as she bent down to give him a parting kiss, with perhaps a little pleading for forgiveness in it. But instead of, as last year, shuddering, either at its folly or publicity, Cecil felt a keen pang of desire for such a look as half rebuked, while it took a loving farewell of Rosamond. Was Camilla like that statue which the husband inadvertently espoused with a ring, and which interposed between him and his wife for ever?
Rosamond talked. She always had a certain embarrassment in tête-à-têtes with Cecil, and it took form in a flow of words. “Poor Terry! he turned faint and giddy at breakfast. I thought he had been indulging at the refreshment-stall, but he says he was saving for a fine copy of the Faerie Queen that Friskyball told him of at a book-stall at Backsworth, and existed all day on draughts of water when his throat grew dry as showman; so I suppose it is only inanition, coupled with excitement and stuffiness, and that quiet will repair him. He would not hear of my staying with him.”
“I suppose you do not wish to be late?”
“Certainly not,” said Rosamond, who, indeed, would have given up before, save for her bonnet and her principle; and whatever she said of Lady Rathforlane’s easy management of her nurslings, did not desire to be too many hours absent from her Julia.
“I only want to stay till the Three-year-old Cup has been run for,” said Cecil. “Mrs. Duncombe would feel it unkind if we did not.”
“You look tired,” said Rosamond, kindly; “put your feet upon the front seat—nobody will look. Do you know how much you cleared?”
“Not yet,” said Cecil. “I do not know what was made by the raffles. How I do hate them! Fancy that lovely opal Venetian vase going to that big bony Scotswoman, Mr. M’Vie’s mother.”
“Indeed! That is a pity. If I had known it would be raffled for, I would have sent a private commission, though I don’t know if Julius would have let me. He says it is gambling. What became of the Spa work-box, with the passion-flower wreath?”
“I don’t know. I was so disgusted, that I would not look any more. I never saw such an obnoxious girl as that Miss Moy.”
“That she is,” said Rosamond. “I should think she was acting the fast girl as found in sensation novels.”
“Exactly,” said Cecil, proceeding to narrate the proposed election; and in her need of sympathy she even told its sequel, adding, “Rosamond, do you know what she meant?”
“Is it fair to tell you?” said Rosamond, asking a question she knew to be vain.
“I must know whether I have been deceived.”
“Never by Raymond!” cried Rosamond.
“Never, never, never!” cried Cecil, with most unusual excitement. “He told me all that concerned himself at the very first. I wish he had told me who it was. How much it would have saved! Rosamond, you know, I am sure.”
“Yes, I made Julius tell me; but indeed, Cecil, you need not mind. Never has a feeling more entirely died out.”
“Do you think I do not know that?” said Cecil. “Do you think my husband could have been my husband if he had not felt that?”
“Dear Cecil, I am so glad,” cried impulsive Rosamond; her gladness, in truth, chiefly excited by the anger that looked like love for Raymond. “I mean, I am glad you see it so, and don’t doubt him.”
“I hope we are both above that,” said Cecil. “No, it is Camilla that I want to know about. I must know whether she told me truth.”
“She told! what did she tell you?”
“That he—Raymond—had loved some one,” said Cecil in a stifled voice; “that I little knew what his love could be. I thought it had been for her sister in India. She told me that it was nobody in the country. But then we were in town.”
“Just like her!” cried Rosamond, and wondered not to be contradicted.
“Tell me how it really was!” only asked Cecil.
“As far as I know, the attachment grew up with Raymond, but it was when the brother was alive, and Sir Harry at his worst; and Mrs. Poynsett did not like it, though she gave in at last, and tried to make the best of it; but then she—Camilla—as you call her—met the old monster, Lord Tyrrell, made up a quarrel, because Mrs. Poynsett would not abdicate, and broke it off.”
“She said Mrs. Poynsett only half consented, and that the family grew weary of her persistent opposition.”
“And she made you think it Mrs. Poynsett’s doing, and that she is not possible to live with! O, Cecil! you will not think that any longer. Don’t you see that it is breaking Raymond’s heart?”
Cecil’s tears were starting, and she was very near sobbing as she said, “I thought perhaps if we were away by ourselves he might come to care for me. She said he never would while his mother was by—that she would not let him.”
