“So far from it, that, under the circumstances, it was the best thing she could have. She has plainly been exhausted, and though I would not exactly recommend the practice in your nursery, I doubt if she could have taken nourishment till she had been composed. She will sleep for an hour or two, and by that time you can get her home, and feed her as usual. I should be more anxious about Lady Rosamond herself,” he added, turning to Raymond. “She looks completely worn out. Let me order you a basin of soup.”

But Rosamond would not hear of it, she must get baby home directly. Raymond advised a fly, but it was recollected that none was attainable between the races and the ball, so the little one was muffled in shawls and cloaks almost to suffocation, and the doctor forced a glass of wine on her mother, and promised to look in the next day. Still they had a delay at the door, caused by the penitent Emma and her aunt, bent on telling how far they had been from intending any harm; how Emma, when carrying the baby out, had been over-persuaded by the cousins she had never disappointed before; how they had faithfully promised to take her home early, long before my lady’s return; how she had taken baby’s bottle, but how it had got broken; how impossible it had been to move off the ground in the throng; and how the poor baby’s inconsolable cries had caused the young nurse to turn aside to see whether her aunt could find anything to prevent her from screaming herself into convulsions.

Nothing but the most determined volubility on Mrs. Gadley’s part could have poured this into the ears of Raymond; Rosamond either could not or would not heed, pushed forward, past the weeping Emma, and pulled away her dress with a shudder, when there was an attempt to draw her back and make her listen.

“Don’t, girl,” said Raymond. “Don’t you see that Lady Rosamond can’t attend to you? If you have anything to say, you must come another time. You’ve done quite enough mischief for the present.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, “tell your brother to put them both to bed, and keep them quiet. I should like to prescribe the same for you, Mr. Poynsett; you don’t look the thing, and I suppose you are going to take the ball by way of remedy.”

Raymond thanked the doctor, but was too much employed in enveloping his passengers to make further reply.

It was quite dark, and the fog had turned to misty rain, soft and still, but all pervading, and Rosamond found it impossible to hold up an umbrella as well as to guard the baby, who was the only passenger not soaked and dripping by the time they were among the lighted windows of the village.

“Oh, Raymond! Raymond!” she then said, in a husky dreamy voice, “how good and kind you have been. I know there was something that would make you very, very glad!”

“Is there?” he said. “I have not met with anything to make me glad for a long time past!”

“And I don’t seem able to recollect what it was, or even if I ought to tell,” said Rosamond, in the same faint, bewildered voice, which made Raymond very glad they were at the gate, where stood Julius.

But before Rosamond would descend into her husband’s arms, she opened all her child’s mufflings, saying, “Kiss her, kiss her, Raymond—how she shall love you!” And when he had obeyed, and Rosamond had handed the little one down to her father, she pressed her own wet cheek against his dripping beard and moustache, and exclaimed, “I’ll never forget your goodness. Have you got her safe, Julius? I’ll never, never go anywhere again!”

CHAPTER XXV
The Pebbles

O no, no, no; ’tis true. Here, take this too;
It is a basilisk unto mine eye,
Kills me to look on’t. Let there be no honour,
Where there is beauty; truth, where semblance; love,
Where there’s another man.

—Cymbeline

When Julius, according to custom, opened his study shutters, at half-past six, to a bright sunrise, his eldest brother stood before the window. “Well, how are they?” he said.

“All right, thank you; the child woke, had some food, and slept well and naturally after it; and Rose has been quite comfortable and at rest since midnight. You saved us from a great deal, Raymond.”

“Ah!” with a sound of deep relief; “may Julia only turn out as sweet a piece of womanhood as her mother. Julius, I never understood half what that dear wife of yours was till yesterday.”

“I was forced to cut our gratitude very short,” said Julius, laying his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You know I’ve always taken your kindness as a matter of course.”

“I should think so,” said Raymond, the more moved of the two. “I tell you, Julius, that Rosamond was to me the only redeeming element in the day. I wanted to know whether you could walk with me to ask after that poor girl; I hear she came home one with her grandmother.”

“Gladly,” said Julius. “I ought to have gone last night; but what with Rose, and the baby, and Terry, I am afraid I forgot everything.” He disappeared, and presently issued from the front door in his broad hat, while Raymond inquired for Terry.

“He is asleep now, but he has been very restless, and there is something about him I don’t like. Did not Worth say he would come and look at the baby?”

“Yes, but chiefly to pacify Rosamond, about whom he was the most uneasy.”

