“Not so nice as a library,” said Cecil, stabbing the fire with the poker as a sort of act of possession.  “We always sit in the library at Dunstone.  State rooms are horrid.”

“This only wants to be littered down,” said Rosamond.  “That’s my first task in fresh quarters, banishing some things and upsetting the rest, and strewing our own about judiciously.  There are the inevitable wax-flowers.  I have regular blarney about their being so lovely, that it would just go to my heart to expose them to the boys.”

“You have always been on the move,” said Cecil, who was standing by the table examining the ornaments.

“You may say so! there are not many of Her Majesty’s garrisons that I have not had experience of, except my native country that I wasn’t born in.  It was very mean of them never once to send us to Ireland.”

“Where were you born?” said Cecil, neither of the two catching at the bull which perhaps Rosamond had allowed to escape by way of trying them.

“At Plymouth.  Dick and I were both born at Plymouth, and Maurice at Scutari; then we were in the West Indies; the next two were born all up and down in Jamaica and all the rest of the Islands—Tom and Terry—dear boys, I’ve got the charge of them now they are left at school.  Three more are Canadians; and little Nora is the only Irish-born one amongst us.”

“I thought you said you had never been in Ireland.”

“Never quartered there, but on visits at Rathforlane,” said Rosamond.  “Our ten years at home we have been up and down the world, till at last you see I’ve ended where I began—at Plymouth.”

“Oh, what a lovely Florentine mosaic!” exclaimed Cecil, who had taken but slight interest in this itinerary.  “It is just like a weight at Dunstone.”  Then opening a miniature-case, “Who is this—Mrs. Poynsett when she was young?”

“Most likely,” said Rosamond.  “It is like her now, and very like Charlie.”

“Yes.  Charles is quite unlike the family.”

“What family?” said Rosamond.

“The Charnocks, of course.  Raymond is a perfect Charnock!”

“A vast advantage,” murmured Rosamond.

“Of course,” said Cecil, taking it quite seriously.  “No one else could be the same thing to us.  Papa said there was not a match in the whole world that could have gratified him so much.”

“How old are you, Cecil?” quoth Rosamond, with a ripple in her voice.

“Oh, his age was no matter.  I don’t like young men.  That’s not the drawback; no, it is that horrid Poynsett at the end of the name.”

“You see you had better have waived your objections to youth, and taken a younger son.”

“I couldn’t,” said this naive young person.  “Besides, there is much more of a field for me here than at Dunstone since papa’s marriage.”

Whatever Rosamond had on the tip of her tongue was averted by the entrance of the three younger brothers.  Julius seated himself beside her in the cushioned fireside corner; and Cecil asked where Raymond was.

“Just stepped in to see my mother,” said Frank.  “This room opens into hers.  Will you come to them?”

“Not yet,” said Cecil.  “I want you to tell me about the neighbourhood.”

“Just what I want,” said Rosamond.  “Whenever I ask, Julius always says there’s Dr. Easterby.”

Frank and Charlie burst out laughing.

“Dr. Easterby is one of the greatest men in the English Church,” said Julius.

“Precisely!  But what is the regiment at Backsworth?” and as Charlie named it, “Oh, what fun!  That’s where Laurie Cookson exchanged.  He will be sure to send us cards for everything.”

“At Dunstone we never used to go to garrison gaieties,” said Cecil, gravely.

“Oh!  I’m a military pariah,” said Rosamond, hastily.

“Who are the land-owners?” continued Cecil.  “There was a place I saw from the line, but Raymond didn’t hear when I asked whose it was.  Close to the station, I mean.”

“That is Sirenwood,” said Charles.  “Sir Harry Vivian’s.  He is just come back there with his two daughters.”

“I thought Emily Vivian was dead,” said Julius.  “You don’t mean that women!”

“That woman?” laughed his wife.  “What has she done to be a that woman?”

“Offended his Reverence,” said Frank, in that sort of jocose tone which betrays annoyance.

“A heartless mischievous woman!” said Julius.

Rosamond cocked up her left eyebrow with an ineffably droll look, which encouraged Charlie to say, “Such fierceness can only be prompted by personal experience.  Look out, Rosamond!”

“Come ’fess, Julius,” said she, merrily.  “’Fess and make it up.”

“I—I have nothing to confess,” said Julius, seriously.

“Hasn’t he indeed?” said she, looking at the brothers.

“Oh! don’t ask us,” said Charlie.  “His youthful indiscretions were over long before our eyes had risen above the horizon!”

“Do you mean that they have really come home to live here?” demanded Julius, with singular indifference to the personal insinuations.

“I am sorry it is so painful to you,” said I Frank, somewhat ironically; “but Sir Harry thinks it right to return and end his days among his own people.”

“Is he ill, then?”

“I can’t gratify you so far,” returned Frank; “he is a fine old fellow of sixty-five.  Just what humbugging papers call a regular specimen of an old English gentleman,” he added to Cecil.

“Humbugging indeed, I should hope,” muttered Julius.  “The old English gentleman has reason to complain!”

“There’s the charity of the clergy!” exclaimed Frank.  “No forgiveness for a man who has spent a little in his youth!”

“As an essential of the old English gentleman?” asked Julius.

“At any rate, the poor old fellow has been punished enough,” said Charlie.

“But what is it?  Tell me all about it,” said Cecil.  “I am sure my father would not wish me to associate with dissipated people.”

“Ah!  Cecil,” said Rosamond.  “You’ll have to take refuge with the military, after all!”

