THE RECTOR'S BEGINNING.
Mr. Mildmay came to Brentburn the Saturday after the curate's death. The
Ascotts invited him to their house, and he went there feeling more like
a culprit than an innocent man has any right to do. He fairly broke down
in the pulpit next day, in the little address he made to the people.
"God knows," he said to them, "that I would give everything I have in
the world to bring back to you the familiar voice which you have heard
here so long, and which had the teachings of a long experience to give
you, teachings more precious than anything a new beginner can say. When
I think that but for my appointment this tragedy might not have
happened, my heart sinks within me; and yet I am blameless, though all
who loved him have a right to blame me." His voice quivered, his eyes
filled with tears, and all the Brentburn folks, who were not struck dumb
with wonder, wept. But many of them were struck dumb with wonder, and
Mr. Ascott, who was his host, and felt responsible for him, did more
than wonder. He interfered energetically when the service was over.
"Mildmay," he said, solemnly, "mark my words, this will never do. You
are no more to blame for poor St. John's death than I am or any one, and
nobody has a right to blame you. Good heavens, if you had never heard of
the poor fellow, don't you think it would have happened all the same?
You did a great deal more than any one else would have done--is that why
you think it is your fault?"
Mildmay did not make any reply to this remonstrance. Perhaps after he
had said it, he felt, as so many impulsive men are apt to do, a hot
nervous shame for having said it, and betraying his feelings; but he
would not discuss the question with the Ascotts, who had no
self-reproach in the matter, no idea that any one could have helped it.
They discussed the question now, the first shock being over, and a
comfortable Sunday put between them and the event, with great calm.
"He was just the sort of man that would not even have his life insured,"
said Mr. Ascott. "What those poor girls are to do, I do not know. Go out
for governesses, I suppose, poor things! the common expedient; but then
there are those babies. There ought to be an Act of Parliament against
second families. I never had any patience with that marriage; and Miss
Brown, I suppose, had no friends that could take them up?"
"None that I know of," his wife replied. "It is a dreadful burden for
those girls. It will hamper them in their situations, if they get
situations, and keep them from marrying----"
"They are pretty girls," said Mr. Ascott. "I don't see why they
shouldn't marry."
"That is all very well, Henry," she replied; "but what man, in his
senses, would marry a girl with a couple of children dependent on her?"
"A ready-made family," he said, with a laugh.
This was on the Sunday evening after dinner. It was dusk, and they
could not see their guest's face, who took no part in the conversation.
To hear such a discussion as this, touching the spoiling of a girl's
marriage, is quite a commonplace matter, which the greater part of the
world would think it foolishly fastidious to object to, and probably Mr.
Mildmay had heard such talk upon other occasions quite unmoved; but it
is astonishing the difference it makes when you know the girl thus
discussed, and have, let us say, "a respect" for her. He felt the blood
come hot to his face; he dared not say anything, lest he should say too
much. Was it mere poverty that exposed those forlorn young creatures,
whose case surely was sad enough to put all laughter out of court, to
such comment? Mrs. Ascott thought it quite possible that Mr. Mildmay,
fresh from Oxford, might consider female society frivolous, and was
reserving himself for loftier conversation with her husband, and that
this was the reason of his silence, so she went away smiling, rustling
her silken skirts to the drawing-room, in the humility which becomes the
weaker vessel, not feeling herself equal to that loftier strain, to make
the gentlemen's tea.
Her husband, however, came upstairs after her, by himself. Mildmay had
gone out for a stroll, he said, and seemed to prefer being alone; he was
afraid, after all, he was a morose sort of fellow, with very little "go"
in him. As for the new rector, he was very glad to get out into the
stillness of the dewy common after the hot room and the fumes of Mr.
Ascott's excellent port, which he disliked, being altogether a man of
the new school. He skirted the common under the soft light of some
stars, and the incipient radiance of the moon, which had not yet risen,
but showed that she was rising. He went even as far as the back of the
rectory, and that little path which the curate's feet had worn, which he
followed reverently to the grey cross upon Hester's grave. Here a flood
of peaceful and friendly thoughts came over the young man, bringing the
tears to his eyes. He had only known Mr. St. John for about twenty-four
hours, yet how much this short acquaintance had affected him! He seemed
to be thinking of a dear old friend when he remembered the few moments
he had stood here, six weeks before, listening to the curate's simple
talk. "The lights in the girls' windows;"--there they were, the only
lights in the dark house, a glimmer through the half-closed shutters.
