ARCHDEACON HOLDEN'S TRIBULATION.
She was so frail and small that the country squires who came in at theone stopping-place and left the train at the next, and talked of pettysessions and highway-boards in a strong slow way, like men with atight grasp of a slippery subject, felt fatherly towards her; and sofair that their sons found out new and painful ways of sitting whichhid dirty boots, and strange modes of propping their guns whichemployed hands suddenly gifted with a sense of over-abundance; and sodainty, yet withal bright of eye and lip, that a gentleman who got inone stage from Stirhampton, and knew her, was tormented by his fancy;which pictured her as a sparkling gem in its nest of jeweller's satin.Altogether so frail and fair and dainty was this passenger; and yet inthe flush of her young beauty and fearless nature, there was about herso imperious a charm that they all, though they might travel with herbut three miles--it was a dreadful train--and exchange with her notthree words, became her slaves. And the gentleman who knew hergrovelled before her in spirit to an extent unbecoming in a man, muchmore in a clergyman and a curate.
She was popular, too. For though she parted from him at the door ofthe carriage, she fell in almost at once with another who knew her.His business, as far as any save chatting with her was apparent,seemed to be about the book-stall. And after she had gone laughingfrom him, and the servant who met her--and was equally her slave withall the others, though he was more like a bishop and a father of theChurch than they promised ever to be--had taken her luggage in charge,she met yet another, who blushed, and bowed, and smiled, and stammeredbefore her after his kind. With him she was very merry until theirroads diverged--if he had any road which was not of the nature of thelast one's business. And then she tripped on just as gayly with a verytall acquaintance--they were all of one sex--and after him withanother, who took up the walking where his predecessor left off, justfor all the world as if she were a royal letter, and they were thoseold Persian post-runners, who made so little of "parasangs," and whoseroads seemed always to be through "Paradises." But this last onebrought her to the rectory gates, and--much lamenting--left her.
There was only Granny in the drawing-room when Dorothy ran upstairs.Granny, who was eighty-seven, and with a screen at her back and awood-fire toasting her old toes, could tell wonderful tales of thegreat war. Who had heard "Clarissa" read aloud _coram puellis_, and attimes shocked a mealy-mouthed generation by pure plain-speaking. Shewas the Archdeacon's grandmother; but to Dorothy what relation shewas, or whether she was any relation, not all Stirhampton couldtell--though it spent itself in guessing, and dallied to some extentwith a suggestion that she was Dorothy's great-great aunt; not,however, committing itself to this, nor altogether breaking with arival theory, that they were first cousins three times removed.
Whatever she was, Dorothy hugged her a score of times, and the tinyold lady said, "God bless you, my dear," half as many, and was goingon to her full number, when the Archdeacon himself came in. He, too,smiled upon seeing the girl, and smoothed his ruffled brow, and triedto be as if the drawing-room--when he was in it--were all his world.For this was a part of the Archdeacon's system, and he was of notethrough four dioceses as a man of system. So he patted the girl'shair, and said kindly:
"Well, my dear, I trust you have had a pleasant visit?"
"Oh, charming! and yet I am so glad to be at home again! But,guardian, what is the matter?"
The Archdeacon was vexed and pleased. Vexed that his attempt had notsucceeded, and pleased that he could now tell his trouble. "Thematter, my dear?" he said, taking a turn up and down the room; "why, Iam greatly annoyed and put out. I never knew such a thing happenbefore."
Granny clasped her hands upon the arms of her chair in suddenexcitement. "It isn't overdrawn, George, is it?" she said, nervously.
"Overdrawn!" he replied, cheerfully, "not at all." There had been atime when he was not an archdeacon, or a rector, or even in orders,but only a hard-reading undergraduate, when Granny's banking accounthad been with great difficulty kept above zero. Then it was herbugbear; now the family fortunes were as solidly substantial as thecomfortable red brick rectory itself; but Granny found some difficultyin laying her bogey. "Not at all. Not so bad as that," he said,cheerfully; "but very annoying, nevertheless. I was writing mySunday evening sermon this afternoon--as I always do, you know, onFriday--when Whiteman came running in to me at five minutes afterfour, and said there was no one at the church to take the four o'clockservice. Of course I had to break off and go. The congregation had towait fully ten minutes. It is not so much the inroad upon my time,though that is not unimportant, as the lack of system, that I deplore.Maddy and Moser"--they were the married curates, and took charge ofthe two chapels of ease--"are, of course, engaged elsewhere; butsurely one of the other five might have been here. It is a piece ofgross carelessness on the part of some one."
