It will be seen, however, that, though Kate’s interpretation of the
imperfections of ‘the boys’ was more genial than that of Ombra, yet that
still there was a certain condescension in her remarks, and sense that
she herself was older, graver, and of much more serious stuff altogether
than the late visitors. Her instinct for interference, which had been in
abeyance since she came to the Cottage, sprung up into full force the
moment these inferior creatures came within her reach. She felt that it
was her natural mission, the work for which she was qualified, to set
and keep them right. This she had been quite unable to feel herself
entitled to do in the Cottage. Mrs. Anderson’s indulgence and
tenderness, and Ombra’s superiority, had silenced even her lively
spirit. She could not tender her advice to them, much as she might have
desired to do so. But Bertie Hardwick was a bit of Langton, one of her
own people, a natural-born subject, for whose advantage all her powers
were called forth. She thought a great deal about his future, and did
not hesitate to say so. She spoke of it to Mr. Eldridge, electrifying
the excellent Rector.
‘What a trouble boys must be!’ she said, when she ran in with some
message from her aunt, and found the whole party gathered at luncheon.
There were ten Eldridges, so that the party was a large one; and as the
holidays were not yet over, Tom and Herbert, the two eldest, had not
returned to school.
‘They _are_ a trouble, in the holidays,’ said Mrs. Eldridge, with a
sigh; and then she looked at Lucy, her eldest girl, who was in disgrace,
and added seriously, ‘but not more than girls. One expects girls to know
better. To see a great creature of fifteen, nearly in long dresses,
romping like a Tom-boy, is enough to break one’s heart.’
‘But I was thinking of the future,’ said Kate, and she too gave a little
sigh, as meaning that the question was a very serious one indeed.
The Rector smiled, but Mrs. Eldridge did not join him. Somehow Kate’s
position, which the Rector’s wife was fond of talking of, gave her a
certain solemnity, which made up for her want of age and experience in
that excellent woman’s eyes.
‘As for us,’ Kate continued very gravely, ‘either we marry or we don’t,
and that settles the question; but boys that have to work---- Oh! when I
think what a trouble they are, it makes me quite sad.’
‘Poor Kate!’ said the laughing Rector; ‘but you have not any boys of
your own yet, which must simplify the matter.’
‘No,’ said Kate gravely, ‘not quite of my own; but if you consider the
interest I take in Langton, and all that I have to do with it, you will
see that it does not make much difference. There is Bertie Hardwick, for
instance, Mr. Eldridge----’
The Rector interrupted her with a hearty outburst of laughter.
‘Is Bertie Hardwick one of the boys whom you regard as almost your own?’
he said.
‘Well,’ Kate answered stoutly, ‘of course I take a great interest in
him. I am anxious about what he is to be. I don’t think he ought to go
into the Church; I have thought a great deal about it, and I don’t think
that would be the best thing for him. Mr. Eldridge, why do you laugh?’
‘Be quiet, dear,’ said his wife, knitting her brows at him
significantly. Mrs. Eldridge had not a lively sense of humour; and she
had pricked up her ears at Bertie Hardwick’s name. Already many a time
had she regretted bitterly that her own Herbert (she would not have him
called Bertie, like the rest) was not old enough to aspire to the
heiress. And, as that could not be mended, the mention of Bertie
Hardwick’s name stirred her into a state of excitement. She was not a
mercenary woman, neither had it ever occurred to her to set up as a
match-maker; ‘but,’ as she said, ‘when a thing stares you in the
face----’ And then it would be so much for Kate’s good.
‘You ought not to laugh,’ said Kate, with gentle and mild reproof, ‘for
I mean what I say. He could not live the kind of life that you live, Mr.
Eldridge. I suppose you did not like it yourself when you were young?’
‘My dear child, you go too far--you go too fast,’ cried the Rector,
alarmed. ‘Who said I did not like it when I was young? Miss Kate, though
I laugh, you must not forget that I think my work the most important
work in the world.’
‘Oh! yes, to be sure,’ said Kate; ‘of course one knows--but then when
you were young---- And Bertie is quite young--he is not much more than a
boy; I cannot see how he is to bear it--the almshouses, and the old
women, and the mothers’ meetings.’
‘You must not talk, my child, of things you don’t understand,’ said the
Rector, quite recovered from his laughter. He had ten pairs of eyes
turned upon him, ten minds, to which it had never occurred to inquire
whether there was anything more important in the world than mothers’
meetings. Perhaps had he allowed himself to utter freely his own
opinions, he might have agreed with Kate that these details of his
profession occupied too prominent a place in it. But he was not at
liberty then to enter upon any such question. He had to preserve his own
importance, and that of his office, in presence of his family. The
wrinkles of laughter all faded from the corners of his mouth. He put up
his hand gravely, as if to put her aside from this sacred ark which she
was touching with profane hands.