Then he thought of the old man, bewildered with death and death's
weakness, sitting with his wife's cloak and hat ready, waiting for her
to come who had been waiting all these years under the sod for him to
come. "I shall go to her, but she will not come to me," said the new
rector to himself, letting a tear fall upon the cross, where the
curate's hand had rested so tenderly. His heart was full of that
swelling sensation of sympathetic sorrow which is both sweet and
painful. And _she_ was, they all said, so like her mother. Would any
one, he wondered, think of _her_ sometimes as Mr. St. John had done of
his Hester? Or would nobody, in his senses, marry a girl burdened with
two babies dependent on her? When those words came back to his mind, his
cheeks reddened, his pace quickened in a sudden flush of anger. And it
was a woman who had said it--a woman whose heart, it might have been
thought, would have bled for the orphans, not much more than children
any of them, who were thus left in the world to struggle for themselves.
It was Mildmay who took all the trouble about the funeral, and read the
service himself, with a voice full of emotion. The people had scarcely
known before how much they felt the loss of Mr. St. John. If the new
parson was thus affected, how much more ought they to be! Everybody wept
in the churchyard, and Mr. Mildmay laid that day the foundation of a
popularity far beyond that which any clergyman of Brentburn, within the
memory of man, had enjoyed before. "He was so feelin' hearted," the poor
people said; they shed tears for the old curate who was gone, but they
became suddenly enthusiasts for the new rector. The one was past, and
had got a beautiful funeral, carriages coming from all parts of the
county; and what could man desire more? The other was the present,
cheerful and full of promise. A thrill of friendliness ran through every
corner of the parish. The tragedy which preceded his arrival, strangely
enough, made the most favourable preface possible to the commencement of
the new reign.
"Do you think I might call upon Miss St. John?" Mildmay asked, the
second day after the funeral. "I would not intrude upon her for the
world; but they will be going away, I suppose--and if you think I might
venture----"
He addressed Mrs. Ascott, but her husband replied. "Venture? to be sure
you may venture," said that cheerful person. "Of course you must want to
ascertain when they go and all that. Come, I'll go with you myself if
you have any scruples. I should like to see Cicely, poor thing! to tell
her if I can be of any use---- We are not much in the governessing line;
but you, Adelaide, with all your fine friends----"
"Tell her I should have gone to her before now, but that my nerves have
been upset with all that has happened," said Mrs. Ascott. "Of course I
have written and told her how much I feel for her; but say _everything_
for me, Henry. I will make an effort to go to-morrow, though I know that
to enter that house will unhinge me quite. If she is able to talk of
business, tell her to refer any one to me. Of course we shall do
everything we possibly can."
"Of course; yes, yes, I'll say _everything_," said her husband; but on
the way, when Mildmay reluctantly followed him, feeling his purpose
defeated, Mr. Ascott gave forth his individual sentiments. "Cicely St.
John will never answer as a governess," he said; "she is far too
independent, and proud--very proud. So was her father before her. He
prided himself, I believe, on never having asked for anything. God bless
us! a nice sort of world this would be if nobody asked for anything.
That girl spoke to me once about the living as if it was _my_ business
to do something in respect to what she thought her father's rights!
Ridiculous! but women are very absurd in their notions. She was always
what is called a high-spirited girl; the very worst recommendation I
think that any girl can have."
Mildmay made no reply; he was not disposed to criticise Cicely, or to
discuss her with Mr. Ascott. The rectory was all open again, the
shutters put back, the blinds drawn up. In the faded old drawing-room,
where the gentlemen were put by Betsy to wait for Miss St. John,
everything looked as usual, except a scrap of paper here and there
marked Lot----. This had been done by the auctioneer, before Mr. St.
John's death. Some of these papers Betsy, much outraged by the sight of
them, had furtively rubbed off with her duster, but some remained. Mr.