Dorothy nodded and looked gravely into the teapot. "And I saw Mr. Grayon my way from the station!" she said.
"Ah, just so. You did not meet any of the others?"
"Yes, I think I did," she replied, with a great show of candor. "Ofcourse I saw Mr. Bigham by the Church Club and Mr. Brune in WychStreet."
"Brune is the culprit, I expect. I do not think it would be CharlesEmerson's fault, because he is unwell."
"Unwell!" cried the girl, impulsively. "Indeed, he is quite ill; Inever saw any one look so bad."
"Oh! and where may you have seen _him?_" asked the Archdeacon,stopping suddenly in his promenade of the room, and facing her.
Dorothy bit her tongue to punish it. There is nothing so dangerous asa half-confidence. It so often leads, will-he-nill-he, to a whole one."He got into the train at Bromfield. He had walked out there," shesaid, meekly. Surprisingly meekly for her.
"Quite so. And may I ask whereabouts you met his brother?"
"Met his brother?"
"Yes, my dear," said the Archdeacon, suavely. "Met his brother, Mr.Philip Emerson?"
"Let me see," murmured Dolly, with a vast pretence of considering,though her little ears were scarlet by this time. "Where did I meetMr. Philip? Of course, I met him at the station. But however did youknow?" she asked, with the utmost effrontery.
"When one sheep, Dorothy, jumps over a gap, all the flock follow. Fourof my curates being so busily engaged meeting my ward, I had littledoubt but that the fifth was as well occupied."
Unseen by him, she made a face at Granny, who was understood to saythat boys would be boys.
"And sheep, sheep!" retorted the Archdeacon, with sharpness.
"They did not tell me that they had come to meet me," said Dolly,rebelliously. She did not like that proverb--or whatever it was--aboutsheep.
The Archdeacon frowned. "No," he said, severely, "but I do not doubtthat you would have been better pleased with them if they had. Let mespeak to you seriously, Dorothy. I cannot--I really cannot--have youdistracting these young men in this way. I observed before you leftseveral little matters of this kind--little laxities, and a want ofenergy and punctuality, on their part that were due, I fear, to yourinfluence."
"Little laxities!" murmured she, "I never heard of such things." Buthe put her aside with a grand wave of his hand.
"I am not inclined to say it is altogether your fault. You cannot helpyour looks or your youth, but you can avoid being a hindrance insteadof an assistance in the parish. I must not suffer,"--he was workinghimself into a well-regulated passion--"my arrangements to bedisorganized even by you. I will not and I cannot say, were this to goon, what steps it might not be my duty, however painful, to take."
After uttering this tremendous threat the Archdeacon walked hastilyacross the room, and, turning, looked to see what effect it had hadupon his ward. She was playing with her tea-spoon, tapping petulantlywith her foot, reddening, and pouting, and glancing for sympathy atGranny; behaving altogether like a naughty school-girl under reproof.He took another turn, feeling that he did well--thoroughly well, to beangry; and looked again. She
had risen, and was leaving the room. Hecould only see her back. I don't know what it was--perhaps he couldnot tell himself--in the pose of her little head and her shoulders, orwhether it was something quite outside her--which made him step afterher, and touch her shoulder gently.
"There, there!" he said, staying her kindly. "My scolding has not beenvery dreadful, Dorothy. We must be good friends again. Will you pleaseto give me my second cup, and then I will go back and finish--my othersermon."