“That’s not a bit true!” said Rosamond, indignantly. “Is it not what she has most at heart, to see her sons happy? When has she ever tried to interfere between Julius and me? Not that she could,” added Rosamond to herself in a happy little whisper, not meant to be heard, but it was; and with actual though suppressed sobs, Cecil exclaimed—
“O, Rose, Rose! what do you do to make your husband love you?”
“Do? Be very naughty!” said Rosamond, forced to think of the exigencies of the moment, and adding lightly, “There! it won’t do to cry. Here are the gentlemen looking round to see what is the matter.”
Ardently did she wish to have been able to put Cecil into Raymond’s arms and run out of sight, but with two men-servants with crossed arms behind, a strange gentleman in front, the streets of Wil’sbro’ at hand, and the race-ground impending, sentiment was impossible, and she could only make herself a tonic, and declare nothing to be the matter; while Cecil, horrified at attracting notice, righted herself and made protest of her perfect health and comfort. When Raymond, always careful of her, stopped the carriage and descended from his perch to certify himself whether she was equal to going on, his solicitude went to her heart, and she gave his hand, as it lay on the door, an affectionate thankful pressure, which so amazed him that he raised his eyes to her face with a softness in them that made them for a moment resemble Frank’s.
That was all, emotion must be kept at bay, and as vehicles thickened round them as they passed through Wil’sbro’, the two ladies betook themselves to casual remarks upon them. Overtaking the Sirenwood carriage just at the turn upon the down, Raymond had no choice but to take up his station with that on one side, and on the other Captain Duncombe’s drag, where, fluttering with Dark Hag’s colours, were perched Mrs. Duncombe and Miss Moy, just in the rear of the like conveyance from the barracks.
Greetings, and invitations to both elevations were plentiful, and Rosamond would have felt in her element on the military one. She was rapidly calculating, with her good-natured eye, whether the choice her rank gave her would exclude some eager girl, when Cecil whispered, “Stay with me pray,” with an irresistibly beseeching tone. So the Strangeways sisters climbed up, nothing loth; Lady Tyrrell sat with her father, the centre of a throng of gentlemen, who welcomed her to the ground where she used to be a reigning belle; and the Colonel’s wife, Mrs. Ross, came to sit with Lady Rosamond. The whole was perfect enjoyment to the last. She felt it a delightful taste of her merry old Bohemian days to sit in the clear September sunshine, exhilarated by the brilliancy and life around, laughing with her own little court of officers, exclaiming at every droll episode, holding her breath with the thrill of universal expectation and excitement, in the wonderful hush of the multitude as the thud of the hoofs and rush in the wind was heard coming nearer, straining her eyes as the glossy creatures and their gay riders flashed past, and setting her whole heart for the moment on the one she was told to care for.
Raymond, seeing his ladies well provided for, gave up his reins to the coachman, and started in quest of a friend from the other side of the county. About an hour later, when luncheon was in full progress, and Rosamond was, by Cecil’s languor, driven into doing the honours, with her most sunshiny drollery and mirth, Raymond’s hand was on the carriage door, and he asked in haste, “Can you spare me a glass of champagne? Have you a scent-bottle?”
“An accident?”
“Yes, no, not exactly. She has been knocked down and trampled on.”
“Who? Let me come! Can’t I help? Could Rosamond?”
“No, no. It is a poor woman, brutally treated. No, I say, I’ll manage. It is a dreadful scene, don’t.”
But there was something in his tone which impelled Rosamond to open the carriage door and spring out.
“Rose, I say it is no place for a lady. I can’t answer for it to Julius.”
“I’ll do that. Take me.”
There was no withstanding her, and, after all, Raymond’s tone betrayed that he was thankful for her help, and knew that there was no danger for her.
He had not many yards to lead her. The regions of thoughtless gaiety were scarcely separated from the regions of undisguised evil, and Raymond, on his way back from his friend, had fallen on a horrible row, in which a toy-selling woman had been set upon, thrown down and trodden on, and then dragged out by the police, bleeding and senseless. When he brought Rosamond to the spot, she was lying propped against a bundle, moaning a little, and guarded by a young policeman, who looked perplexed and only equal to keeping back the crowd, who otherwise, with better or worse purposes, would have rushed back in the few minutes during which Mr. Poynsett had been absent.