Mildmay had something of Betsy's feeling. He, too, when Mr. Ascott was
not looking, tore off the label from the big old chiffonnier which Mab
had called a tomb, and threw it behind the ornaments in the grate--a
foolish sort of demonstration, no doubt, of being on the side of the
forlorn family against fate, but yet comprehensible. He did not venture
upon any such freaks when Cicely came in, in the extreme blackness of
her mourning. She was very pale, keeping the tears out of her eyes with
a great effort, and strung to the highest tension of self-control. She
met Mr. Ascott with composure; but when she turned to Mildmay, broke
down for the moment. "Thanks!" she said, with a momentary pressure of
his hand, and an attempt at a smile in the eyes which filled at sight of
him, and it took her a moment to recover herself before she could say
any more.
"Mrs. Ascott charged me with a great many messages," said that lady's
husband. "I am sure you know, Cicely, nobody has felt for you more; but
she is very sensitive--that you know too--and I am obliged to interpose
my authority to keep her from agitating herself. She talks of coming
to-morrow. When do you go?"
"On Saturday," said Cicely, having just recovered the power of speech,
which, to tell the truth, Mildmay did not quite feel himself to have
done.
"On Saturday--so soon! and you are going----"
"With my aunt, Miss Maydew," said Cicely, "to London for a time--as
short a time as possible--till I get something to do."
"Ah--h!" said Mr. Ascott, shaking his head. "You know how sincerely
sorry we all are; and, my dear Cicely, you will excuse an old friend
asking, is there no little provision--nothing to fall back upon--for the
poor little children, at least?"
"Mr. Ascott," said Cicely, turning full towards him, her eyes very
clear, her nostrils dilating a little--for emotion can dry the eyes as
well as dim them, even of a girl--"you know what papa had almost as well
as he did himself. He could not coin money; and how do you think he
could have saved it off what he had? There is enough to pay every penny
he ever owed, which is all I care for."
"And you have nothing--absolutely nothing?"
"We have our heads and our hands," said Cicely; the emergency even gave
her strength to smile. She faced the two prosperous men before her,
neither of whom had ever known what it was to want anything or
everything that money could buy, her small head erect, her eyes shining,
a smile upon her lip--not for worlds would she have permitted them to
see that her heart failed her at sight of the struggle upon which she
was about to enter;--"and fortunately we have the use of them," she
said, involuntarily raising the two small hands, looking all the smaller
and whiter for the blackness that surrounded them, which lay on her lap.
"Miss St. John," said Mildmay, starting up, "I dare not call myself an
old friend. I have no right to be present when you have to answer such
questions. If I may come another time----"
To look at his sympathetic face took away Cicely's courage. "Don't make
me cry, please; don't be sorry for me!" she cried, under her breath,
holding out her hands to him in a kind of mute appeal. Then recovering
herself, "I would rather you stayed, Mr. Mildmay. I am not ashamed of
it, and I want to ask something from you, now that you are both here. I
do not know who has the appointment; but you must be powerful. Mr.
Ascott, I hear that Mrs. Jones, the schoolmistress, is dead--too."
"Yes, poor thing! very suddenly--even more suddenly than your poor
father. And so much younger, and an excellent creature. It has been a
sad week for Brentburn. She was buried yesterday," said Mr. Ascott,
shaking his head.
"And there must be some one to replace her directly, for the holidays
are over. I am not very accomplished," said Cicely, a flush coming over
her face; "but for the rudiments and the solid part, which is all that
is wanted in a parish school, I am good enough. It is difficult asking
for one's self, or talking of one's self, but if I could get the
place----"
"Cicely St. John!" cried Mr. Ascott, almost roughly in his amazement;
"you are going out of your senses--the appointment to the parish
school?"
"I know what you think," said Cicely, looking up with a smile; but she
was nervous with anxiety, and clasped and unclasped her hands, feeling
that her fate hung upon what they might decide. "You think, like Aunt
Jane, that it is coming down in the world, that it is not a place for a
lady. Very well, I don't mind; don't call me a lady, call me a young
woman--a person even, if you like. What does it matter? and what
difference does it make after all?" she cried. "No girl who works for
her living is anything but looked down upon. I should be free of all
that, for the poor people know me, and they would be kind to me, and the
rich people would take no notice. And I should have a place of my own, a
home to put the children in. The Miss Blandys, I am sure, would
recommend me, Mr. Mildmay, and they know what I can do."