Granny looked surprised, and Dorothy laughed as brightly as if therewere not and never had been in the world such a thing as a tear. Forthe Archdeacon rarely made a joke, even a little one. Jokes cannot bemade upon system, and Archdeacon Holden had found system so good athing that any pursuit which did not admit of it was apt to be out offavor with him. He was gifted with great powers of organization, andthese he had used well, and found sufficient, so that by their means,without being a great preacher or a small controversialist, withoutinventing a new doctrine, or reviving an old argument, he had risen topreferment. He was little more than thirty when he was presented tothe living of Stirhampton; and though the parish was overpopulated andunder-churched, he reduced it in ten years to such a condition that itranked as a model and its rector as a great man, often consulted bythe heads of the Church upon parochial matters. Moreover, men talkedof him as of one likely to rise higher.
In person he was a tall, well-favored man, in the prime of life, withhair just beginning to be flecked with gray. He had nothing of theascetic in his appearance, though his manners were cold and reserved;but he was liberal, and had good nature and good temper, as well asgood parts. These qualities, however, the strict formality of hishabits, and his rigid adherence to rule, hid in a great measure fromall who were not well acquainted with the man.
To Dorothy he had been almost a father; and would perhaps have come tobe looked upon entirely in that light, but that he was betrayed fromtime to time by little things. For instance, what do fathers--ordinaryallowance-making, bill-paying fathers--know of their girl's dresses?The smallest chit in the nursery will tell you, nothing. And Carrieand Edie are so persuaded of this that they will flaunt their newseal-skins--which have not been paid for, and are absurdlyinconsistent with papa's allowance--under his very nose, without theslightest tremor; and Flo will wear three new dresses in a quarterwith as little chance of being prematurely found out in herextravagance, as if they were three new pairs of mittens. But in thisrespect the Archdeacon was not Dorothy's father. For not only did heobserve during the few days which followed his scolding that she hadnot forgotten it; that she went sadly--or seemed to go sadly--aboutthe house, and shunned his visitors with a pensive air, leaving Mr.Maddy, who was over fifty, and had seven children, to pour out his owntea. Not only did he note this, but when Dorothy appeared at breakfastupon the fourth morning with a demure face and downcast eyes, hemarked the novelty of her quaker-like gray dress, with its plaincollar and cuffs, as quickly as did Granny.
"That is very becoming, Dorothy," he remarked, pleasantly. He wishedto be upon the old footing with her. To tell you the truth, he wastired of that going sadly. The house seemed as soberly dull as whenshe was away. And of late he had come to think it was rather a dullhouse. She had been away a good deal.
"Becoming!" cried Dolly, to his surprise, in a piteous voice. "And Ihad thought that this would do."
"Would do, my dear? What do you mean? So it does. It seems to me to doexcellently." He was slightly taken aback.
"But I thought you said it was becoming?" she cried, querulously. "Youdid, too. I heard it quite plainly."
"Well, my dear, and what more would you wish me to say? It is--it isvery becoming."
He tried to speak in a tone at once critical and archidiaconal, such atone as the palaeontologist adopts when he admires a bone of thepliocene mammoth in the case of a rival collector, or as paterfamiliasuses when praising--to order--his girl's bonnets. He did notaltogether succeed. The ribs of that primitive animal, though theyhave pretty curves enough, do not preen themselves before a mirrorwith a little fluttering blush, and bright backward glances, andquick-straying dainty fingers adjusting here and defining there; nordo they form together a picture such as none but paterfamiliashimself--no _locum tenens_, for instance--can look on with a perfectlyeven pulse-beat. The Archdeacon felt that his tone was not quite thetone he had, so to speak, commissioned, and swallowed half a cup ofhot coffee at a gulp.
"Oh, dear!" he cried, hastily.
"Oh, dear!" echoed the girl, stamping her foot in a pet. "Then I don'tknow what to do. I am sure I thought this would please you, and Ishould not be likely to--to do what you said I did in this. But now Ishall not know what to do."
And she ran out of the room, leaving her guardian in a state of muchdoubt as to whether she were laughing or crying; and perplexed, too,by uncertainty whether that gray dress sprang from a conscientiousendeavor after sedateness, a real desire to improve--for oft the habitdoth proclaim the mind--or from a freakish, wicked, contrary, wilful,teasing spirit, such as old Mrs. Fretchett had told him inhabited thebodies of young girls.
