Kitabı oku: «The Three Brides», sayfa 3
“Miss Vivian! you have the advantage of me,” said Julius, a little stiffly. “Let me introduce my wife.”
The hands met, and Rosamond perceived in the failing light a very fine-looking maiden, with a superbly carried head and neck, simply dressed in gray cloth. “Are you sheltering here, or are you sketching?” she asked, seeing some paper and drawing materials.
“I was giving a lesson. See,” exhibiting some bold outlines on large paper. “Does not my pupil do me credit?”
“Very spirited,” said Rosamond. “Where is she?”
“He is gone to fetch me his grandmother’s umbrella. He is the little Gurth of these parts.”
“Of whom you are making a Giotto?” asked Julius, thawing a little.
“Exactly; I found him drawing on a barn-door with such zeal and spirit, that I could not help offering him some lessons. Only see, does he not get on? I wish I could get him to the school of design.”
“May I ask what becomes of his pigs?” demanded Julius.
“Don’t you hear?” as sundry grunts and squeals of those eminently conversational animals were audible through the walls. “They are driven home to this rick-yard, so here I meet the boy.”
“Who is he?” asked the Rector.
“I only know that he answers to the name of Joe. And here he comes,” as a boy about ten years old came lumbering up in big boots, with a heavy plaid shawl on one arm, and an immense green umbrella in the other.
“Thank you, Joe. Make your bow to the lady and gentleman.”
This was a pull of the flaxen forelock; for Joe was a slender, pretty, fair boy, of that delicately-complexioned English type which is not roughened till after many years of exposure.
“That’s right, my man,” said Julius, kindly. “What is your name?”
“Please, sir, Joshua Reynolds.”
“Instinct,” whispered Rosamond.
“Or influence of a name,” returned Miss Vivian.
“Are you one of Dan Reynolds’s boys, or Tim’s?” proceeded “No, I bides with granny.”
Julius made no further attempt at disentangling the pedigree but inquired about his employments. Did he go to school?
“When there ain’t nothing to be done.”
“And what can be done by such a mite?” asked Rosamond.
“Tell the lady,” said the Rector; “what work can you do?”
“Bird-starving.”
“Well!”
“And stoon-picking, and cow-herding, and odd jobs up at Farmer Light’s; but they won’t take I on for a carter-boy not yet ’cause I bean’t not so lusty as some on ’em.”
“Have you learnt to read?”
“Oh yes, very nicely,” interposed Miss Vivian.
“Did you teach him?” said Rosamond.
“No! He could read well before I came to the place. I have only been at home six weeks, you know, and I did not know I was poaching on your manor,” she added sotto voce to Julius, who could not but answer with warm thanks.
It was discovered that the rain had set in for the night, and an amicable contest ensued between the ladies as to shawl and umbrella, each declaring her dress unspoilable, till it ended in Eleonora having the shawl, and both agreeing to share the umbrella as far as the Sirenwood lodge.
However, the umbrella refused to open, and had to be given to the boy, who set his teeth into an extraordinary grin, and so dealt with the brazen gear as to expand a magnificent green vault, with a lesser leathern arctic zone round the pole; but when he had handed it to Miss Vivian, and she had linked her arm in Lady Rosamond’s, it proved too mighty for her, tugged like a restive horse, and would fairly have run away with her, but for Rosamond’s holding her fast.
“Lost!” they cried. “Two ladies carried away by an umbrella!”
“Here, Julius, no one can grapple with it but you,” called Rosamond.
“I really think it’s alive!” panted Eleonora, drawn up to her tip-toes before she could hand it to Julius, who, with both clinging to his arm, conducted them at last to the lodge, where Julius could only come in as far as it would let him, since it could neither be let down nor left to itself to fly to unknown regions.
A keeper with a more manageable article undertook to convey Miss Vivian home across the park; and with a pleasant farewell, husband and wife plodded their way home, along paths the mud of which could not be seen, only heard and felt; and when Rosamond, in the light of the hall, discovered the extent of the splashes, she had to leave Julius still contending with the umbrella; and when, in spite of the united efforts of the butler and footman, it still refused to come down, it was consigned to an empty coach-house, with orders that little Joe should have a shilling to bring it down and fetch it home in the morning!
CHAPTER IV
Shades In Sunshine
My friends would be angered,
My minnie be mad.