"This is mere madness!" cried Mr. Ascott, paling a little in his ruddy
complexion. Mildmay made a rush at the window as she spoke, feeling the
situation intolerable. When she appealed to him thus by name, he turned
round suddenly, his heart so swelling within him that he scarcely knew
what he was doing. It was not for him to object or to remonstrate as the
other could do. He went up to her, scarcely seeing her, and grasped for
a moment her nervous interlaced hands. "Miss St. John," he cried, in a
broken voice, "whatever you want that I can get you, you shall
have--that, if it must be so, or anything else," and so rushed out of
the room and out of the house, passing Mab in the hall without seeing
her. His excitement was so great that he rushed straight on, into the
heart of the pine-woods a mile off, before he came to himself. Well!
this, then, was the life he had been wondering over from his safe
retirement. He found it not in anything great or visible to the eye of
the world, not in anything he could put himself into, or share the
advantages of. He, well off, rich indeed, strong, with a man's power of
work, and so many kinds of highly-paid, highly-esteemed work open to
him, must stand aside and look on, and see this slight girl, nineteen
years old, with not a tittle of his education or his strength, and not
two-thirds of his years, put herself into harness, and take up the lowly
work which would sink her in social estimation, and, with all
superficial persons, take away from her her rank as gentlewoman. The
situation, so far as Cicely St. John was concerned, was not remarkable
one way or another, except in so much as she had chosen to be village
schoolmistress instead of governess in a private family. But to Mildmay
it was as a revelation. He could do nothing except get her the place, as
he had promised to do. He could not say, Take part of my income; I have
more than I know what to do with, though that was true enough. He could
do nothing for her, absolutely nothing. She must bear her burden as she
could upon her young shrinking shoulders; nay, not shrinking--when he
remembered Cicely's look, he felt something come into his throat. People
had stood at the stake so, he supposed, head erect, eyes smiling, a
beautiful disdain of the world they thus defied and confronted in their
shining countenances. But again he stopped himself; Cicely was not
defiant, not contemptuous, took upon her no _rôle_ of martyr. If she
smiled, it was at the folly of those who supposed she would break down,
or give in, or fail of courage for her work; but nothing more. She was,
on the contrary, nervous about his consent and Ascott's to give her the
work she wanted, and hesitated about her own powers and the
recommendation of the Miss Blandys; and no one--not he, at least, though
he had more than he wanted--could do anything! If Cicely had been a lad
of nineteen, instead of a girl, something might have been possible, but
nothing was possible now.
The reader will perceive that the arbitrary and fictitious way of
cutting this knot, that _tour de force_ which is always to be thought of
in every young woman's story, the very melodramatic begging of the
question, still, and perennially possible, nay probable, in human
affairs, had not occurred to Mildmay. He had felt furious indeed at the
discussion of Cicely's chances or non-chances of marriage between the
Ascotts; but, so far as he was himself concerned, he had not thought of
this easy way. For why? he was not in love with Cicely. His sympathy was
with her in every possible way, he entered into her grief with an almost
tenderness of pity, and her courage stirred him with that thrill of
fellow-feeling which those have who could do the same; though he felt
that nothing he could do could ever be the same as what she, at her age,
so boldly undertook. Mildmay felt that she could, if she pleased,
command him to anything, that, out of mere admiration for her bravery,
her strength, her weakness, and youngness and dauntless spirit, he
could have refused her nothing, could have dared even the impossible to
help her in any of her schemes. But he was not in love with Cicely; or,
at least, he had no notion of anything of the kind.
It was well, however, that he did not think of it; the sudden "good
marriage," which is the one remaining way in which a god out of the
machinery can change wrong into right at any moment in the modern world,
and make all sunshine that was darkness, comes dreadfully in the way of
heroic story; and how such a possibility, not pushed back into obscure
regions of hazard, but visibly happening before their eyes every day,
should not demoralize young women altogether, it is difficult to say.