Alas! he was soon driven to be of old Mrs. Fretchett's opinions. Therewas no more sedateness, no more going sadly, after this; nor ever didscolding seem more entirely thrown away than that extempore sermonupon the day of Dolly's return. She was gayer, prettier, moreheedless, more flighty than of old. The drawing-room was neverfree from curates now, whose business might indeed be with theArchdeacon; but by the time he was ready to talk it over, to audittheir accounts, or sign their checks, the gentlemen were alwaysupstairs, and--_difficilis descensus Olympi_. There were rumors ofdisagreements among the black-coated ones. The parish districts--andespecially their lady visitors--declared that they were neglected; therector never got a quiet cup of tea in his own house, nor even a quietplacid moment; for the sounds of young people laughing and, as Mrs.Fretchett called it, "fribbling" upstairs would float down to himworking in his study, and then he would pish and pshaw, and move hischair impatiently. And no wonder. It meant that the parish was takingits chance; it meant that his system was breaking down. He knew itdid. He told himself he did well to be angry. And he did thoroughlywell; but after all it gave him small satisfaction. He began to feelmore sore, and think more seriously about the matter every day. Hecould not have the work of ten years and more undone in this absurdfashion. Some remedy must be found. He might get rid of all thecurates in a body, for violent diseases call for violent remedies; butthat might not turn out a remedy. Or Dorothy might be--well, notdismissed exactly--but disposed of out of the way in some sort orother. The more Archdeacon Holden thought it over, the more he wasforced to the opinion that his duty lay in this direction. And thensomething happened which brought matters to a head.
It was on the day of the Grammar School sports, which were held by hispermission in the large field at the back of the rectory, where theold town wall, running round two sides of the enclosure, afforded acapital place, of vantage for such spectators as did not wish to enterthe ground. It was past five o'clock, and the sports were over. Ofcourse the Archdeacon had attended them; and then he had retired tohis study, and was thinking of going upstairs to tea, when a renewalof the shouting in the rear of the house attracted his attention.Wondering what this might be he mounted to the drawing-room, andfinding only Granny there, fenced in as usual with her screen, walkedto the further window which overlooked the field. The sports, to allappearance, had been resumed, late as it was; for though the groundwas almost clear, a crowd was fast collecting upon the wall, and hecould make out figures--it was just growing dusk--moving quickly roundthe ropes, which had not been taken away. One, two, three, four, fiveblack 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 thatthe town boys had taken advantage of the place and occasion to get upa little impromptu competition of their own. "I don't think--goodheavens!"
Granny awoke u
pon the instant, the Archdeacon's voice rang out so loudin 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 somemoney 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 beback in a moment."
And then he ran downstairs. Nothing of any consequence indeed; threesteps 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 thehall, who were looking through a window and giggling, and who fled athis approach. On the terrace, with a charming hood over her head, wasDorothy, looking down into the field, and now laughing and nowclapping a pair of little gloved hands in great delight, a white roseon the wall before her. He scarce looked at her, but peered into thedusk. Yes, his eyes had not played him false. The five athletesspeeding round the roped circle were his five curates, and noneothers.
"Isn't it fun?" cried Dorothy at his side, all unconscious of hisfeelings. "The boys were nothing to them, they look so funny in theirlong coats. They are walking a mile, and the winner is to have thisrose. Don't you think Mr. Bigham is gaining?"
The Archdeacon was speechless. He glared at this mocker, and then atthe crowd upon the wall opposite--the cheering, shouting, growingcrowd--and breathed hard. Funny! Fun! Had the girl lost all sense ofdecorum? He would waste no words upon her; but he ran down the stepsand strode across the grass as swiftly as his dignity, a littleimpaired by haste and passion, would permit. Fortunately thecompetitors were just then at the near side of the circle. But, forthat very reason, by the time he approached the ropes, the walkers,who had only eyes for one another and that slender figure on theterrace, had passed the point nearest to him, and were speeding awayquite unconscious of their superior's presence. He thought he shouldcut off the last man, and increased his pace. He called to him andwaved 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 norheard him. The Archdeacon was excited and provoked. In the heat of themoment he followed, still calling to him; and, being quite fresh,began to overhaul Mr. Brune. He did not hear a louder shout rise fromthe crowd upon the wall; he did not hear his ward clapping her handsin a perfect ecstasy of delight; he did not--indeed he could not--hearthe giggling of the maids at the hall window. But all these people andeverybody else thought that he had joined in the "parsons' race."Some, like Dorothy, thought it was very nice "and liberal" of him; andmore, like Mrs. Fretchett, who had a fine view from her window,thought it very odd of him. And the faster he pressed on to catchBrune, becoming with every stride more and more angry, the more thecrowd upon the wall shouted, and Dolly clapped, and Brune increasedhis speed, and the maids giggled; until at length the Archdeacon,beginning to suspect that his own position was far from dignified, anda glimmer of the light in which he was being viewed by others dawningupon him, broke into a run, and the crowd into a shout of reprobationof his unfairness; and then at last he laid his hand upon Mr. Brune'sshoulder.
