REALITY.
Cicely wrote her letter to her aunt that evening, dropping some tears
over it when Mab was not by to see; and almost as soon as it was
possible she had a very kind answer, granting her request, and more.
Aunt Jane declared that she would receive Mab with great delight, and do
everything that could be done to further her art-studies, which, as the
British Museum was near, and "a very good artist" lived next door to
Miss Maydew, seemed likely to be something worth while. "She shall be to
me like my own child; though I have never concealed from either of you
that you, Cicely, are my pet," wrote Miss Maydew; and she added a still
more liberal invitation. "If you want to spend a few days anywhere
between leaving Brentburn and going to the new place, wherever that may
be, you must come here--babies and all. I can manage to find beds for
you near; and it will be a nice little holiday for us all," said the
kind woman. She even added a postscript, to the effect that, if there
was a little money wanting at the time of the removal, Cicely was "not
to hesitate" to apply to her: and what could woman do more? Sympathy and
hospitality, and a little money, "is wanted." Alas! perhaps it is
because the money is so sure to be wanted that so few people venture on
such an offer; but Miss Maydew knew she was safe with Hester's child,
who was so like her mother. Cicely's other letter was successful, too.
The lawyer who represented the Chester family was quite willing to
postpone the sale until Mr. St. John's time was up. After all, the world
is not so very bad as it is called. Nobody was cruel to the St. Johns.
The tradespeople agreed to wait for their money. The Chesters would not
for the world disturb the departing curate until he was ready to go; and
Mrs. Ascott, and all the other great people in the parish, called and
made much of the girls. The church was more full than usual every
Sunday, for a vague expectation of a farewell (or, as old Mrs. Joel
called it, a funeral) sermon was in the people's minds. A great many of
them, now it came to the point, were very sorry that Mr. St. John was
going. They would have signed freely anything that had been set before
them to make the curate stay. But, nevertheless, they were all
interested about his farewell sermon, and what he would say for himself,
and what account he would give of various matters which stuck fast in
their rustic recollections. Thus the weeks stole away quite placidly,
and the harvest was got in, and August wore out under a great blazing
moon with the utmost cheerfulness. One or two answers came to the
advertisement in the _Guardian_; but they were not of an encouraging
kind. Cicely felt that it was better to repeat it and wait; and her
father was always pleased to wait under all circumstances; and the long
bright days went away one by one in a kind of noiseless procession,
which Cicely felt herself watch with a dreary dismay and restlessness.
Nothing had happened yet to avert the calamity that was impending.
Everything, on the contrary, seemed preparing for it--leading up to
it--though still Mr. St. John went "into the parish," and still all went
on as usual at the rectory. The curate showed no symptom of feeling
these last days different from any other; but the girls kept looking
forward, and hoping for something, with a hope which gradually fell
sick, and grew speechless--and nothing came.
One day when Mrs. Ascott called, Cicely had got into that state of
exhaustion and strained anxiety when the mind grows desperate. She had
been occupied with the children all day, not able to get free of
them--Annie having finally departed, and Betsy, being too much
displeased at the loss of her sister and subordinate to make any offer
of help. The babies had grown more active and more loquacious under the
changed _régime_, and this, though it was her own doing, increased poor
Cicely's cares. Mab was upstairs preparing for her departure, which was
to be a few days before the general breaking up. Altogether when Mrs.
Ascott came in, fresh and cool out of her carriage, Cicely was not in
the best mood to receive her. She gave the children her work-basket to
play with to keep them quiet, and cleared her own brow as best she
could, as she stood up and welcomed the great lady. How fresh her
toilette was, how unwrinkled her face! a woman altogether at ease, and
ready to smile upon everything. She shook hands with Cicely, and took
her seat with smiling prettiness. "I have come really on business," she
said; "to see if we could be of any use to you, Cicely--in packing or
any of your preparations; and to ask if the time is quite fixed? I
suppose your papa must have heard from Mr. Mildmay, and that all is
settled now?"
"All--settled?" said Cicely, faintly. The words, so softly and prettily
said, went into the girl's heart like a knife; and yet of course it was
no more than she expected--no more.
"The appointment, as you would see, is in the paper to-day. I am so
sorry your papa is going, my dear; but as he must go, and we cannot help
it, at least we have reason to be thankful that we are getting such a
good man as Mr. Mildmay. It will be some little compensation to the
parish for losing Mr. St. John."
"Is it--in the papers?" said Cicely, feeling suddenly hoarse and unable
to speak.
"You feel it, my poor dear child!--of course you must feel it--and so do
we all. There will not be a dry eye in the whole church when Mr. St.
John preaches his farewell sermon. To think that he should have been
here so long--though it is a little consolation, Mr. Ascott says, that
we are getting a thorough gentleman, and so well connected--an admirable
man."
"Consolation!" cried Cicely, raising her head. "What consolation is
wanted? Papa is pretty well worn out; he has done almost as much work as
a man can do. People cannot keep old things when they are worn out--the
new are better; but why should any one pretend to make a moan over it? I
do not see what consolation the parish can want. If you cry at the
farewell sermon, Mrs. Ascott, I shall laugh. Why should not your eyes be
dry--as dry as the fields--as dry as people's hearts?"