That Cicely's brave undertaking ought to come to some great result in
itself, that she ought to be able to make her way nobly, as her purpose
was, working with her hands for the children that were not hers,
bringing them up to be men, having that success in her work which is the
most pleasant of all recompenses, and vindicating her sacrifice and
self-devotion in the sight of all who had scoffed and doubted--this, no
doubt, would be the highest and best, the most heroical and epical
development of story. To change all her circumstances at a stroke,
making her noble intention unnecessary, and resolving this tremendous
work of hers into a gentle domestic necessity, with the "hey presto!" of
the commonplace magician, by means of a marriage, is simply a
contemptible expedient. But, alas! it is one which there can be no doubt
is much preferred by most people to the more legitimate conclusion; and,
what is more, he would be justified by knowing the accidental way is
perhaps, on the whole, the most likely one, since marriages occur every
day which are perfectly improbable and out of character, mere _tours de
force_, despicable as expedients, showing the poorest invention, a
disgrace to any romancist or dramatist, if they were not absolute
matters of fact and true. Pardon the parenthesis, gentle reader.
But Mr. Mildmay was not in love with Cicely, and it never occurred to
him that it might be possible to settle matters in this ordinary and
expeditious way.
Mr. Ascott remained behind when Mildmay went away, and with the
complacence of a dull man apologised for his young friend's abrupt
departure. "He is so shocked about all this, you must excuse his
abruptness. It is not that he is without feeling--quite the reverse, I
assure you, Cicely. He has felt it all--your poor father's death, and
all that has happened. You should have heard him in church on Sunday. He
feels for you all very much."
Cicely, still trembling from the sudden touch on her hands, the agitated
sound of Mildmay's voice, the sense of sympathy and comprehension which
his looks conveyed, took this apology very quietly. She was even
conscious of the humour in it. And this digression being over, "her old
friend" returned seriously to the question. He repeated, but with much
less force, all that Miss Maydew had said. He warned her that she would
lose "caste," that, however much her friends might wish to be kind to
her, and to treat her exactly as her father's daughter ought to be
treated, that she would find all that sort of thing very difficult. "As
a governess, of course you would always be known as a lady, and when you
met with old friends it would be a mutual pleasure; but the village
schoolmistress!" said Mr. Ascott; "I really don't like to mention it to
Adelaide, I don't know what she would say."
"She would understand me when she took all into consideration," said
Cicely, "I could be then at home, independent, with the little boys."
"Ah, independent, Cicely!" he cried; "now you show the cloven hoof--that
is the charm. Independent! What woman can ever be independent? That is
your pride; it is just what I expected. An independent woman, Cicely, is
an anomaly; men detest the very name of it; and you, who are young, and
on your promotion--"
"I must be content with women then," said Cicely, colouring high with
something of her old impetuosity; "they will understand me. But, Mr.
Ascott, at least, even if you disapprove of me, don't go against me, for
I cannot bring up the children in any other way."
"You could put them out to nurse."
"Where?" cried Cicely; "and who would take care of them for the money I
could give? They are too young for school; and I have no money for that
either. If there is any other way, I cannot see it; do not go against
me at least."
This he promised after a while, very doubtfully, and by and by went
home, to talk it over with his wife, who was as indignant as he could
have wished. "What an embarrassment it will be!" she cried. "Henry, I
tell you beforehand, I will not ask her here. I cannot in justice to
ourselves ask her here if she is the schoolmistress. She thinks, of
course, we will make no difference, but treat her always like Mr. St.
John's daughter. It is quite out of the question. I must let her know at
once that Cicely St. John is one thing and the parish schoolmistress
another. Think of the troubles that might rise out of it. A pretty thing
it would be if some young man in our house was to form an attachment to
the schoolmistress! Fancy! She can do it if she likes; but, Henry, I
warn you, I shall not ask her here."
"That's exactly what I say," said Mr. Ascott. "I can't think even how
she could like to stay on here among people who have known her in a
different position; unless--" he concluded with a low whistle of
derision and surprise.
"Please don't be vulgar, Henry--unless what?"
"Unless--she's after Mildmay; and I should not wonder--he's as soft as
wax and as yielding. If a girl like Cicely chooses to tell him to marry
her, he'd do it. That's what she's after, as sure as fate."