"Stop, Mr. Brune," he gasped; "stop! This is most unseemly. Do youhear? Most unseemly! I exceedingly disapprove of this--thisdisgraceful exhibition. Do you see the people, sir?"
This at last brought Mr. Brune to a standstill. He was a pitiableobject as, hot, dishevelled, and panting, his tie awry and his collarrumpled, he stared, dumfounded, into his superior's flushed andindignant face. He tremulously wiped his brow, and by a tremendouseffort recovered his eyeglasses from between his shoulders, where theyhad been swinging rhythmically. He put them on and looked round. Thenhe became aware of the spectators who had gathered since he and hisfellows had, in quite a private way, started on their little frolic,and the affair became apparent to him in its true colors. For, left tothemselves, and unperverted by Dolly and unreasoning rivalry, therewere no curates anywhere of more proper ideas than the Archdeacon's.Brune dropped his glasses, quite crushed; but, seeing the necessityfor action, revived. He did what the Archdeacon should have done atfirst. He jumped over the ropes and ran across to stay the others.
Their rector did not wait to speak with them then, but, stillfrowning, stalked back to the terrace, striving to recover hisself-possession upon his way. With but partial success, for as hemounted the steps, "Oh, guardian!" cried a merry laughing voice fromabove him, "what is the matter? Why did you stop? I am sure you wouldhave beaten them all if you had gone on as well as you started. Youwalked capitally. And why have they all stopped?"
"Because they have come to their senses," he said, hoarsely, strivingvainly 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 andtheir senseless tricks. They were walking for a rose, were they?" hecontinued, bitterly. What he had said already seemed to have hurt thegirl not one whit, only surprised her; and he was terriblyexasperated. "I suppose that is but a pretty figure of speech, andstands for yourself. I am surprised you have so much modesty. It isfitting and maidenly in my ward to offer herself as the prize of apublic walking match."
Her face turned white in the dusk. "How dare you!" she cried, startingback as if he had struck her. He had hurt her at last, if that waswhat he wished to do. "How dare you!" she cried, passionately. Butthis time there came a quiver in her voice and a catching of herbreath, and before he could be ready for this change of front she wasgone, and he heard her sobbing bitterly as she passed through thehall. Only the white rose lay where she had flung it.
He went into his study and sat down very miserably, thinking, nodoubt, over the state of the parish, and of what Mrs. Fretchett wouldsay, and took no tea that evening. Only at one time or another, beforenine o'clock prayers, he saw all the five curates. At dinner he wasvery silent, looking from time to time curiously at Dolly, who wassilent too, attending chiefly to Granny's wants, and avoiding his eyeswith a conscious shrinking, new in her and strangely painful to him.
But the Archdeacon had made up his mind, and before twenty-four hourswere over had put it before Dorothy. First, however, he had asked herpardon quite formally for what he had said in his haste; and thestrange look which pained him had passed from the girl's face, asmelts 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 seriouslyto her of the state of his parish, touching upon the report of theprevious day's doings, which was already abroad, and which Dolly, withsome temper and as much justice, set down to Mrs. Fretchett.