“She is quite herself now; but you look overdone, Raymond. Have you had any sleep?”

“I have not lain down. When we came home at four o’clock, Cecil was quite knocked up, excited and hysterical. Her maid advised me to leave her to her; so I took a bath, and came down to wait for you.”

Julius would have liked to see the maid who could have soothed his Rosamond last night without him! He only said, however, “Is Frank come down? My mother rather expected him.”

“Yes, he came to the race-ground.”

“Indeed! He was not with you when you came back, or were we not sufficiently rational to see him?”

“Duncombe gave a dinner at the hotel, and carried him off to it. I’m mortally afraid there’s something amiss in that quarter. What, didn’t you know that Duncombe’s filly failed?”

“No, indeed, I did not.”

“The town was ringing with it. Beaten out-and-out by Fair Phyllida! a beast that took them all by surprise—nothing to look at—but causing, I fancy, a good deal of distress. They say the Duncombes will be done for. I only wish Frank was clear; but that unhappy engagement has thrown him in with Sir Harry’s set, and he was with them all day—hardly spoke to me. To a fellow like him, a veteran scamp like old Vivian, with his benignant looks, is ten times more dangerous than men of his own age. However, having done the damage, they seem to have thrown him off. Miss Vivian would not speak to him at the ball.”

“Eleonora! I don’t know how to think it!”

“What you cannot think, a Vivian can do and does!” said Raymond, bitterly. “My belief is that he was decoyed into being fleeced by the father, and now they have done their worst, he is cast off. He came home with us, but sat outside, and I could not get a word out of him.”

“I hope my mother may.”

“If he be not too far gone for her. I always did expect some such termination, but not with this addition.”

“I don’t understand it now—Lena!”

“I only wonder at your surprise. The girl has been estranged from us all for a long time. If it is at an end, so much the better. I only wish we were none of us ever to see the face of one of them again.”

Julius knew from his wife that there were hopes for Raymond, but of course he might not speak, and he was revolving these words, which had a vehemence unlike the wont of the speaker, when he was startled by Raymond’s saying, “Julius, you were right. I have come to the conclusion that no consideration shall ever make me sanction races again.”

“I am glad,” began Julius.

“You would not be glad if you had seen all I saw yesterday. You must have lent me your eyes, for when you spoke before of the evils, I thought you had picked up a Utopian notion, and were running a-muck with it, like an enthusiastic young clergyman. For my own part I can’t say I ever came across anything offensive. Of course I know where to find it, as one does wherever one goes, but there was no call to run after it; and as we were used to the affair, it was a mere matter of society—”

“No, it could never be any temptation to you,” said Julius.

“No, nor to any other reasonable man; and I should add, though perhaps you might not allow it, that so long as a man keeps within his means, he has a right to enhance his excitement and amusement by bets.”

“Umph! He has a right then to tempt others to their ruin, and create a class of speculators who live by gambling.”

“You need not go on trying to demolish me. I was going to say that I had only thought of the demoralization, from the betting side; but yesterday it was as if you had fascinated my eyes to look behind the scenes. I could not move a step without falling on something abominable. Roughs, with every passion up to fever-pitch, ferocity barely kept down by fear of the police, gambling everywhere, innocent young things looking on at coarseness as part of the humour of the day, foul language, swarms of vagabond creatures, whose trade is to minister to the license of such occasions. I declare that your wife was the only being I saw display a spark of any sentiment human nature need not blush for!”

“Nay, Raymond, I begin to wonder whose is the exaggerated feeling now.”

“You were not there,” was the answer; and they were here interrupted by crossing the path of the policeman, evidently full of an official communication.

“I did not expect to see you so early, sir,” he said. “I was coming to the Hall to report to you after I had been in to the superintendent.”

“What is it?”

“There has been a burglary at Mrs. Hornblower’s, sir. If you please, sir,” to Julius, “when is the Reverend Mr. Bowater expected home?”

“Not before Monday. Is anything of his taken?”

“Yes, sir. A glass case has been broken open, and a silver cup and oar, prizes for sports at college, I believe, have been abstracted. Also the money from the till below; and I am sorry to say, young Hornblower is absconded, and suspicion lies heavy on him. They do say the young man staked heavily on that mare of Captain Duncombe’s.”

“You had better go on to the superintendent now,” said Raymond. “You can come to me for a summons if you can find any traces.”

