“There, there!” he said, staying her kindly. “My scolding has not been very dreadful, Dorothy. We must be good friends again. Will you please to give me my second cup, and then I will go back and finish — my other sermon.”
Granny looked surprised, and Dorothy laughed as brightly as if there were not and never had been in the world such a thing as a tear. For the Archdeacon rarely made a joke, even a little one. Jokes cannot be made upon system, and Archdeacon Holden had found system so good a thing that any pursuit which did not admit of it was apt to be out of favor with him. He was gifted with great powers of organization, and these he had used well, and found sufficient, so that by their means, without being a great preacher or a small controversialist, without inventing a new doctrine, or reviving an old argument, he had risen to preferment. He was little more than thirty when he was presented to the living of Stirhampton; and though the parish was overpopulated and under-churched, he reduced it in ten years to such a condition that it ranked as a model and its rector as a great man, often consulted by the heads of the Church upon parochial matters. Moreover, men talked of him as of one likely to rise higher.
In person he was a tall, well-favored man, in the prime of life, with hair just beginning to be flecked with gray. He had nothing of the ascetic in his appearance, though his manners were cold and reserved; but he was liberal, and had good nature and good temper, as well as good parts. These qualities, however, the strict formality of his habits, and his rigid adherence to rule, hid in a great measure from all who were not well acquainted with the man.
To Dorothy he had been almost a father; and would perhaps have come to be looked upon entirely in that light, but that he was betrayed from time to time by little things. For instance, what do fathers — ordinary allowance-making, bill-paying fathers — know of their girl’s dresses? The smallest chit in the nursery will tell you, nothing. And Carrie and Edie are so persuaded of this that they will flaunt their new seal-skins — which have not been paid for, and are absurdly inconsistent with papa’s allowance — under his very nose, without the slightest tremor; and Flo will wear three new dresses in a quarter with as little chance of being prematurely found out in her extravagance, as if they were three new pairs of mittens. But in this respect the Archdeacon was not Dorothy’s father. For not only did he observe during the few days which followed his scolding that she had not forgotten it; that she went sadly — or seemed to go sadly — about the house, and shunned his visitors with a pensive air, leaving Mr. Maddy, who was over fifty, and had seven children, to pour out his own tea. Not only did he note this, but when Dorothy appeared at breakfast upon the fourth morning with a demure face and downcast eyes, he marked the novelty of her quaker-like gray dress, with its plain collar and cuffs, as quickly as did Granny.
“That is very becoming, Dorothy,” he remarked, pleasantly. He wished to be upon the old footing with her. To tell you the truth, he was tired of that going sadly. The house seemed as soberly dull as when she was away. And of late he had come to think it was rather a dull house. She had been away a good deal.
“Becoming!” cried Dolly, to his surprise, in a piteous voice. “And I had thought that this would do.”
“Would do, my dear? What do you mean? So it does. It seems to me to do excellently.” He was slightly taken aback.
“But I thought you said it was becoming?” she cried, querulously. “You did, too. I heard it quite plainly.”
“Well, my dear, and what more would you wish me to say? It is — it is very becoming.”
He tried to speak in a tone at once critical and archidiaconal, such a tone as the palæontologist adopts when he admires a bone of the pliocene mammoth in the case of a rival collector, or as paterfamilias uses when praising — to order — his girl’s bonnets. He did not altogether succeed. The ribs of that primitive animal, though they have pretty curves enough, do not preen themselves before a mirror with a little fluttering blush, and bright backward glances, and quick-straying dainty fingers adjusting here and defining there; nor do they form together a picture such as none but paterfamilias himself — no locum tenens, for instance — can look on with a perfectly even pulse-beat. The Archdeacon felt that his tone was not quite the tone he had, so to speak, commissioned, and swallowed half a cup of hot coffee at a gulp.
“Oh, dear!” he cried, hastily.