"Well, my dear," the Archdeacon answered pleasantly, though in a tonewhich made her look sharply at him, "she and I are--well, old enoughto remember that you are young, and, as Granny says, young folks willbe young. Still I am bound to take care that the interests of myparish come first. It must not suffer through any one, even throughyou. And suffer it does, Dolly; which brings me to the other matter.An opportunity offers--I may say, three opportunities--of solving ourdifficulty. I have told you that you are too thoughtless for aclergyman's daughter, but I think you would make a good and trueclergyman'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 longabout it, and then he went on. "I have had three proposals for yourhand, my dear. I do not know that this _embarras de richesses_ isaltogether to your credit, but so it is. Three of your fellow-culpritsof yesterday, Philip Emerson, Mr. Bigham, and Mr. Brune are anxious topress their suits. They all have some means, and are young men ofwhom, notwithstanding that little affair, I can approve."
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 muchindifference, considering the effect of an imaginary landscape withher head on o
ne side.
The Archdeacon frowned. "They think that you have given them reason tohope."
"They cannot all think that!" she retorted, pouting scornfully. Andthe worst of it was that he could not controvert this.
"Philip Emerson, Dorothy, seemed in particular to fancy he hadreceived some encouragement."
"Oh," said Dolly, "I should like to ask him what he meant; I don'tthink he would dare to say it to my face. Perhaps he meant this!" Shewent on contemptuously, rummaging in her work-basket--
"For all I can remember he may have given it to me. One of them did, Iknow. Isn't it nonsense?"
She held a crumpled scrap of paper towards her guardian, and he tookit with the air of a man accepting service of a writ. "Am I to readit?" 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 royalinvitation 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 thewindow for a moment before he spoke again; then with a great show ofcheerfulness he said, "Now, my dear, let us be serious, which of themwould you like to see yourself?"
"Which of them!" she answered impatiently. "None of them--ever! I hatethem! That is, I mean that I don't want to marry them."
"I shall not let you give that answer without thought. It seems to methat you must have encouraged one or the other of them. You must takea fortnight to think it over."
"I won't have a minute!" she cried angrily.
"A clear fortnight," he repeated with some sternness. "If you are thenresolved, I shall be the last to force you to marry against your will.I have, indeed, no legal power over you. I am not your father."
"No, you are not," she replied sullenly.
That pained the Archdeacon more than all that had gone before. It wasnot only thoughtless, it was ungracious, it was ungrateful, and ithardened his heart so that he spoke out what was in his thoughts.
"Quite so," he began. "I was only going to say that if at the end ofthe time you found yourself unable to embrace----"
"I am a woman, if I am your ward," suddenly and spitefully.
"--to embrace this opportunity," shot out the clergyman, very red inthe face, "then I should have to make an alteration in my household;in what direction, you will, no doubt, be able to guess."
She bent over her work and made no reply, so that he felt a cruelsatisfaction that he had at last managed to cow her. Then, as thereseemed no more to be said, the Archdeacon went downstairs and tried tofeel content with his partial success. One way or another thedifficulty would now be settled. And this being so, if he sighed overthe consideration of this comfortable fact, we may presume that thesigh was one of relief.
The gravity which on a sudden fell upon the rectory folk was notunmarked by Stirhampton. But Stirhampton felt no surprise at it.Stirhampton well understood the cause of it. What wonder, askedStirhampton, if the Archdeacon looked perplexed, and Miss Dorothygloomy, and the curates anxious? What wonder, indeed, when as sure aseggs were what they seemed to be--and there they generally were--theCourt of Arches had its eyes upon Stirhampton, and sentences ofsuspension were in the air, and there was even talk of unfrocking!so that much discussion was raised in town circles as to the detailsof that ceremony, and whether a cook's cleaver did, or did not,figure in it, and if it did, in what particular way it was used? Whatwonder, indeed? though those who knew best whispered that the racefor the girl's hand (oh, those giggling eavesdropping maids!),disgraceful as it was in men of their calling and the Archdeacon'sage, might--observe--_might_ have been overlooked. "But when it came,"said these, "to the Archdeacon, in his chagrin at being outstripped byyounger men, striking Mr. Brune, and knocking his own curate over theropes, so that the very crowd cried shame! that was indeed going alittle too far. There could be no winking at that, be the authorityever so favorable to him."