—Scots Song
“Whom do you think we met, mother?” said Julius, coming into her room, so soon as he had made his evening toilette, and finding there only his two younger brothers. “No other than Miss Vivian.”
“Ah! then,” broke in Charlie, “you saw what Jenkins calls the perfect picture of a woman.”
“She is very handsome,” soberly returned Julius. “Rose is quite delighted with her. Do you know anything of her?”
“Jenny Bowater was very fond of poor Emily,” rejoined the mother. “I believe that she had a very good governess, but I wish she were in better hands now.”
“I cannot think why there should be a universal prejudice for the sake of one early offence!” exclaimed Frank.
“Oh, indeed!” said Julius, amazed at such a tone to his mother.
“I only meant—mother, I beg your pardon—but you are only going by hearsay,” answered Frank, in some confusion.
“Then you have not seen her?” said Julius.
“I! I’m the last person she is likely to seek, if you mean Camilla.”
“She inquired a great deal after you, mother,” interposed Frank, “and said she longed to call, only she did not know if you could see her. I do hope you will, when she calls on Cecil. I am sure you would think differently. Promise me, mother!”
“If she asks for me, I will, my boy,” said Mrs. Poynsett, “but let me look! You aren’t dressed for dinner! What will Mistress Cecil say to you! Ah! it is time you had ladies about the house again.”
The two youths retreated; and Julius remained, looking anxiously and expressively at his mother.
“I am afraid so,” she said; “but I had almost rather he were honestly smitten with the young one than that he believed in Camilla.”
“I should think no one could long do that,” said Julius.
“I don’t know. He met them when he was nursing that poor young Scotsman at Rockpier, and got fascinated. He has never been quite the same since that time!” said the mother anxiously. “I don’t blame him, poor fellow!” she added eagerly, “or mean that he has been a bit less satisfactory—oh no! Indeed, it may be my fault for expressing my objection too’ plainly; he has always been reserved with me since, and I never lost the confidence of one of my boys before!”
That Julius knew full well, for he—as the next eldest at home—had been the recipient of all his mother’s perplexities at the time of Raymond’s courtship. Mrs. Poynsett had not been a woman of intimate female friends. Her sons had served the purpose, and this was perhaps one great element in her almost unbounded influence with them. Julius was deeply concerned to see her eyes glistening with tears as she spoke of the cloud that had risen between her and Frank.
“There is great hope that this younger one may be worthy,” he said. “She has had a very different bringing up from her sister, and I did not tell you what I found her doing. She was teaching a little pig-herd boy to draw.”
“Ah! I heard Lady Tyrrell was taking to the education of the people line.”
“I want to know who the boy is,” said Julius. “He called himself Reynolds, and said he lived with granny, but was not a son of Daniel’s or Timothy’s. He seemed about ten years old.”
“Reynolds? Then I know who he must be. Don’t you remember a pretty-looking girl we had in the nursery in Charlie’s time? His ‘Fan-fan’ he used to call her.”
“Ah, yes, I remember; she was a Reynolds, for both the little boys could be excited to fury if we assumed that she was a fox. You don’t mean that she went wrong?”
“Not till after she had left us, and seemed to be doing well in another place; but unfortunately she was allowed to have a holiday in the race week, and a day at the course seems to have done the mischief. Susan can tell you all about it, if you want to know. She was as broken-hearted as if Fanny had been her own child—much more than the old mother herself, I fear.”
“What has become of the girl?”
“Gone from bad to worse. Alas! I heard a report that she had been seen with some of the people who appear on the race-course with those gambling shooting-galleries, or something of that sort.”
“Ah! those miserable races! They are the bane of the country. I wish no one would go near them.”
“They are a very pleasant county gathering.”
“To you, mother, and such as you; but you could have your county meeting without doing quite so much harm. If Raymond would only withdraw his subscription.”
“It would be as much as his seat is worth! Those races are the one great event of Wil’sbro’ and Backsworth, the harvest of all the tradespeople. Besides, you know what is said of their expedience as far as horses are concerned.”
“I would sacrifice the breed of horses to prevent the evils,” said Julius.
“You would, but—My boy, I suppose this is the right view for a clergyman, but it will never do to force it here. You will lose all influence if you are over-strained.”
“Was St. Chrysostom over-strained about the hippodrome?” said Julius, thoughtfully.