Poor Mrs. Hornblower, what horror for her! and poor Herbert too who would acutely feel this ingratitude. The blackness of it was beyond what Julius thought probable in the lad, and the discussion of it occupied the brothers till they reached the Reynolds colony, where they were received by the daughter-in-law, a much more civilized person than old Betty.

After Fanny’s dislocated arm had been set, the surgeon had sent her home in the Rectory carriage, saying there was so much fever in Wil’sbro’, that she would be likely to recover better at home; but she had been suffering and feverish all night, and Dan Reynolds was now gone in quest of ‘Drake,’ for whom she had been calling all night.

“Is he her husband?” asked Julius.

“Well, I don’t know, sir; leastways, Granny says he ought to be answerable for what’s required.”

Mrs. Reynolds further betrayed that the family had not been ignorant of Fanny’s career since she had run away from home, leaving her child on her grandmother’s hands. She had made her home in one of the yellow vans which circulate between fairs and races, driving an ostensible trade in cheap toys, but really existing by setting up games which were, in fact, forms of gambling, according to the taste of the people and the toleration of the police. From time to time, she had appeared at home, late in the evening, with small sums of money and presents for her boy; and Mrs. Dan believed that she thought herself as good as married to ‘that there Drake.’ She was reported to be asleep, and the place ‘all of a caddle,’ and Julius promised to call later in the day.

“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Reynolds; “it would be a right good thing, poor girl. She’ve a kind heart, they all do say; not as I know, not coming here till she was gone, nor wanting to know much on her, for ’twas a right bad way she was in, and ’twere well if them nasty races were put down by Act of Parliament, for they be the very ruin of the girls in these parts.”

“There’s a new suggestion, Raymond,” said Julius as he shut the garden gate.

Raymond was long in answering, and when he spoke, it was to say, “I shall withdraw from the subscription to the Wil’sbro’ Cup.”

“So much the better.”

Then Raymond began discussing the terms of the letter in which he would state his reasons, but with an amount of excitement that made Julius say, “I should think it better not to write in this first heat. It will take more effect if it is not so visibly done on the spur of the moment.”

But the usually deliberate Raymond exclaimed, “I cannot rest till it is done. I feel as if I must be like Lady Macbeth, continually washing my hands of all this wreck and ruin.”

“No wonder; but I should think there was great need of caution—to use your own words.”

“My seat must go, if this is to be the price,” said Raymond. “I felt through all the speeches at that gilt-gingerbread place, that it was a monument of my truckling to expediency. We began the whole thing at the wrong end, and I fear we are beginning to see the effects.”

“Do you mean that you are anxious about that fever in Water Lane?”

“There was an oppressive sickly air about everything, strongest at the ball. I can’t forget it,” said Raymond, taking off his hat, so that the morning air might play about his temples. “We talked about meddling women, but the truth was that they were shaming us by doing what they could.”

“I hope others will see it so. Is not Whitlock to be mayor next time?”

“Yes. He may do something. Well, they will hardly unseat me! I should not like to see Moy in my place, and it would be a sore thing for my mother; but,” he continued, in the same strange, dreamy manner, “everything has turned out so wretchedly that I hardly know or care how it goes.”

“My dear old fellow!”

Raymond had stopped to lean over a gate, where he could look up to the old red house in the green park, set in brightly-tinted trees, all aglow in the morning sunshine. Tears had sprung on his cheeks, and a suppressed sob heaved his chest. Julius ventured to say, “Perhaps there may yet be a change of mind.”

“No!” was the answer. “In the present situation there is nothing for it but to sacrifice my last shred of peace to the one who has the chief right—in a certain way.”

They walked on, and he hardly spoke again till, as they reached the Rectory, Julius persuaded him to come in and have a cup of tea; and though he said he must go back and see his friend off, he could not withstand the sight of Rosamond at the window, fresh and smiling, with her child in her arms.

“Not a bit the worse for her dissipation,” she merrily said. “Oh, the naughty little thing!—to have begun with the turf, and then the ‘Three Pigeons’! Aren’t you ashamed of her, papa? Sit down, Raymond; how horribly tired you do look.”

“Ha! What’s this?” exclaimed Julius, who had been opening the post-bag. “Here’s a note from the Bishop, desiring me to come to the palace to-day, if possible.”

“Oh!” cried Raymond. “Where is there vacant—isn’t there a canonry or a chaplaincy?”

“Or an archbishopric or two?” said Julius. “The pony can do it, I think, as there will be a long rest. If he seems fagged, I can put up at Backsworth and take a fly.”