“Oh, dear!” echoed the girl, stamping her foot in a pet. “Then I don’t know what to do. I am sure I thought this would please you, and I should not be likely to — to do what you said I did in this. But now I shall not know what to do.”
And she ran out of the room, leaving her guardian in a state of much doubt as to whether she were laughing or crying; and perplexed, too, by uncertainty whether that gray dress sprang from a conscientious endeavor after sedateness, a real desire to improve — for oft the habit doth proclaim the mind — or from a freakish, wicked, contrary, wilful, teasing spirit, such as old Mrs. Fretchett had told him inhabited the bodies of young girls.
Alas! he was soon driven to be of old Mrs. Fretchett’s opinions. There was no more sedateness, no more going sadly, after this; nor ever did scolding seem more entirely thrown away than that extempore sermon upon the day of Dolly’s return. She was gayer, prettier, more heedless, more flighty than of old. The drawing-room was never free from curates now, whose business might indeed be with the Archdeacon; but by the time he was ready to talk it over, to audit their accounts, or sign their checks, the gentlemen were always upstairs, and — difficilis descensus Olympi. There were rumors of disagreements among the black-coated ones. The parish districts — and especially their lady visitors — declared that they were neglected; the rector never got a quiet cup of tea in his own house, nor even a quiet placid moment; for the sounds of young people laughing and, as Mrs. Fretchett called it, “fribbling” upstairs would float down to him working in his study, and then he would pish and pshaw, and move his chair impatiently. And no wonder. It meant that the parish was taking its chance; it meant that his system was breaking down. He knew it did. He told himself he did well to be angry. And he did thoroughly well; but after all it gave him small satisfaction. He began to feel more sore, and think more seriously about the matter every day. He could not have the work of ten years and more undone in this absurd fashion. Some remedy must be found. He might get rid of all the curates in a body, for violent diseases call for violent remedies; but that might not turn out a remedy. Or Dorothy might be — well, not dismissed exactly — but disposed of out of the way in some sort or other. The more Archdeacon Holden thought it over, the more he was forced to the opinion that his duty lay in this direction. And then something happened which brought matters to a head.
It was on the day of the Grammar School sports, which were held by his permission in the large field at the back of the rectory, where the old town wall, running round two sides of the enclosure, afforded a capital place, of vantage for such spectators as did not wish to enter the ground. It was past five o’clock, and the sports were over. Of course the Archdeacon had attended them; and then he had retired to his study, and was thinking of going upstairs to tea, when a renewal of the shouting in the rear of the house attracted his attention. Wondering what this might be he mounted to the drawing-room, and finding only Granny there, fenced in as usual with her screen, walked to the further window which overlooked the field. The sports, to all appearance, had been resumed, late as it was; for though the ground was almost clear, a crowd was fast collecting upon the wall, and he could make out figures — it was just growing dusk — moving quickly round the ropes, which had not been taken away. One, two, three, four, five black figures moving swiftly in single file.
“I am afraid this won’t do. I don’t think that this can be allowed,” he was beginning, shaking his head slowly, under the impression that the town boys had taken advantage of the place and occasion to get up a little impromptu competition of their own. “I don’t think — good heavens!”
Granny awoke upon the instant,
the Archdeacon’s voice rang out so loud in anger and reprobation. “What is it?” the old lady said, weakly, feeling for her stick. “What is it, my dear? I hope it is not much. You know it is very near quarter day, George, very near, and some money will be paid in then. Dear me, dear me!”
Even in his wrathful astonishment the Archdeacon tried to say gently, “It is not that, Granny. It is nothing of any consequence. I shall be back in a moment.”
And then he ran downstairs. Nothing of any consequence indeed; three steps at a time, and so, bare-headed and his skirts flying behind him, reached the terrace, taking no notice of a couple of maids in the hall, who were looking through a window and giggling, and who fled at his approach. On the terrace, with a charming hood over her head, was Dorothy, looking down into the field, and now laughing and now clapping a pair of little gloved hands in great delight, a white rose on the wall before her. He scarce looked at her, but peered into the dusk. Yes, his eyes had not played him false. The five athletes speeding round the roped circle were his five curates, and none others.