Mrs. Poynsett looked at him as he leant upon the chimney-piece. Here was another son gone, in a different way, beyond her reach. She had seen comparatively little of him since his University days; and though always a good and conscientious person, there had been nothing to draw her out of secular modes of thought; nor had she any connection with the clerical world, so that she had not, as it were, gone along with the tone of mind that she had perceived in him.
He did not return to the subject, and they were soon joined by his elder brother. At the first opportunity after dinner, Frank got Rosamond up into a corner with a would-be indifferent “So you met Miss Vivian. What did you think of her?”
Rosamond’s intuition saw what she was required to think, and being experienced in raving brothers, she praised the fine face and figure so as to find the way to his heart.
“I am so glad you met her in that way. Even Julius must be convinced. Was not he delighted?”
“I think she grew upon him.”
“And now neither of you will be warped. It is so very strange in my mother, generally the kindest, most open-hearted woman in the world, to distrust and bear a grudge against them all for the son’s dissipation—just as if that affected the ladies of a family!”
“I did not think it was entirely on his account,” said Rosamond.
“Old stories of flirtation!” said Frank, scornfully; “but what are they to be cast up against a woman in her widowhood? It is so utterly unlike mother, I can’t understand it.”
“Would not the natural conclusion be that she knew more, and had her reasons?”
“I tell you, Rosamond, I know them infinitely better than she does. She never saw them since Lady Tyrrell’s marriage, when Eleonora was a mere child; now I saw a great deal of them at Rockpier last year. There was poor Jamie Armstrong sent down to spend the winter on the south coast; and as none of his own people could be with him, we—his Oxford friends, I mean—took turns to come to him; and as I had just gone up for my degree, I had the most time. The Vivians had been living there ever since they went on poor Emily’s account. They did not like to leave the place where she died you see; and Lady Tyrrell had joined them after her husband’s death. Such a pleasant house! no regular gaieties, of course, but a few friends in a quiet way—music and charades, and so forth. Every one knew everybody there; not a bit of our stiff county ways, but meeting all day long in the most sociable manner.”
“Oh yes, I know the style of place.”
“One gets better acquainted in a week than one does in seven years in a place like this,” proceeded Frank. “And you may tell Julius to ask any of the clerics if Lenore was not a perfect darling with the Vicar and his wife, and her sister too; and Rockpier is a regular tip-top place for Church, you know. I’m sure it was enough to make a fellow good for life, just to see Eleonora walking up the aisle with that sweet face of hers, looking more like heaven than earth.”
Rosamond made reply enough to set him off again. “Lady Tyrrell would have been content to stay there for ever, she told me, but she thought it too confined a range for Eleonora; there was no formation of character, though I don’t see how it could have formed better; but Lady Tyrrell is a thoroughly careful motherly sister, and thought it right she should see a little of the world. So they broke up from Rockpier, and spent a year abroad; and now Lady Tyrrell is making great sacrifices to enable her father to come and live at home again. I must say it would be more neighbourly to welcome them a little more kindly!”
“I should think such agreeable people were sure to win their way.”
“Ah! you don’t know how impervious our style of old squire and squiress can be! If even mother is not superior to the old prejudice, who will be? And it is very hard on a fellow; for three parts of my time is taken up by this eternal cramming—I should have no heart for it but for her—and I can’t be going over to Sirenwood as I used to go to Rockpier, while my mother vexes herself about it, in her state. If she were up and about I should not mind, or she would know better; but what can they—Lenore, I mean—think of me, but that I am as bad as the rest?”
“Do you mean that anything has passed between you?”
“No, not with Lenore. Her sister spoke to me, and said it was not right when she had seen nothing but Rockpier; but she as good as promised to stand my friend. And when I get to the office, in two years, I shall have quite enough to begin upon, with what my mother allows us.”
“Then you hope she will wait for that?”
“I feel sure of it—that is, if she is not annoyed by this abominable usage from my family. Oh! Rosamond, you will help us when you get into your own house, and you will get Julius to see it in a proper light. Mother trusts to him almost as much as to Raymond; but it is our misfortune to be so much younger that she can’t believe us grown up.”
“O, Frank,” said Charlie, coming in, “here’s Price come up about the puppies.—What, Rosamond, has he got hold of you? What a blessing for me! but I pity you.”
Frank and Charlie went off together; and Julius was in the act of begging Cecil to illuminate a notice of the services, to be framed and put into the church porch, when Raymond came in from the other room to make up a whist-table for his mother. Rosamond gladly responded; but there was a slight accent of contempt in Cecil’s voice, as she replied, “I never played a game at cards in my life.”
