But his courtesy and sense of protection, trained by a woman of the old school, would not suffer him to relax his attention to his wife. Though he was very anxious to get back to the house, he would not quit her neighbourhood till he had found Frank and intrusted her to him.
He was not happy about Frank. The youth was naturally of an intellectual and poetical temperament, and had only cared for horses and field-sports as any healthy lad growing up in a country house must enjoy them; and Raymond had seen him introduced to the style of men whom he thought would be thoroughly congenial to him, and not unlikely to lead him on to make a mark in the world.
But that unfortunate Vivian attachment stood in the way; Sir Harry and his elder daughter ignored it entirely, but did not forbid Frank the house; though Lady Tyrrell took care, as only she could do, that Eleonora should never have ten minutes private conversation with him, either at home or abroad. Even in a crowd, a ball, or garden- party, the vigilant sister had her means of breaking into any kind of confidence; and Frank was continually tantalized by the pursuit. It could not but unsettle him, and draw him into much more gaiety than was compatible with the higher pursuits his mother had expected of him; and what was worse, it threw him into Sir Harry Vivian's set, veteran roues, and younger men who looked up to their knowingness and listened to their good stories.
What amount of harm it was doing Raymond could not guess. He had known it all himself, and had escaped unscathed, but he did not fear the less for his younger brother, and he only hoped that the inducement to mingle with such society would be at an end before Frank had formed a taste for the habits that there prevailed.
Eleonora Vivian had been much admired at first, but her cold manner kept every one at a distance, and her reserve was hardly ever seen to relax. However, her one friendship with the Strangeways family gave Raymond hopes that her constancy was not proof against the flattering affection, backed by wealth, that seemed to await her there. The best he could wish for Frank was that the infatuation might be over as soon as possible, though he pitied the poor fellow sincerely when he saw him, as he did to-night, waiting with scarcely concealed anxiety while Miss Vivian stood listening to a long discourse about yachting from an eager pair of chattering girls.
Then some break occurred, and Frank moved up to her. "Your last evening! How little I have seen of you!"
"Little indeed!"
"I called, but you were at the Strangeways'."
"They are very kind to me. When is your holiday?"
"Not till spring, but I may get a few days in the autumn: you will be at home?"
"As far as I know."
"If I thought for a moment you cared to see me; but you have shown few signs of wishing it of late."
"Frank-if I could make you understand-"
They were walking towards a recess, when Lady Tyrrell fastened upon Raymond. "Pray find my sister; she forgets that we have to be at Lady Granby's-Oh! are you there, Lenore! Will you see her down, Mr. Poynsett? Well, Frank, did you get as far as you intended?"
And she went down on his arm, her last words being, "Take care of yourself till we meet at home. For this one year I call Sirenwood home-then!"
Raymond and Lenore said no more to one another. The ladies were put into the carriage. The elder brother bade Frank take care of Cecil, and started for Westminster with the poor lad's blank and disappointed face still before his eyes, hoping at least it was well for him, but little in love with life, or what it had to offer.
CHAPTER XXI. Awfully Jolly
When life becomes a spasm,
And history a whiz, If that is not sensation,
I don't know what it is.-LEWIS CARROLL
"Is Lady Rosamond at home?"
"No, ma'am."
"Nor Mrs. Charnock?"
"No, ma'am; they are both gone down to the Rectory."
"Would you ask whether Mrs. Poynsett would like to see me?"
"I'll inquire, ma'am, if you will walk in," said Mr. Jenkins moved by the wearied and heated looks of Miss Vivian, who had evidently come on foot at the unseasonable visiting hour of 11.15 a.m.
The drawing-room was empty, but, with windows open on the shady side, was most inviting to one who had just become unpleasantly aware that her walking capacity had diminished under the stress of a London season, and that a very hampering one. She was glad of the rest, but it lasted long enough to be lost in the uncomfortable consciousness that hers was too truly a morning call, and she would have risen and escaped had not that been worse.
At last the door of communication opened, and to her amazement Mrs. Poynsett was pushed into the room by her maid in a wheeled chair. "Yes, my dear," she said, in reply to Eleonora's exclamation of surprise and congratulation, "this is my dear daughters' achievement; Rosamond planned and Anne contrived, and they both coaxed my lazy bones."
"I am so very glad! I had no notion I should see you out of your room."
"Such is one's self-importance! I thought the fame would have reached you at least."
"Ah, you don't know how little I see of any one I can hear from! And now I am afraid I have disturbed you too early."
"Oh no, my dear; it was very good and kind, and I am only grieved that you had so long to wait; but we will make the most of each other now. You will stay to luncheon?"
"Thank you, indeed I am afraid I must not: papa would not like it, for no one knows where I am."
"You have taken this long walk in the heat, and are going back! I don't like it, my dear; you look fagged. London has not agreed with you."
Mrs. Poynsett rang her little hand-bell, and ordered in biscuits and wine, and would have ordered the carriage but for Lenore's urgent entreaties to the contrary, amounting to an admission that she wished her visit to be unnoticed at home. This was hardly settled before there was a knock at the door, announcing baby's daily visit; and Miss Julia was exhibited by her grandmamma with great satisfaction until another interruption came, in a call from the doctor, who only looked in occasionally, and had fallen on this unfortunate morning.
"Most unlucky," said Mrs. Poynsett. "I am afraid you will doubt about coming again, and I have not had one word about our Frankie."
"He is very well. I saw him at a party the night before we left town. Good-bye, dear Mrs. Poynsett."
"You will come again?"
"If I can; but the house is to be full of visitors. If I don't, you will know it is because I can't."
"I shall be thankful for whatever you can give me. I wish I could save you that hot walk in the sun."
But as Mrs. Poynsett was wheeled into her own room some compensation befell Eleonora, for she met Julius in the hall, and he offered to drive her to the gates of Sirenwood in what he called 'our new plaything, the pony carriage,' on his way to a clerical meeting.
"You are still here?" she said.
"Till Tuesday, when we go to the Rectory to receive the two De Lancey boys for the holidays."
"How Mrs. Poynsett will miss you."
"Anne is a very efficient companion," said Julius, speaking to her like one of the family; "the pity is that she will be so entirely lost to us when Miles claims her."
"Then they still mean to settle in Africa?"
"Her heart has always been there, and her father is in treaty for a farm for him, so I fear there is little hope of keeping them. I can't think what the parish will do without her. By the bye, how does Joe Reynolds get on with his drawings?"
"I must show them to you. He is really very clever. We sent him to the School of Art twice a week, and he has got on wonderfully. I begin to believe in my academician."
"So you don't repent?"
"I think not. As far as I can judge he is a good boy still. I make him my escort to church, so that I am sure of him there. Renville would have taken him for a boy about his studio, and I think he will go there eventually; but Camilla thinks he may be an attraction at the bazaar, and is making him draw for it."