"Cicely, Cicely!" cried Mrs. Ascott, shocked; "my dear, I am very sorry
for it, but a misfortune like this should be borne in a better spirit. I
am sure your poor dear papa would say so; and it is nobody's fault."
"It is everybody's fault," cried Cicely, forgetting herself, getting up
in her passion, and walking about the room; "the parish, and the Church,
and all the world! Oh, you may smile! It does not touch you; you are
well off; you cannot be put out of your home; you cannot have everything
taken from you, and see everybody smiling pity upon you, and no one
putting out a hand to help. Pity! we don't want pity," cried Cicely; "we
want justice. How dare you all stand by and see it done? The Church, the
Church! that everybody preaches about as if it was God, and yet that
lets an old servant be so treated--an old servant that has worked so
hard, never sparing himself! If this is the Church's doing, the Church
is harder than the farmers--worse, worse than worldly people. Do you
think God will be pleased because he is well connected? or is it God's
fault?" Here her voice broke with a sob and shudder, and suddenly
dropping from her height of passion, Cicely said faintly, "Papa!"
"What is it?" said the curate, coming in. "Surely I heard something very
strange. Mrs. Ascott, I beg your pardon; my ears must have deceived me.
I thought Cicely must be repeating, to amuse herself, some speech,
perhaps out of _Paradise Lost_. I have heard of some great man who was
caught doing that, and frightened everybody who heard him," said Mr. St.
John, shaking hands with the visitor with his friendly smile.
He sat down, weary and dusty from "the parish," and there was a painful
pause. Cicely stole away to the corner where her little brothers were
playing, her pulse bounding, her heart throbbing, her cheeks aflame, her
whole being, soul and body, full of the strong pain and violent stimulus
of the shock she had received. She had never expected anything else, she
said to herself; she had steadily prepared for the going away, the ruin
that awaited them; but, nevertheless, her heart had never believed in
it, since that conversation with Mildmay at the rectory gate. Day by day
she had awoke with a certainty in her mind, never put into words, that
the good news would come, that all would be well. But the shock did not
crush her, as it does some people; it woke her up into freshened force
and life; her heart seemed to thrill and throb, not so much with pain
as with activity, and energy and power.
"Cicely is very much excited," said Mrs. Ascott in a low tone. "I fear
she is very excitable; and she ought to be more careful in her
position--a clergyman's daughter--what she says. I think you ought to
speak to her, Mr. St. John. She flew at me (not that I mind that) and
said such things--because I mentioned that Mr. Mildmay's appointment was
in the paper this morning; and that since we must lose you--which nobody
can be more sorry for than we are--it was well at least that we were
getting so good a man."
"Ah!" said the curate. The announcement took him by surprise, and gave
him a shock too, though of a different kind. He caught his breath after
it, and panted for a moment. "Is it in the papers? I have not seen it. I
have no time in the morning; and, besides, I never see the _Times_."
"We hope you will settle to dine with us one day before you go," said
Mrs. Ascott. "How we shall miss you, Mr. St. John! I don't like to think
of it--and if we can be of any use in your preparations---- I hear there
is to be a sale, too?"
"Not till we move. They will not put us to any inconvenience; indeed,"
said the curate, with a sigh and a smile, "everybody is very kind."
"I am sure everybody wishes to be kind," said Mrs. Ascott, with
emphasis. "I must not take up your time any longer, for you look very
tired after your rounds. But Mr. St. John, mark my words, you must hold
a tight hand over Cicely. She uses expressions which a clergyman's
daughter ought not to use."
"What were you saying to her, my dear?" said Mr. St. John, coming in
again after he had taken the lady to her carriage; "your voice was
raised, and you still look excited. What did you say?"
"It was nothing, papa. I lost my temper--who could help it? I will never
do it again. To think of _that_ man calmly accepting the living and
turning you out of it, after all he said."
"What good would it have done had he refused?" said Mr. St. John. "My
dear, how could he help it?"
"Help it?" cried Cicely. "Can nobody help anything in this world? Must
we stand by and see all manner of wrong done and take the advantage, and
then think we are innocent and cannot help it. That is what I scorn.
Let him do wrong if he will, and bear the blame--that is honest at
least. But to say he cannot help it; how could he ever dare to give such
a miserable excuse?"
"My dear," said the curate, "I am too tired to argue. I don't blame
Mildmay; he has done just what was natural, and I am glad he is coming
here; while in the meantime talking will do no good, but I think my tea
would do me good," he added with a smile.