“They are a great resource to my mother,” said Raymond. “Anne, you are too tired to play?—No, Julius, the pack is not there; look in the drawer of the chiffonier.”
Julius handed the list he had been jotting down to Cecil, and followed his brother, with his hands full of cards, unconscious of the expression of dismay, almost horror, with which Anne was gazing after him.
“Oh! let us be resolute!” she cried, as soon as the door was shut. “Do not let us touch the evil thing!”
“Cards?” said Cecil. “If Mrs. Poynsett cannot be amused without them, I suppose we shall have to learn. I always heard she was such an intellectual woman.”
“But we ought to resist sin, however painful it may be,” said Anne, gathering strength; “nay, even if a minister sets the example of defection.”
“You think it wicked,” said Cecil. “Oh no, it is stupid and silly, and an absurd waste of time, but no more.”
“Yes, it is,” said Anne. “Cards are the bane of thousands.”
“Oh yes, gambling and all that; but to play in the evening to amuse an invalid can have no harm in it.”
“An invalid and aged woman ought to have her mind set upon better things,” said Anne. “I shall not withdraw my testimony, and I hope you will not.”
“I don’t know,” said Cecil. “You see I am expected to attend to Mrs. Poynsett; and I have seen whist at Dunstone when any dull old person came there. What a troublesome crooked hand Julius writes—just like Greek! What’s all this? So many services—four on Sunday, two every day, three on Wednesdays and Fridays! We never had anything like this at Dunstone.”
“It is very superstitious,” said Anne.
“Very superfluous, I should say,” amended Cecil. “I am sure my father would consent to nothing of the kind. I shall speak to Raymond about it.”
“Yes,” said Anne; “it does seem terrible that a minister should try to make up for worldly amusements by a quantity of vain ceremonies.”
“I wish you would not call him a minister, it sounds like a dissenter.”
“I think ministers their best name, except pastors.”
“Both are horrid alike,” said Cecil. “I shall teach all the people to call Julius the Rector. That’s better than Mr. Charnock—what Raymond ought to be.”
Anne was struck dumb at this fearful display of worldliness; and Cecil betook herself to the piano, but the moment her husband appeared she showed him the list.
“He has cut out plenty of work,” said Raymond, “but three of them must want a field for their energies.”
“It is preposterous. I want you to speak to him about it.”
“You are not expected to go to them all,” Raymond made answer.
“Then there’s no sense in having them,” responded Cecil. “Evening services are very bad for the people, bringing them out late. You ought to tell him so.”
“He is Rector, and I am not,” said Raymond.
“Mr. Venn did nothing without papa’s consent,” exclaimed
“My dear Cecil, don’t let your loyalty make a Harry the Eighth of your father,” said Raymond; “the clergyman ought to be a free agent.”
“You don’t approve?”
“I don’t approve or disapprove. It is not a matter I know anything about.”
“But I assure you it has been all thought over at Dunstone.”
“Come, my mother wants to go to bed, and you are keeping her waiting.”
Cecil was silenced for the moment, but not daunted; for was it not the foremost duty of the lady of the manor to keep the clergyman in order, more especially when he was her own husband’s younger brother? so she met her brother-in-law with “Julius, when I undertook that notice, I had no notion you were going to have so many services.”
“Is there more than you have time to paint? Then Bindon can do it, or Jenny Bowater.”
“No! it is not time or trouble; but I do not think such a number of services desirable.”
“Indeed!” said he, looking amused.
“Yes. An over number of services frequented by no one only brings the Church into contempt. I heard papa say so. We only had regular Sunday and Saint’s Day services, and I am sure Dunstone was quite as religious a place as there is any need to be.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Julius, an odd look flickering about his face; “but as I am afraid Compton is not as religious a place as there is need to be, I must try, by your leave, all means of making it so. Good night.”
He was gone, and Cecil was not sure that he had not presumed to laugh at her.
CHAPTER V
A Sunday of Excitement
Strangers in court do take her for the queen.
—Shakespeare
The first Sunday of Julius Charnock’s ministry was spent in an unexpected manner. In the darkness of the autumn morning there was a knock at the door, and a low hurried call in Anne’s voice at the bedroom door: “Rosamond! Julius, pray look out! Isn’t there a great fire somewhere?”