“Isn’t it fun?” cried Dorothy at his side, all unconscious of his feelings. “The boys were nothing to them, they look so funny in their long coats. They are walking a mile, and the winner is to have this rose. Don’t you think Mr. Bigham is gaining?”
The Archdeacon was speechless. He glared at this mocker, and then at the crowd upon the wall opposite — the cheering, shouting, growing crowd — and breathed hard. Funny! Fun! Had the girl lost all sense of decorum? He would waste no words upon her; but he ran down the steps and strode across the grass as swiftly as his dignity, a little impaired by haste and passion, would permit. Fortunately the competitors were just then at the near side of the circle. But, for that very reason, by the time he approached the ropes, the walkers, who had only eyes for one another and that slender figure on the terrace, had passed the point nearest to him, and were speeding away quite unconscious of their superior’s presence. He thought he should cut off the last man, and increased his pace. He called to him and waved his hand. But Mr. Brune, intent upon the business before him, and going steadily like a machine heel and toe, his elbows well in, and his eyes upon the small of his predecessor’s back, neither saw nor heard him. The Archdeacon was excited and provoked. In the heat of the moment he followed, still calling to him; and, being quite fresh, began to overhaul Mr. Brune. He did not hear a louder shout rise from the crowd upon the wall; he did not hear his ward clapping her hands in a perfect ecstasy of delight; he did not — indeed he could not — hear the giggling of the maids at the hall window. But all these people and everybody else thought that he had joined in the “parsons’ race.” Some, like Dorothy, thought it was very nice “and liberal” of him; and more, like Mrs. Fretchett, who had a fine view from her window, thought it very odd of him. And the faster he pressed on to catch Brune, becoming with every stride more and more angry, the more the crowd upon the wall shouted, and Dolly clapped, and Brune increased his speed, and the maids giggled; until at length the Archdeacon, beginning to suspect that his own position was far from dignified, and a glimmer of the light in which he was being viewed by others dawning upon him, broke into a run, and the crowd into a shout of reprobation of his unfairness; and then at last he laid his hand upon Mr. Brune’s shoulder.
“Stop, Mr. Brune,” he gasped; “stop! This is most unseemly. Do you hear? Most unseemly! I exceedingly disapprove of this — this disgraceful exhibition. Do you see the people, sir?”
This at last brought Mr. Brune to a standstill. He was a pitiable object as, hot, dishevelled, and panting, his tie awry and his collar rumpled, he stared, dumfounded, into his superior’s flushed and indignant face. He tremulously wiped his brow, and by a tremendous effort recovered his eyeglasses from between his shoulders, where they had been swinging rhythmically. He put them on and looked round. Then he became aware of the spectators who had gathered since he and his fellows had, in quite a private way, started on their little frolic, and the affair became apparent to him in its true colors. For, left to themselves, and unperverted by Dolly and unreasoning rivalry, there were no curates anywhere of more proper ideas than the Archdeacon’s. Brune dropped his glasses, quite crushed; but, seeing the necessity for action, revived. He did what the Archdeacon should have done at first. He jumped over the ropes and ran across to stay the others.
Their rector did not wait to speak with them then, but, still frowning, stalked back to the terrace, striving to recover his self-possession upon his way. With but partial success, for as he mounted the steps, “Oh, guardian!” cried a merry laughing voice from above him, “what is the matter? Why did you stop? I am sure you would have beaten them all if you had gone on as well as you started. You walked capitally. And why have they all stopped?”
“Because they have come to their senses,” he said, hoarsely, striving vainly to repress his passion. “Have you ever heard of Circe, girl?”
Dolly only stared. This tone at any rate she had never heard before.
