"She is always a pretty girl; and, what is far better, she is a good and kind-hearted girl; but I don't like your French fashions."
"Pray, Bell, let your hair be attended to in future," said Lady Wetheral, still holding her glass to her eye. "I approve of your present appearance. I cannot endure your thick, short hair hanging over your eyes."
"By far the most natural, at her age," observed Mrs. Pynsent; "a young girl dressed up that figure, is very unnatural and ridiculous."
Lady Wetheral did not reply. Tom Pynsent was much amused at the transformation, when he entered the room. He bantered Christobelle, with great good-humour, upon the havoc she would cause among the hearts of the schoolboys, the very next vacation, if she persisted in twisting her hair into sausages; and he pitied poor Frank Kerrison, who would certainly renounce murdering cockchafers, to write verses upon her beauty. Sir John smiled, and stroked his daughter's cheek, but he offered no comment upon her person. The circumstance was almost too trifling to amuse even the dull half hour before dinner. A whim of Mrs. Tom Pynsent had led her to dress her sister's hair; and its end was answered, by causing a few smiles and a jest. The incident passed away, and was forgotten in the summons to dinner; but that very trifling occurrence laid the foundation of much future misery:—it woke up Lady Wetheral's slumbering energies, and led her to speculate upon the establishment of a creature whom she had, till that moment, renounced as awkward and vulgar—a girl belonging exclusively to her father—whose futurity was indifferent to herself. Causes, however trifling in their origin, swell into fearful effects, under the agency of the weak or wicked.
When the ladies returned into the drawing-room, Anna Maria and Christobelle enjoyed a short tête-à-tête during their mother's siesta. Anna Maria said it would be impossible to hope for pleasant intercourse between the houses of Pynsent and Wetheral. The two ladies had not agreed in one sentiment upon any subject during Christobelle's absence, and each appeared irritated and wearied. It was altogether abrupt truth on one side, and haughty silence on the part of her mother: she was very certain there would be no pleasant result from this day's occurrences. Her two relations had never before passed a day together, dependent upon each other's society; and it had only taught them how impossible it would be to meet again upon those terms. She would tell Tom her thoughts as soon as they arrived at Hatton—Tom could manage every thing—she did not believe any body could resist Tom's pleasing way of arranging things: perhaps Tom would entreat his mother not to contradict Lady Wetheral so very flatly.
This was distressing intelligence: if Lady Wetheral felt disturbed by Mrs. Pynsent's peculiar style of manners, there would be an end at once to Christobelle's happy prospects; she was becoming jealous of her daughter's society, though she professed indifference; and she could see little of her sister's company, if Mrs. Pynsent was necessarily included in the invitation, which welcomed the Tom Pynsents, at all times, to the now dull halls of Wetheral Castle. Lady Wetheral's offended taste was a mental wound which never closed. She was not harsh towards vice—it might redeem itself; but rudeness of manner, or a vulgar phraseology, was beyond the limits of pardon. In both particulars did Mrs. Pynsent certainly transgress; and her ladyship's remarks, after their departure, betokened her disgust and aversion to the society of her departed guest.
"I shall feel obliged, Bell, by your silence upon the events of this disgusting day. Let me forget, if possible, that I have been, for eight hours, the companion of stentorian coarseness and vulgarity. I must regret seeing your sister but seldom, as I apprehend I shall do. I cannot be upon terms with a woman who designates her son's lady 'Mrs. Tom:' now ring, if you please, for my sal volatile."
The next day's post brought a letter from Mrs. Boscawen: its contents were most cheering. "She was very anxious Christobelle should know how beautiful her darling babe was growing, and that it had outgrown its first pinafores. Boscawen was quite as fond of the darling as she could possibly be herself, and Christobelle would be amused by seeing him nurse it to sleep, while she tamboured its little frock. Miss Tabitha was gone to stay a few weeks at Worcester, with Mrs. Ward, and there was no one now at Brierly to alarm her with heat, and cold, with drinking too little, or eating too much. She was perfectly happy with her dear Boscawen, nursing and laughing all day long—no books—no lectures. Oh, if Chrystal could but see her now!"
A postscript, in Mr. Boscawen's hand-writing, was equally valuable, and gave deep satisfaction to Sir John Wetheral. These were his words:—