Always tea, Cicely could not help thinking as she went away dutifully to
prepare it--or dinner, or some trifle; never any serious thought of what
was coming, of what had already come. She was young and impatient and
unjust, as it is so natural to be at her years. The curate put his hand
over his eyes when he was left alone. He was not disappointed or
surprised. He had known exactly all along how it would be; but when it
thus came upon him with such obvious and unmistakable reality, he felt
it sharply. Twenty years! All that part of his life in which anything to
speak of had happened to him, and--what was almost as hard to bear--all
the familiar things which had framed in his life--the scene, the place,
the people, the surroundings he was used to. He had not even his
favourite consolation, forlorn pride in never having asked anything, to
sustain him, for that was no longer the case. He was asking something--a
poor curacy, a priest's place for a piece of bread. The pang was
momentary, but it was sharp. He got up, and stretched his long languid
figure, and said to himself, "Ah, well! what is the good of thinking? It
is soon enough to make oneself wretched when the moment comes," and then
he went peacefully into the dining-room to tea. This was not how the
younger people took it, but then perhaps they had more capacity for
feeling left.
Next morning Cicely got a letter of a very unusual description, which
affected her in no small degree. It was from Mildmay, and, perhaps, it
will be best to give it in full here:--
"DEAR MISS ST. JOHN,
"I have delayed writing to you until I could make sure that you
must have seen or heard of the announcement in the papers which
will tell the results of my last three weeks' work. Do not think
that our last conversation has been obliterated from my mind. Very
far from that. I have seen the Master and all who are concerned,
and have done my best to show them the step which bare justice
required at their hands, but ineffectually. I made a point at the
same time of ascertaining what were the views of the gentleman to
whom Brentburn would be offered in case I refused it, and found him
quite decided on the subject. What could I do then? Should I have
declined and put myself entirely out of the way of being of any use
at all?
"As a matter of simple justice, I refer the question to you. What
am I to do now? My thoughts on the subject have been many, I need
not say, since I saw you. May I ask your father to continue at
Brentburn as my curate? I am quite inexperienced; his assistance
would be of infinite advantage to me; and, in point of fact, as is
natural at our respective ages, I should be his curate, not he
mine. May I do this? or what else can I do? The position in which I
find myself is a painful one. It would have been much easier, I
assure you, to have shuffled the whole matter off upon Ruffhead,
and to have withdrawn. But I felt a responsibility upon me since I
met you; and I ask you now urgently, feeling that I have almost a
right to your advice, what am I to do?
"Yours very truly,
"ROGER MILDMAY."
This letter excited Cicely greatly. By chance it arrived before the
others had come into the breakfast-room, and she was able to read it
without any looker-on. She put it hurriedly into her pocket before her
father and sister appeared. She did not know what answer to make,
neither did she feel comfortable about making any answer, and she said
nothing about it all day; though--oh, how the letter burned her pocket
and her mind! She had scarcely ever known what it was to have a secret
before, and not to tell Mab seemed almost wrong. She felt that there was
something clandestine about her, going up and down the house with that
letter in her possession which nobody knew of. And to answer it--to
answer it without any one knowing? This she could not do. She bore the
burden of her secret all the day, and surprised Mab very much by her
silence about Mr. Mildmay, whom the younger sister abused roundly.
"Perhaps it was not his fault," Cicely faltered. What had come over her?
What change had happened? Mab was lost in a maze.
The difficulty, however, was solved in a very unexpected way. Next
morning--no later--Mr. St. John himself had a letter from Oxford; a
letter which made him change colour, and bend his meek brows, and then
smile--but not like himself. "Cicely, this must be your doing," he said.
"I never made any complaints to Mr. Mildmay, nor said anything to call
for his pity. He asks me to be his curate," the old man added, after a
pause, with a strange smile. No one had suspected that Mr. St. John was
proud, until it became apparent all at once how proud he was.
"His curate--O papa! you will stay here, and never go away at all,"
cried Mab out of the fulness of her heart. Cicely knew better. She grew
pale, and to stop that outcry of inconvenient delight, grasped tightly
her sister's hand.
"Stay here!" said Mr. St. John, smiling again. "No, Mab, I am not fallen
so low as that, I hope. There is no need of a curate at Brentburn. If I
could do without one, at double his age, what should he want with a
curate? It is pity, pity! Oh yes, my dear, I know very creditable to
him; but I did not expect--I never expected to be exposed. Cicely, have
you that letter about the curacy in Liverpool? I should like to look at
it again."
"But, papa, we agreed that it would not do; a bad town district full of
dreadful people----"
"The more dreadful people are, the more they want to be looked after,"
he said. "Write and inquire about it, my dear; I am not particular.
Work! that is all I want, not idleness and charity. You all know I am
old--but you don't know how much strength I have in me, nor how I like
work!" he cried, with a quiver in his voice.
The shock had something of the same effect upon him now that it had
previously had on Cicely. The latent pride in him rose up in arms. She
had to write by that post about the Liverpool curacy; and before the
week was out he had accepted this strange, uncongenial post. He was to
be one of three curates in a large parish, including some of the most
wretched quarters in the town; the work very hard; the people very
degraded.
"Papa, you will never be able to bear it," cried Cicely, with tears in
her eyes.
"Nonsense, nonsense," he cried, with feverish energy; "write at once and
say I accept. It will do me all the good in the world."