“Because my parish is not large enough to contain her foolish rout and their senseless tricks. They were walking for a rose, were they?” he continued, bitterly. What he had said already seemed to have hurt the girl not one whit, only surprised her; and he was terribly exasperated. “I suppose that is but a pretty figure of speech, and stands for yourself. I am surprised you have so much modesty. It is fitting and maidenly in my ward to offer herself as the prize of a public walking match.”
Her face turned white in the dusk. “How dare you!” she cried, starting back as if he had struck her. He had hurt her at last, if that was what he wished to do. “How dare you!” she cried, passionately. But this time there came a quiver in her voice and a catching of her breath, and before he could be ready for this change of front she was gone, and he heard her sobbing bitterly as she passed through the hall. Only the white rose lay where she had flung it.
He went into his study and sat down very miserably, thinking, no doubt, over the state of the parish, and of what Mrs. Fretchett would say, and took no tea that evening. Only at one time or another, before nine o’clock prayers, he saw all the five curates. At dinner he was very silent, looking from time to time curiously at Dolly, who was silent too, attending chiefly to Granny’s wants, and avoiding his eyes with a conscious shrinking, new in her and strangely painful to him.
But the Archdeacon had made up his mind, and before twenty-four hours were over had put it before Dorothy. First, however, he had asked her pardon quite formally for what he had said in his haste; and the strange look which pained him had passed from the girl’s face, as melts a shadow cast by a cloud that was before the sun, and suddenly, even as we look up, is not. And then he had gone on to speak seriously to her of the state of his parish, touching upon the report of the previous day’s doings, which was already abroad, and which Dolly, with some temper and as much justice, set down to Mrs. Fretchett.
“Well, my dear,” the Archdeacon answered pleasantly, though in a tone which made her look sharply at him, “she and I are — well, old enough to remember that you are young, and, as Granny says, young folks will be young. Still I am bound to take care that the interests of my parish come first. It must not suffer through any one, even through you. And suffer it does, Dolly; which brings me to the other matter. An opportunity offers — I may say, three opportunities — of solving our difficulty. I have told you that you are too thoughtless for a clergyman’s daughter, but I think you would make a good and true clergyman’s wife.”
Crash! Dorothy had dropped the paperweight with which she was playing. He let her stoop to pick it up, which she did clumsily, and was long about it, and then he went on. “I have had three proposals for your hand, my dear. I do not know that this embarras de richesses is altogether to your credit, but so it is. Three of your fellow-culprits of yesterday, Philip Emerson, Mr. Bigham, and Mr. Brune are anxious to press their suits. They all have some means, and are young men of whom, notwithstanding that little affair, I can approve.”
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br /> She was drawing outlines on her work-table with one white forefinger. “I don’t think I want to marry either of them,” she murmured with much indifference, considering the effect of an imaginary landscape with her head on one side.
The Archdeacon frowned. “They think that you have given them reason to hope.”
“They cannot all think that!” she retorted, pouting scornfully. And the worst of it was that he could not controvert this.
“Philip Emerson, Dorothy, seemed in particular to fancy he had received some encouragement.”
“Oh,” said Dolly, “I should like to ask him what he meant; I don’t think he would dare to say it to my face. Perhaps he meant this!” She went on contemptuously, rummaging in her work-basket —
“For all I can remember he may have given it to me. One of them did, I know. Isn’t it nonsense?”
She held a crumpled scrap of paper towards her guardian, and he took it with the air of a man accepting service of a writ. “Am I to read it?” he asked stiffly.
“Of course — I suppose he intended it to be read.”
And the Archdeacon holding it gingerly, just as if it were the royal invitation before mentioned, read a few lines —
“Ah, great gray eyes, that, in my true love’s face,
Tell of the pure and noble soul within;
One look in your calm depths I fain would trace,
I fain would win.”
and threw it down with a contemptuous “pshaw!” He looked through the window for a moment before he spoke again; then with a great show of cheerfulness he said, “Now, my dear, let us be serious, which of them would you like to see yourself?”
“Which of them!” she answered impatiently. “None of them — ever! I hate them! That is, I mean that I don’t want to marry them.”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 256