“You’ll let James drive you,” said Rosamond.

“I had rather not,” said Julius. “It may be better to be alone.”

“He is afraid of betraying his elevation to James,” laughed Rosamond.

“Mrs. Daniel Reynolds to see you, sir.”

This was with the information that that there trapezing chap, Drake, had fetched off poor Fanny in his van. He had been in trouble himself, having been in custody for some misdemeanour when she was thrown down; but as soon as he was released, he had come in search of her, and though at first he seemed willing to leave her to be nursed at home, he had no sooner heard of the visitors of that morning than he had sworn he would have no parson meddling with his poor gal! she was good enough for him, and he would not have a pack of nonsense put in her head to set her against him.

“He’s good to her, sir,” said Mrs. Reynolds, “I think he be; but he is a very ignorant man. He tell’d us once as he was born in one of they vans, and hadn’t never been to school nor nothin’, nor heard tell of God, save in the way of bad words: he’ve done nothin’ but go from one races and fairs to another, just like the gipsies, though he bain’t a gipsy neither; but he’s right down attacted to poor Fanny, and good to her.”

“Another product of the system,” said Raymond.

“Like the gleeman, whom we see through a picturesque medium,” said Julius; “but who could not have been pleasant to the mediæval clergyman. I have hopes of poor Fanny yet. She will drift home one of these days, and we shall get hold of her.”

“What a fellow you are for hoping!” returned Raymond, a little impatiently.

“Why not?” said Julius.

“Why! I should say—” replied Raymond, setting out to walk home, where he presided over his friend’s breakfast and departure, and received a little banter over his solicitude for the precious infant. Cecil was still in bed, and Frank was looking ghastly, and moved and spoke like one in a dream, Raymond was relieved to hear him pleading with Susan for to his mother’s room much earlier than usual.

Susan took pity and let him in; when at once he flung himself into a chair, with his face hidden on the bed, and exclaimed, “Mother, it is all over with me!”

“My dear boy, what can have happened?”

“Mother, you remember those two red pebbles. Could you believe that she has sold hers?”

“Are you sure she has? I heard that they had a collection of such things from the lapidary at Rockpier.”

“No, mother, that is no explanation. When I found that I should be able to come down, I sent a card to Lady Tyrrell, saying I would meet them on the race-ground—a post-card, so that Lena might see it. When I came there was no Lena, only some excuse about resting for the ball—lying down with a bad headache, and so forth—making it plain that I need not go on to Sirenwood. By and by there was some mild betting with the ladies, and Lady Tyrrell said, ‘There’s a chance for you, Bee; don’t I see the very fellow to Conny’s charm?’ Whereupon that girl Conny pulled out the very stone I gave Lena three years ago at Rockpier. I asked; yes, I asked—Lena had sold it; Lena, at the bazaar; Lena, who—”

“Stay, Frank, is this trusting Lena as she bade you trust her? How do you know that there were no other such pebbles?”

“You have not seen her as I have done. There has been a gradual alienation—holding aloof from us, and throwing herself into the arms of those Strangeways. It is no fault of her sister’s. She has lamented it to me.”

“Or pointed it out. Did she know the history of these pebbles?”

“No one did. Lena was above all reserved with her.”

“Camilla Tyrrell knows a good deal more than she is told. Where’s your pebble? You did not stake that?”

“Those who had one were welcome to the other.”

“O, my poor foolish Frank! May it not be gone to tell the same tale of you that you think was told of her? Is this all?”

“Would that it were!”

“Well, go on, my dear. Was she at the ball?”

“Surrounded by all that set. I was long in getting near her, and then she said her card was full; and when I made some desperate entreaty, she said, in an undertone that stabbed me by its very calmness, ‘After what has passed to-day, the less we meet the better.’ And she moved away, so as to cut me off from another word.”

“After what had passed! Was it the parting with the stone?”

“Not only. I got a few words with Lady Tyrrell. She told me that early impressions had given Lena a kind of fanatical horror of betting, and that she had long ago made a sort of vow against a betting man. Lady Tyrrell said she had laughed at it, but had no notion it was seriously meant; and I—I never even heard of it!”

“Nor are you a betting man, my Frank.”

“Ay! mother, you have not heard all.”

“You are not in a scrape, my boy?”

“Yes, I am. You see I lost my head after the pebble transaction. I couldn’t stand small talk, or bear to go near Raymond, so I got among some other fellows with Sir Harry—”

“And excitement and distress led you on?”