‘Kate talks nonsense sometimes, as most young persons do,’ said Mrs.
Eldridge, interfering. ‘But at present it is you who don’t understand
what she is saying--or, at least, what she means is something quite
different. She means that Bertie Hardwick would not like such a
laborious life as yours; and, indeed, what she says is quite true; and
if you had known all at once what you were coming to, all the toil and
fatigues---- Ah! I don’t like to think of it. Yes, Kate, a clergyman’s
life is a very trying life, especially when a man is so conscientious as
my husband. There are four mothers’ meetings in different parts of the
parish; and there is the penny club, and the Christmas clothing, and the
schools, not to speak of two services every Sunday, and two on
Wednesdays and Fridays; and a Curate, who really does not do half so
much as he ought. I do not want to say anything against Mr. Sugden, but
he does pay very little attention to the almshouses; and as for the
infant-school----’
‘My dear, the children are present,’ said the Rector.
‘I am very well aware of that, Fred; but they have ears and eyes as well
as the rest of us. After all, the infant-school and the Sunday-schools
are not very much to be left to one; and there are only ten old people
in the almshouses. And, I must say, my dear, considering that Mr. Sugden
is able to walk a hundred miles a day, I do believe, when he has an
object----’
‘Hush! hush!’ said the Rector, ‘we must not enter into personal
discussions. He is fresh from University life, and has not quite settled
down as yet to his work. University life is very different, as I have
often told you. It takes a man some time to get accustomed to change his
habits and ways of thinking. Sugden is rather lazy, I must say--he does
not mean it, but he is a little careless. Did I tell you that he had
forgotten to put down Farmer Thompson’s name in the Easter list? It was
a trifle, you know--it really was not of any consequence; but, still, he
forgot all about it. It is the negligent spirit, not the thing itself,
that troubles me.’
‘A trifle!’ said Mrs. Eldridge, indignantly; and they entered so deeply
into the history of this offence, that Kate, whose attention had been
wandering, had to state her errand, and finish her luncheon without
further reference to Bertie. But her curiosity was roused; and when,
some time after, she met Mr. Sugden, the Curate, it was not in her to
refrain from further inquiries. This time she was walking with her aunt
and cousin, and could not have everything her own way; but the curate
was only too well pleased to join the little party. He was a young man,
tall and strong, looking, as Mrs. Rector said, as if he could walk a
hundred miles a day; and his manner was not that of one who would be
guilty of indolence. He was glad to join the party from the Cottage,
because he was one of those who had been partially enslaved by
Ombra--partially, for he was prudent, and knew that falling in love was
not a pastime to be indulged in by a curate; but yet sufficiently to be
roused by the sight of her into sudden anxiety, to look and show himself
at his best.
‘Ask him to tea, auntie, please,’ said Kate, whispering, as the Curate
divided the party, securing himself a place by the side of Ombra. Mrs.
Anderson looked at the girl with amazement.
‘I have no objection,’ she said, wondering. ‘But why?’
‘Oh! never mind why--to please me,’ said the girl. Mrs. Anderson was not
in the habit of putting herself into opposition; and besides, the little
languor and vacancy caused by the departure of the Berties had not yet
quite passed away. She gave the invitation with a smile and a whispered
injunction. ‘But you must promise not to become one of the young ladies
who worship curates, Kate.’
‘Me!’ said Kate, with indignation, and without grammar; and she gazed at
the big figure before her with a certain friendly contempt. Mr. Sugden
lived a dull life, and he was glad to meet with the pretty Ombra, to
walk by her side, and talk to her, or hear her talk, and even to be
invited to tea. His fall from the life of Oxford to the life of this
little rural parish had been sudden, and it had been almost more than
the poor young fellow’s head could bear. One day surrounded by young
life and energy, and all the merriment and commotion of a large
community, where there was much intellectual stir, to which his mind,
fortunately for himself, responded but faintly, and a great deal of
external activity, into which he had entered with all his heart; and the
next day to be dropped into the grey, immovable atmosphere of rural
existence--the almshouses, the infant-schools, and Farmer Thompson! The
young man had not recovered it. Life had grown strange to him, as it
seems after a sudden and bewildering fall. And it never occurred to
anybody what a great change it was, except the Rector, who thought it
rather sinful that he could not make up his mind to it at once.