“Fire! Here?” cried Rosamond, springing up.
“No, not here. A great way off. You could beat it back.”
Rosamond had by this time rushed to the window which looked out the wrong way, found her dressing-gown, and scrambled into it in the dark ere joining Anne in the gallery, from the end window of which the lurid light in the sky, with an occasional flame leaping up, was plainly visible. When Julius joined them he declared it to be at Willansborough, and set off to call up the coachman and despatch the fire-engine, his wife calling after him to send for the soldiers at Backsworth.
Frank and Charlie came rushing down in gratified excitement, declaring that it was tremendous—the church at least—and exulting in the attainment of their life-long ambition, the riding out on the fire-engine. Servants bustled about, exclaiming, tramping, or whisking on the stairs; and Raymond presently appeared to ask whether his mother were ill, and, when reassured on that score, hurrying to ascertain whether she were alarmed, before he started for the scene of action.
“Let me come and stay with her,” said Rosamond, a striking figure, in a scarlet dressing-gown, with a thick plait of black hair hanging down to her waist on either side.
“Thank you, it will be very kind,” said Raymond, running down before her, and meeting Susan waddling out in a fringe of curl-papers, for some mysterious instinct or echo had conveyed to her and her mistress that there was fire somewhere—perhaps at home. Mrs. Poynsett was not a nervous woman, and from the time she saw her eldest son come in, all fright was over, and she could have borne to hear that the house over her head was burning, in the perfect trust that he would save her from all peril; nor had he any difficulty in committing her to Rosamond, when he hurried away to finish dressing and repair to the spot.
Nothing could be seen from her room, but the little ante-room between it and the drawing-room had an excellent view, as the ground fell away from it, and there was an opening among the trees.
“We must get you there!” exclaimed Rosamond, in her excitement, helping her into some garments, and then running out as she heard a step—“Here, Julius, help me;” and without more ado, the mother was transported between them to the broad low couch under the window, and there bestowed in a nest of pillows, shawls, and rugs, that seemed to grow up under Rosamond’s touch.
Then following Julius out into the hall as he met his brother, Rosamond clung to him, entreating, “Please, please don’t run into any dangerous places.”
“Never fear, dearest; I am not likely.”
“Don’t let him, pray!” she said, turning to Raymond. “Make him remember how blind he is.”
“I’ll take good care of him, Rosamond,” said the elder brother kindly; “I’m used to it.”
“And send for the –th,” she added. “There is nothing like soldiers at a fire.”
“The glare must have given notice,” said Julius, “but we’ll send if needful. Let go, you foolish girl; I’m not leading a forlorn hope.”
Did Raymond, as he mounted his horse, turning from the contact of the white and black heads, admire the reasonableness of the Cecil who had never shown any fears for his safety, nor any tendency to run about the passages in her robe de chambre, though she was now dressing with all speed?
The women-folk had to depend on their own eyes for intelligence, for every male, not only of the household but of the village, between the ages of five and seventy, started for Wil’sbro’, and a good many females followed their example, including the cook and her suite.
However, Susan remained, to find her mistress flown, and in her fright, give Lady Rosamond as round a scolding as if she had been Charlie, for her rashness in attempting a transit, which Dr. Hayter had pronounced to be as much as her mistress’s life was worth. Having thus relieved her mind, and finding that Mrs. Poynsett was really very comfortable, or else too eager and anxious to find out if she was not, the good woman applied herself to the making of coffee.
Anne and Cecil had found their way to the leads, and were thence summoned to partake of this hasty meal, after which they proposed going to look from the brow of the hill; and Mrs. Poynsett insisted that Rosamond should not stay behind on her account; and, glad to appease the restlessness of anxiety, out went the ladies, to find the best view of the town,—usually a white object in the distance, but now blurred by smoke thick and black in the daylight, and now and then reddened by bursts of flame.
Anne had been reassured as to the need of beating out the fire and trampling down a place to isolate it, as in the bush-fires of her experience; and Rosamond related the achievements of the regiment in quenching many a conflagration in inflammable colonial cities.
It occurred to her that the best place whence to see it was the tower of the church, which, placed upon a little knoll, was standing out in full relief against the lurid light. She found the key at the sexton’s, and led the way up the broken stone stair to the trap-door, where they emerged on the leads, and, in spite of the cold wind and furious flapping of the flag above their heads, stood absorbed in the interest of the sight.