They fell back, staring and uttering expressions of rough wonder at the advance of the lady in her glistening silk, but as she knelt down by the poor creature, held her on her arm, bathed her face with scent on her own handkerchief, and held to her lips the champagne that Raymond poured out, there was a kind of hoarse cheer.
“I think her arm is put out,” said Rosamond; “she ought to go to the Infirmary.”
“Send for a cab,” said Raymond to the policeman; but at that moment the girl opened her eyes, started at the sight of him and tried to hide her face with her hand.
“It is poor Fanny Reynolds,” said he in a low voice to Rosamond, while the policeman was gruffly telling the woman she was better, and ought to get up and not trouble the lady; but Rosamond waved off his too decided assistance, saying:
“I know who she is; she comes from my husband’s parish; and I will take her home. You would like to go home, would you not, poor Fanny?”
The woman shuddered, but clung to her; and in a minute or two an unwilling fly had been pressed into the service, and the girl lifted into it by Raymond and the policeman.
“You are really going with her?” said the former. “You will judge whether to take her home; but she ought to go to the Infirmary first.”
“Tell Cecil I am sorry to desert her,” said Rosamond, as he wrung her hand, then paid the driver and gave him directions, the policeman going with them to clear the way through the throng to the border of the down.
The choice of the cabman had not been happy. He tried to go towards Backsworth, and when bidden to go to Wil’sbro’, growled out an imprecation, and dashed off at a pace that was evident agony to the poor patient; but when Rosamond stretched out at the window to remonstrate, she was answered with rude abuse that he could not be hindered all day by whims. She perceived that he was so much in liquor that their connection had better be as brief as possible; and the name on the door showed that he came from beyond the circle of influence of the name of Charnock Poynsett. She longed to assume the reins, if not to lay the whip about his ears; but all she could do was to try to lessen the force of the jolts by holding up the girl, as the horse was savagely beaten, and the carriage so swayed from side to side that she began to think it would be well if there were not three cases for the Infirmary instead of one. To talk to the girl or learn her wishes was not possible, among the moans and cries caused by the motion; and it was no small relief to be safely at the Infirmary door, though there was no release till after a fierce altercation with the driver, who first denied, and then laughed to scorn the ample fare he had received, so that had any policeman been at hand, the porter and house surgeon would have given him in charge, but they could only take his number and let him drive off in a fury.
Poor Fanny was carried away fainting to the accident ward, and Rosamond found it would be so long before she would be visible again, that it would be wiser to go home and send in her relations, but there was not a fly or cab left in Wil’sbro’, and there was nothing for it but to walk.
She found herself a good deal shaken, and walked fast because thus her limbs did not tremble so much, while the glaring September afternoon made her miss the parasol she had left in the carriage, and find little comfort in the shadeless erection on her head. It was much further than she had walked for a long time past, and she had begun to think she had parted with a good deal of her strength before the Compton woods grew more defined, or the church tower came any nearer.
Though the lane to the Reynolds’ colony was not full in her way, she was glad to sit down in the shade to speak to old Betty, who did not comport herself according to either extreme common to parents in literature.
“So Fanny, she be in the ’firmary, be her? I’m sure as ’twas very good of the young Squire and you, my lady; and I’m sorry her’s bin and give you so much trouble.”
Everybody was harvesting but the old woman, who had the inevitable bad leg. All men and beasts were either in the fields or at the races, and Rosamond, uncertain whether her patient was not in a dying state, rejoiced in her recent acquisition of a pony carriage, and speeding home with renewed energy, roused her ‘parson’s man’ from tea in his cottage, and ordered him off to take Betty Reynolds to see her daughter without loss of time.
Then at length she opened her own gate and walked in at the drawing-room window. Terry started up from the sofa, and Anne from a chair by his side, exclaiming at her appearance, and asking if there had been any accident.
“Not to any of us, but to a poor woman whom I have been taking to the Infirmary,” she said, sinking into a low chair. “Where’s Julius?”