“I don’t know what came over me. I could not stand still for fear I should feel. I must be mad on something. Then, that mare of Duncombe’s, poor fellow, seemed a personal affair to us all; and Sir Harry, and a few other knowing old hands, went working one up, till betting higher and higher seemed the only way of supporting Duncombe, besides relieving one’s feelings. I know it was being no end of a fool; but you haven’t felt it, mother!”

“And Sir Harry took your bets?”

“One must fare and fare alike,” said Frank.

“How much have you lost?”

“I’ve lost Lena, that’s all I know,” said the poor boy; but he produced his book, and the sum appalled him. “Mother,” he said in a broken voice, “there’s no fear of its happening again. I can never feel like this again. I know it is the first time one of your sons has served you so, and I can’t even talk of sorrow, it seems all swallowed up in the other matter. But if you will help me to meet it, I will pay you back ten or twenty pounds every quarter.”

“I think I can, Frankie. I had something in hand towards my own possible flitting. Here is the key of my desk. Bring me my banker’s book and my cheque book.”

“Mother! mother!” he cried, catching her hand and kissing it, “what a mother you are!”

“You understand,” she said, “that it is because I believe you were not master of yourself, and that this is the exception, not the habit, that I am willing to do all I can for you.”

“The habit! No, indeed! I never staked more than a box of gloves before; but what’s the good, if she has made a vow against me?”

Mrs. Poynsett was silent for a few moments, then she said, “My poor boy, I believe you are both victims of a plot. I suspect that Camilla Tyrrell purposely let you see that pebble-token and be goaded into gambling, that she might have a story to tell her sister, when she had failed to shake her constancy and principle in any other way.”

“Mother, that would make her out a fiend. She has been my good and candid friend all along. You don’t know her.”

“What would a friend have done by you yesterday?”

“She neither saw nor heard my madness. No, mother, Lenore’s heart has been going from me for months past, and she is glad of this plea for release, believing me unworthy. Oh! that stern face of hers! set like a head of Justice with not a shade of pity—so beautiful—so terrible! It will never cease to haunt me.”

He sat in deep despondency, while Mrs. Poynsett overlooked her resources; but presently he started up, saying, “There’s one shadow of a hope. I’ll go over to Sirenwood, insist on seeing one her and having an explanation. I have a right, whatever I did yesterday; and you have forgiven me for that, mother!”

“I think it is the most hopeful way. If you can see her without interposition, you will at least come to an understanding. Here, you had better take this cheque for Sir Harry.”

When he was gone, she wondered whether she had been justified in encouraging him in defending Eleonora. Was this not too like another form of the treatment Raymond had experienced? Her heart bled for her boy, and she was ready to cry aloud, “Must that woman always be the destroyer of my sons’ peace?”

When Frank returned, it was with a face that appalled her by its blank despair, as he again flung himself down beside her.

“She is gone,” he said.

“Gone!”

“Gone, and with the Strangeways. I saw her.”

“Spoke to her?”

“Oh no. The carriage turned the corner as I crossed the road. The two girls were there, and she—”

“Going with them to the station?”

“I thought so; I went to the house, meaning to leave my enclosure for Sir Harry and meet her on her way back; but I heard she was gone to stay with Lady Susan in Yorkshire. Sir Harry was not up, nor Lady Tyrrell.”

Mrs. Poynsett’s hope failed, though she was relieved that Camilla’s tongue had not been in action. She was dismayed at the prone exhausted manner in which Frank lay, partly on the floor, partly against her couch, with his face hidden.

“Do you know where she is gone?”

“Yes, Revelrig, Cleveland, Yorkshire.”

“I will write to her. Whatever may be her intentions, they shall not be carried out under any misrepresentation that I can contradict. You have been a foolish fellow, Frankie; but you shall not be painted worse than you are. She owes you an explanation, and I will do my best that you shall have it. My dear, what is the matter?”

She rang her bell hastily, and upheld the sinking head till help came. He had not lost consciousness, and called it giddiness, and he was convicted of having never gone to bed last night, and having eaten nothing that morning; but he turned against the wine and soup with which they tried to dose him, and, looking crushed and bewildered, said he would go and lie down in his own room.

Raymond went up with him, and returned, saying he only wanted to be alone, with his face from the light; and Mrs. Poynsett, gazing at her eldest son, thought he looked as ill and sunken as his younger brother.