There was a black mass in the open space, whence rose fitful clouds of smoke, the remnants of the fire, which had there done its worst; and beyond was a smoky undefined outline, with tongues of flame darting up, then volumes of dense white smoke, denoting a rush of water from the engines. Black beings flitted about like ants round a disturbed nest; Rosamond hoped she detected some scarlet among them, and Cecil lamented over not having brought her opera-glass. Even without this, it was possible to make out two long lines of men between the fire and the river, and at times they fancied they heard the shouting, but the wind generally carried it away. The cold was bitter, and they had to hold together and keep a tight grip upon their garments against the gusts that seemed to rock the tower; but they could not bear to turn away, though the clock beneath pealed out hour after hour; for still, as the flames were subdued in one place they broke out in another; but gradually smoke became predominant, and then grew thinner, and as some of the black specks began to straggle into the road as if returning to Compton, the desire to hear became more pressing than that to see, and the three ladies began to descend—a slow and weary process, cutting them off from the view, and lasting so long, that the road was no longer deserted when they finally emerged into the churchyard.
Young Mr. Bowater, grimed, dusty, hatless, and his hair on end, and Rollo following with his feathery tail singed, hurried up at once. “I’m not fit to touch, Lady Rosamond,” as he showed a black hand, and bowed to the others.
“Where’s Ju—where’s my husband?” exclaimed Rosamond.
“Just behind, riding home with Raymond and the rest of them. Wasn’t it a magnificent flare-up? But there was no loss of life; and this dog was of as much use as two men—carried whatever I told him.”
“Good old man! You’ve suffered too!” said Rosamond. “Pah! you’re like a singed horse; but never mind, you’re a hero.”
“And where is Mr. Charnock Poynsett?” said Cecil, retreating from the dog, which her sisters-in-law were vehemently patting.
“He was arranging with the mayor. Church, paper-mills, and town-hall got the worst of it. It was well he came down; old Briggs, the mayor, lost his head, and Fuller never had one. Every one gave contrary orders till he came down, and then, didn’t we work!”
The curate stretched his stalwart limbs, as if they were becoming sensible of the strain they had undergone.
“Did you say the church was burnt?” asked Cecil.
“Yes; and a very good thing too! Hideous place, where you couldn’t do right if you died for it! The fire began there—stoves no doubt—and there it would have stopped if any one had had any sense; but there they would run and gape, and the more I tried to get them to form a chain and drench the warehouses, the more they wouldn’t do it. And when the flame once got hold of the paper—did you see it?—it was not a thing to forget. I verily believe the whole town would have gone if the Charnocks hadn’t come and got a little discipline into the asses. It was just life and death work, fighting the fire to hinder it from getting across Water Lane, and then it would have been all up with High Street. The tongues broke out like live things ready to lick up everything; and it was like killing dragons to go at them with the hose and buckets. I declare my arms are fit to drop out of their sockets. And the Rector devoted himself to carrying out bed-ridden old women. I forgot to tell you, Lady Rosamond, he has broken his—There now, I never meant to frighten you—broken his spectacles.”
“You did it on purpose,” she said, laughing at her own start.
“No, indeed, I did not.”
“And is it quite out now?”
“Yes; when the Backsworth engines and the soldiers came up, it was like the Prussians at Waterloo.”
“Oh, then it was done,” said Rosamond. “Take care! my grandfather was in the Light Division.”
“And my uncle in the Guards,” said the curate. But before the Waterloo controversy could be pursued, four or five figures on horseback came round the knoll, and Raymond and Julius sprang off their horses, introducing the three officers who followed their example.
One was Rosamond’s old acquaintance, the Colonel, a friend of her father; but she had little attention to spare for them till she had surveyed her husband, who looked nothing worse than exceedingly dusty, and at fault without his spectacles.
Inquiries were made for Frank and Charlie. They were walking home. They had worked gallantly. The flames were extinguished, but the engines must go on playing on them for some time longer. No lives lost, and very few casualties, but the paper-mills were entirely destroyed, and about twenty tenements, so that great distress was to be apprehended.
Such intelligence was being communicated as the party stood together in a group, when there was a light tinkling of bells, and two ladies in a light open carriage, drawn by two spirited ponies, dashed round the knoll; and at the moment something must have gone wrong with them, for there was a start, a pull, a call of “Raymond! Raymond!”