“He went to see old George Willett,” said Anne. “The poor old man has just heard of the death of his daughter at Wil’sbro’.”
“And you came to sit with this boy, you good creature. How are you, master?”
“Oh, better, thanks,” he said, with a weary stretch. “How done up you look, Rose! How did you come?”
“I walked from Wil’sbro’.”
“Walked!” echoed both her hearers.
“Walked! I liked my two legs better than the four of the horse that brought me there, though ’twasn’t his fault, poor beast, but the brute of a driver, whom we’ll have up before the magistrate. I’ve got the name; doing his best to dislocate every bone in the poor thing’s body. Well, and I hope baby didn’t disturb you?”
“Baby has been wonderfully quiet. Julius went to see after her once, but she was out.”
“I’ll go and see the young woman, and then come and tell my story.”
But Rosamond came back almost instantly, exclaiming, “Emma must have taken the baby to the Hall. I wish she would be more careful. The sun is getting low, and there’s a fog rising.”
“She had not been there when I came down an hour ago,” said Anne; “at least, not with Mrs. Poynsett. They may have had her in the housekeeper’s room. I had better go and hasten her home.”
Julius came in shortly after, but before he had heard the tale of Fanny Reynolds, Anne had returned to say that neither child nor nurse had been at the Hall, nor passed the large gate that morning. It was growing rather alarming. The other servants said Emma had taken the baby out as usual in the morning, but had not returned to dinner, and they too had supposed her at the Hall. None of the dependants of the Hall in the cottages round knew anything of her, but at last Dilemma Hornblower imparted that she had seen my lady’s baby’s green cloak atop of a tax-cart going towards Wil’sbro’.
Now Emma had undesirable relations, and Rosamond had taken her in spite of warning that her uncle was the keeper of the ‘Three Pigeons.’ The young parents stood looking at one another, and Rosamond faintly said, “If that girl has taken her to the races!”
“I’m more afraid of that fever in Water Lane,” said Julius. “I have a great mind to take the pony carriage and see that the girl does not take her there.”
“Oh! I sent it with Betty Reynolds,” cried Rosamond in an agony.
“At that moment the Hall carriage came dashing up, and as Raymond saw the three standing in the road, he called to the coachman to stop, for he and his friend were now within, and Cecil leaning back, looking much tired. Raymond’s eager question was what Rosamond had done with her charge.
“Left her at the Infirmary;—but, oh! you’ve not seen baby?”
“Seen—seen what! your baby?” asked Raymond, as if he thought Rosamond’s senses astray, while his bachelor friend was ready to laugh at a young mother’s alarms, all the more when Julius answered, “It is too true; the baby and her nurse have not been seen here since ten o’clock; and we are seriously afraid the girl may have been beguiled to those races. There is a report of the child’s cloak having been seen on a tax-cart.”
“Then it was so,” exclaimed Cecil, starting forward. “I saw a baby’s mantle of that peculiar green, and it struck me that some farmer’s wife had been aping little Julia’s.”
“Where? When?” cried Rosamond.
“They passed us, trying to find a place. I did not show it to you for you were talking to those gentlemen.”
“Did you see it, Brown?” asked Julius, going towards the coachman. “Our baby and nurse, I mean.”
“I can’t tell about Miss Charnock, sir,” said the coachman, “but I did think I remarked two young females with young Gadley in a tax-cart. I would not be alarmed, sir, nor my lady,” he added, with the freedom of a confidential servant, who, like all the household, adored Lady Rosamond. “It was a giddy thing in the young woman to have done; and no place to take the young lady to. But there—there were more infants there than a man could count, and it stands to reason they come to no harm.”
“The most sensible thing that has been said yet,” muttered the friend; but Rosamond was by no means pacified. “Gadley’s cart! They’ll go to that horrid public-house in Water Lane where there’s typhus and diphtheria and everything; and there’s this fog—and that girl will never wrap her up. Oh! why did I ever go?”
“My dear Rose,” said Julius, trying to speak with masculine composure, “this is nonsense. Depend upon it, Emma is only anxious to get her home.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know! If she could take her to the races, she would be capable of taking her anywhere! They all go and drink at that beer-shop, and catch—Julius, the pony carriage! Oh! it’s gone!”