Still there are always froward people who will have no fire whereothers have been the first to espy the smoke. There were these atStirhampton, men who were rude and said it was all fiddle-de-dee whenMrs. Fretchett said it was _scandalum magnatum_--a plain andunmannerly contradiction--and made themselves otherwise unpleasant.But even these grew silent after a time, when a very weighty fact cameto be known. Two official letters--missives were the more properword--of most threatening appearance had been delivered at therectory. Their envelopes had been stamped with the name of an auguststreet, and bore also in the left-hand bottom corner a distinguishedtitle. On one had been a twopenny stamp. Timid people scanned therector with curious pity, and such upon the whole was the effect ofthis postal intelligence that the doctrine of _scandalum magnatum_gained almost universal credence; even the froward ones grew seriousand thought it over.
It was probably from a feeling of delicacy that they refrained fromcarrying their surmises to the Archdeacon. To the curates some hintswere given, but what with their obtuseness--they scarcely seemed tounderstand--and a fretful touchy disposition, noticeable in young men,nothing came of these hints.
Of all the rectory folk, it was Dolly only who (oh, those giggling,tattling maids!) came to hear of the rumor. It distressed her beyondmeasure. She could not feel sure that it was untrue. Nay, she knewthat one part was true, for had she not seen the Archdeacon read oneand the other of the letters mentioned, and immediately thereafterfall into deep thought. Ever since he had been grave and preoccupied.Her ideas upon unfrocking--though the cleaver was not one ofthem--were sufficiently terrible, and grew more and more vivid anddaunting the longer she dwelt upon them. Yet there was not betweenherself and her guardian such an amount of confidence as made it easyfor her to speak to him upon such a subject.
So poor Dorothy knew not what to think. She had her own littledistresses, we know; but they were forgotten in this greaterapprehension that she had brought grief and disgrace upon theArchdeacon. And when, about the end of the fortnight, he bade her cometo his study, she thought of them only as of matters to be put aside,if mentioned, as quickly as possible, as matters of no importance inthe face of the blow she felt was about to fall.
Archdeacon Holden was writing steadily. He looked up at her entranceto point with a faint smile to a chair, and then went on with hiswork. She fancied that there was something strange and new in his air;she marked under the paper-weight the letters about which all the townwas talking; at her elbow she spied an envelope addressed to the Deanand Chapter of W----, the patron of the living, and Dorothy felt sickat heart.
Whether he was or was not aware of the direction of her thoughts, hefolded his letter slowly, willing, perhaps, to put off as long aspossible the evil day when something must be told. It was not until hehad risen and approached the fireplace, so that his back was towardsher, that he said pleasantly:
"Well, Dorothy, we will talk of your affairs first."
"They will not occupy you long," was her quiet answer; what were thesethings to her now? "I have made up my mind, or rather it is unchanged.If I have thoughtlessly caused pain to Mr. Emerson and the others, Iam sorry; but I cannot marry any of them."
He did not speak for a moment. Perhaps his thoughts had gone off tohis own matters, for his hand shook a little as he adjusted thedate-case over the mantelpiece. "You are quite sure, my dear?" he saidat last. There was no displeasure in his tone.
"I am quite sure."
"Well, that would have been an embarrassing answer, Dorothy, if thingsstill stood as they were," he said. "But they do not; and any change Iam going to make will be the result of another cause. I have some newsfor you. I am going to leave Stirhampton, and you are the first personto whom I have told the fact. You will not do my parish much moreharm, my dear, for in a few weeks at most I shall be without one."
His back was towards her, and so he could not se
e the current of griefand trouble that flashed from Dolly's heart to Dolly's face. He waitedfor the eager, happy words of congratulation that should have come;for the touch at which he should turn to meet the bright, animatedface that would smile on him for a moment, and then flit joyfullyupstairs to Granny. He waited for these things, wondering if hiselevation could bring him any other pleasure to compare with this. Andthen, instead, he heard behind him a quick, low sob, and turned, witha sinking of the heart, to find the girl crying bitterly, her facecast forward in utter self-abandonment upon her arms, and her wholeframe quivering with the sharpness of her sorrow.
His heart sank with a natural foreboding. But surely it must have beena singularly affectionate one, or where otherwise lay hidden thesource of that deep feeling which welled up in the simple words wrungfrom him by the sight of her distress. "My darling, my darling, onlytell me what it is!" he cried, stroking her fair hair and striving tocomfort her. "Tell me your trouble. Don't you know I would give mylife to save you pain, Dolly? Don't hurt me like this, but look up andtell me. What is it, my darling?"