Therefore, though he had a chop indifferently cooked waiting for him at
home, he abandoned it gladly for Mrs. Anderson’s bread and butter. Ombra
was very pretty, and it was a variety in the monotonous tenor of his
life.
When they had returned to the Cottage, and had seated themselves to the
simple and lady-like meal, which did not much content his vigorous young
appetite, Mr. Sugden began to be drawn out without quite understanding
the process. The scene and circumstances were quite new to him. There
was a feminine perfume about the place which subdued and fascinated him.
Everything was pleasant to look at--even the mother, who was still a
handsome woman; and a certain charm stole over the Curate, though the
bread and butter was scarcely a satisfactory meal.
‘I hope you like Shanklin?’ Mrs. Anderson said, as she poured him out
his tea.
‘Of course Mr. Sugden must say he does, whether or not,’ said Ombra.
‘Fancy having the courage to say that one does not like Shanklin before
the people who are devoted to it! But speak frankly, please, for I am
not devoted to it. I think it is dull; it is too pretty, like a scene at
the opera. Whenever you turn a corner, you come upon a picture you have
seen at some exhibition. I should like to hang it up on the wall, but
not to live in it. Now, Mr. Sugden, you can speak your mind.’
‘I never was at an exhibition,’ said Kate, ‘nor at the opera. I never
saw such a lovely place, and you know you don’t mean it, Ombra--you, who
are never tired of sketching or writing poetry about it.’
‘Does Miss Anderson write poetry?’ said the Curate, somewhat startled.
He was frightened, like most men, by such a discovery. It froze the
words on his lips.
‘No, no--she only amuses herself,’ said the mother, who knew what the
effect of such an announcement was likely to be; upon which the poor
Curate drew breath.
‘Shanklin is a very pretty place,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I am not so used to
pretty places as I ought to be. I come from the Fens myself. It is hilly
here, and there is a great deal of sea; but I don’t think,’ he added,
with a little outburst, and a painful consciousness that he had not been
eloquent--‘I don’t think there is very much to do.’
‘Except the infant-schools and the almshouses,’ said Kate.
‘Good Lord!’ said the poor young man, driven to his wits’ end; and then
he grew very red, and coughed violently, to cover, if possible, the
ejaculation into which he had been betrayed. Then he did his best to
correct himself, and put on a professional tone. ‘There is always the
work of the parish for me,’ he said, trying to look assured and
comfortable; ‘but I was rather thinking of you ladies; unless you are
fond of yachting--but I suppose everybody is who lives in the Isle of
Wight?’
‘Not me,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I do not like it, and I would not trust
my girls, even if they had a chance, which they have not. Oh! no; we
content ourselves with a very quiet life. They have their studies, and
we do what we can in the parish. I assure you a school-feast is quite a
great event.’
Mr. Sugden shuddered; he could not help it; he had not been brought up
to it; he had been trained to a lively life, full of variety, and
amusement, and exercise. He tried to say faintly that he was sure a
quiet life was the best, but the words nearly choked him. It was now
henceforward his _rôle_ to say that sort of thing; and how was he to do
it, poor young muscular, untamed man! He gasped and drank a cup of hot
tea, which he did not want, and which made him very uncomfortable. Tea
and bread and butter, and a school-feast by way of excitement! This was
what a man was brought to, when he took upon himself the office of a
priest.
‘Mr. Sugden, please tell me,’ said Kate, ‘for I want to know--is it a
very great change after Oxford to come to such a place as this?’
‘O Lord!’ cried the poor Curate again. A groan burst from him in spite
of himself. It was as if she had asked him if the change was great from
the top of an Alpine peak to the bottom of a crevasse. ‘I hope you’ll
excuse me,’ he said, with a burning blush, turning to Mrs. Anderson, and
wiping the moisture from his forehead. ‘It was such an awfully rapid
change for me; I have not had time to get used to it. I come out with
words I ought not to use, and feel inclined to do ever so many things I
oughtn’t to do--I know I oughtn’t; but then use, you know, is second
nature, and I have not had time to get out of it. If you knew how
awfully sorry I was----’
‘There is nothing to be awfully sorry about,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a
smile. But she changed the conversation, and she was rather severe upon
her guest when he went away. ‘It is clear that such a young man has no
business in the Church,’ she said, with a sharpness quite unusual to
her. ‘How can he ever be a good clergyman, when his heart is so little
in it? I do not approve of that sort of thing at all.’
‘But, auntie, perhaps he did not want to go into the Church,’ said Kate;
and she felt more and more certain that it was not the thing for Bertie
Hardwick, and that he never would take such a step, except in defiance
of her valuable advice.