“Yes,” said Julius in explanation. “She sent Betty Reynolds into Wil’sbro’ in it.”
“Get in, Rosamond,” cried Cecil, “we will drive back till we find her.”
But this was more than a good coachman could permit for his horses’ sake, and Brown declared they must be fed and rested before the ball. Cecil was ready to give up the ball, but still they could not be taken back at once; and Rosamond had by this time turned as if setting her face to walk at once to the race-ground until she found her child, when Raymond said, “Rose! would you be afraid to trust to King Coal and me? I would put him in at once and drive you till you find Julia.”
“Oh! Raymond, how good you are!”
The coachman, glad of this solution, only waited to pick up Anne, and hurried on his horses, while the bachelor friend could not help grunting a little, and observing that it was plain there was only one child in the family, and that he would take any bet ‘it’ was at home all right long before Poynsett reached the parsonage.
“Maybe so,” said Raymond, “but I would do anything rather than leave her mother in the distress you take so easily.”
“Besides, there’s every chance of her being taken to that low public-house,” said Cecil. “One that Mr. Poynsett would not allow our servants to go to during the bazaar, though it is close to the town-hall, and all the others did.”
“Let us hope that early influence may prevent contamination,” solemnly said the friend.
Cecil turned from him. “I still hope she may be at home,” she said; “it is getting very chill and foggy. Raymond, I hope you may not have to go.”
“You must lie down and get thoroughly rested,” he said, as he helped her out; and only waiting to equip himself for the evening dance, he hurried to the stables to expedite the harnessing of the powerful and fiery steed which had as yet been only experimentally driven by himself and the coachman.
Rosamond was watching, and when King Coal was with difficulty pulled up, she made but one spring to the seat of the dog-cart; and Julius, who was tucking in the rug, had to leap back to save his foot, so instantaneous was the dash forward. They went like the wind, Rosamond not caring to speak, and Raymond had quite enough on his hands to be glad not to be required to talk, while he steered through the numerous vehicles they met, and she scanned them anxiously for the outline of Emma’s hat. At last they reached Wil’sbro’, where, as they came to the entrance of Water Lane, Rosamond, through the hazy gaslight, declared that she saw a tax-cart at the door of the ‘Three Pigeons,’ and Raymond, albeit uncertain whether it were the tax-cart, could only turn down the lane at her bidding, with difficulty preventing King Coal from running his nose into the vehicle. Something like an infant’s cry was heard through the open door, and before he knew what she was about, Rosamond was on the pavement and had rushed into the house; and while he was signing to a man to take the horse’s head, she was out again, the gaslight catching her eyes so that they glared like a tigress’s, her child in her arms, and a whole Babel of explaining tongues behind her. How she did it neither she nor Raymond ever knew, but in a second she had flown to her perch, saying hoarsely, “Drive me to Dr. Worth’s. They were drugging her. I don’t know whether I was in time. No, not a word”—(this to those behind)—“never let me see any of you again.”
King Coal prevented all further words of explanation by dancing round, so that Raymond was rejoiced at finding that nobody was run over. They were off again instantly, while Rosamond vehemently clasped the child, which was sobbing out a feeble sound, as if quite spent with crying, but without which the mother seemed dissatisfied, for she moved the poor little thing about if it ceased for a moment. They were soon within Dr. Worth’s iron gates, where Raymond could give the horse to a servant, help his sister-in-law down, and speak for her; for at first she only held up the phial she had clutched, and gazed at the doctor speechlessly.
He looked well both at the bottle and the baby while Raymond spoke, and then said, “Are you sure she took any, Lady Rosamond?”
“Quite, quite sure!” cried Rosamond. “The spoon was at her lips, the dear little helpless darling!”
“Well, then,” said the doctor, dryly, “it only remains to be proved whether an aristocratic baby can bear popular treatment. I dare say some hundred unlucky infants have been lugged out to the race-course to-day, and come back squalling their hearts out with fatigue and hunger, and I’ll be bound that nine-tenths are lulled with this very sedative, and will be none the worse.”