“It is just this,” said Charlie.  “Sir Harry and his only son were always extravagant, one as bad as the other—weren’t they, Julius?  Phil Bowater told me all about it, and how Tom Vivian lost fifteen thousand pounds one Derby Day, and was found dead in his chambers the next morning, they said from an over-dose of chloroform for neuralgia.  Then the estate was so dipped that Sir Harry had to give up the estate to his creditors, and live on an allowance abroad or at watering-places till now, when he has managed to come home.  That is to say, the house is really leased to Lady Tyrrell, and he is in a measure her guest—very queer it must be for him in his own house.”

“Is Lady Tyrrell that woman?” asked Rosamond.

“I conclude so,” said Charlie.  “She was the eldest daughter, and married Lord Tyrrell, who died about two years ago.  She has no children, so she has taken the family in charge, patches up Sir Harry’s affairs with her jointure, and chaperons her sister.”

“What is she like?”

“Ask Frank,” said Charlie, slyly.

“No!” said Frank, with dignity.  “I shall say no more, I only excite prejudice.”

“You are right, Frank,” said Julius, who had evidently recovered from the shock.  “It is not fair to judge people now from what they were eleven years ago.  They have had some terrible lessons, and may be much changed.”

“Ay,” said Frank; “and they have been living in an atmosphere congenial to you, at Rockpier, and are hand and glove with all the St. Chrysostom folk there.  What do you say to that, Julius?  I can tell you they are enchanted with your curate!”

“They are not in this parish.”

“No, but they turn up here—the ladies, at least—at all the services at odd times that Bindon has begun with.”

“Ah! by the bye, is Herbert Bowater come?”

“Yes, the whole family came over to his installation in Mrs. Hornblower’s lodgings.”

“I saw him this morning, poor old Herbs,” added Frank, “looking uncommonly as if he felt himself in a strait waistcoat.”

“What, are there two curates?” demanded Cecil, in a tone of reprobation.

Julius made a gesture of assent, with a certain humorous air of deprecation, which, however, was lost upon her.

“We never let Mr. Venn have one,” continued Cecil, “except one winter when he was ill, and then not a young one.  Papa says idle young clergymen are not to be encouraged.”

“I am entirely of Mr. Charnock’s opinion.  But if I have exceeded the Dunstone standard, it was not willingly.  Herbert Bowater is the son of some old friends of my mother’s, who wanted to keep their son near home, and made it their request that I would give him a title.”

“And the Bowaters are the great feature in the neighbourhood,” added Frank.  “Herbert tells me there are wonderful designs for entertaining the brides.”

“What do they consist of?” asked Rosamond.

“All the component parts of a family,” said Frank.  “The eldest daughter is a sort of sheet-anchor to my mother, as well as her own.  The eldest son is at home now.  He is in the army.”

“In the Light Dragoons?” asked Rosamond.  “Oh! then I knew him at Edinburgh!  A man with yellow whiskers, and the next thing to a stutter.”

“I declare, Julius, she is as good as any army list,” exclaimed Charlie.

“There’s praise!” cried Frank.  “The army list is his one book!  What a piece of luck to have you to coach him up in it!”

“I dare say Rosamond can tell me lots of wrinkles for my outfit,” said Charles.

“I should hope so, having rigged out Dick for the line, and Maurice for the artillery!”

Charlie came and leant on the mantel-shelf, and commenced a conversation sotto voce on the subject nearest his heart; while Cecil continued her catechism.

“Are the Bowaters intellectual?”

“Jenny is very well read,” said Julius, “a very sensible person.”

“Yes,” said Frank; “she was the only person here that so much as tried to read Browning.  But if Cecil wants intellect, she had better take to the Duncombes, the queerest firm I ever fell in with.  He makes the turf a regular profession, actually gets a livelihood out of his betting-book; and she is in the strong-minded line—woman’s rights, and all the rest of it.”

“We never had such people at Dunstone,” said Cecil.  “Papa always said that the evil of being in parliament was the having to be civil to everybody.”

Just then Raymond came back with intelligence that his mother was about to go to bed, and to call his wife to wish her good night.  All went in succession to do the same.

“My dear,” she said to Anne, “I hoped you were in bed.”

“I thought I would wait for family worship.”

“I am afraid we don’t have prayers at night, my dear.  We must resume them in the morning, now Raymond and Julius are come.”

Poor Anne looked all the whiter, and only mumbled out a few answers to the kind counsels lavished upon her.  Mrs. Poynsett was left to think over her daughters-in-law.

Lady Rosamond did not occupy her much.  There was evidently plenty of good strong love between her and her husband; and though her training might not have been the best for a clergyman’s wife, there was substance enough in both to shake down together in time.

But it was Raymond who made her uneasy—Raymond, who ever since his father’s death had been more than all her other sons to her.  She had armed herself against the pang of not being first with him, and now she was full of vague anxiety at the sense that she still held her old position.  Had he not sat all the evening in his own place by her sofa, as if it were the very kernel of home and of repose?  And whenever a sense of duty prompted her to suggest fetching his wife, had he not lingered, and gone on talking?  It was indeed of Cecil; but how would she have liked his father, at the honeymoon’s end, to prefer talking of her to talking with her?  “She has been most carefully brought up, and is very intelligent and industrious,” said Raymond.  His mother could not help wondering whether a Roman son might not thus have described a highly accomplished Greek slave, just brought home for his mother’s use.