But for a time, though she heard him, she would not be comforted, andhis words even seemed to give a fresh impulse to her grief. At last,amid half-stifled sobs, with her face still hidden, Dolly made himunderstand what she had heard and what she had feared, and what shehad supposed him to mean when he said he was about to leaveStirhampton; and poured out, too, her own self-reproach, while hestood over her and listened, and now touched the bowed head, and nowsmiled grimly at the rumor of that unfrocking. And when he came toanswer her, he did it in a score of words that dried her eyeseffectually, and made her turn her flushed, pitiful, tear-stained faceupon him, a glorious smile of pure happiness irradiating it thatsomehow made his heart leap up like a boy's--and then ache as thosedeserve to ache who play the boy when old enough to know better.
"It is a mistake," was all he said; "I am leaving here, but not indisgrace, Dolly. I have accepted the Bishopric of the new see ofDeringham. What a silly, loving, little girl it is! You may read theletter, my dear." And while Dolly, in radiant dishevelment, wasstriving to tell him her pleasure, he took an envelope from hispocket and held it out. Dolly seized it eagerly and opened it, andfound within it not at all what the Archdeacon had thought was init. The envelope contained no statesman's autograph, or courtlyto-apron-inviting note from Downing Street, but only a white rose, adried rose, flattened, but still sweet and fragrant. Almost as soonas the girl's fingers touched it the Archdeacon was aware of hismistake--surely a very curious mistake--and snatched it from her withsome confused words and a reddening brow. But Dolly had seen it--hadcertainly seen it; and somehow it brought back to her memory the dayof the curates' race; so that when the Archdeacon brusquely putanother letter into her hand, she read it with her eyes, and not hermind. As for the Archdeacon, he sought the window, and hemmed andhawed, and at last said, hastily, without turning, "There, there, mydear, I think there is no more to be said. Will you kindly go and tellGranny?" and so affected to select a volume from a shelf of the EarlyFathers.
But Dorothy did not move. She sat stooping forward, passing the hem ofher much-bedabbled handkerchief through her fingers.
"Are you sure that you have told me all you wish to tell me?" sheasked, slowly.
Her guardian started. "I think so," he answered, and plungedrecklessly at a volume of Origen, or it might be St. Anthony, perhaps.
"Then why," cried Dolly, starting up and facing him, with crimsoncheeks, "why did you call me your darling just now? You had no rightto do it--no right, though you are my guardian, to say that--if youare going to say nothing more! If you want me, why don't you ask forme! Philip could, and Mr. Brune, and the other! I hate a coward. Whycannot you say, if--you--want me?"
There are men who have seen Deans in their shirt-sleeves, playingbilliards. And there is one still living--chiefly on the fact--whoonce was last in a three-legged race in double harness with a Duke. Soit is undeniable that great men do unbend at times to a surprisingextent. But that the Archdeacon at the point of the story we havereached unbent in the manner much hinted at in Stirhampton, I shallask no reader to believe. The more as the real facts which have beentold fully explain the disorder of lace and neck-ribbon, the softnessof eye, and crimson of cheek, which Granny noticed about the girl whenshe ran in upon her, all smiles and tears, knocking down the screen,and hugging the little old lady into a state of deep alarm.
Which took, of course, the old direction. But the Archdeacon cameupstairs in time to anticipate the usual question. "No," he said,putting his hand on the kneeling girl's head, "the balance is allright, Granny--except in years. There is a heavy overdraft of thoseagainst me."
"And I will honor it," said Dolly, gravely, and took his hand andkissed it. As for what followed--we had better put up Granny's screenagain. This the man of system, who had no taste for jests? But then itis just possible that Dolly did not mean it for a jest. The curates?Mr. Philip Emerson, Mr. Brune, and Mr. Bigham? Indeed I cannot saywhat became of them. I should suppose they died prematurely of brokenhearts. But the next time that I visit Deringham I will call at thePalace and ask the Bishop.
THE END.
For the Cause Page 5
