Transcriber’s note
Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made
can be found at the end of the book. Formatting and special characters
are indicated as follows:
_italic_
AN OPEN VERDICT
A Novel
BY THE AUTHOR OF
‘LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET’
ETC. ETC. ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. I.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
JOHN MAXWELL AND CO.
4, SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET,
1878
[_All rights reserved._]
CONTENTS TO VOL. I.
CHAP. PAGE
I. MRS. DULCIMER HAS HER VIEWS 1
II. SWORD AND GOWN 18
III. IN THE PARISH CHURCH 31
IV. ‘DOWER’D WITH OUR CURSE, AND STRANGER’D WITH OUR OATH’ 54
V. HIS ITALIAN WIFE 73
VI. CHRISTIAN HAREFIELD’S ANSWER 101
VII. MRS. DULCIMER MEANS BUSINESS 120
VIII. THE SCRATCHELLS AT HOME 133
IX. A FLINTY-HEARTED FATHER 153
X. TWO LOVE LETTERS 166
XI. BELLA IN SEARCH OF A MISSION 180
XII. ‘OH, THINK’ST THOU WE SHALL EVER MEET AGAIN?’ 197
XIII. SIR KENRICK’S ANCESTRAL HOME 210
XIV. BELLA OVERHEARS A CONVERSATION 219
XV. MR. NAMBY’S PRESCRIPTION 245
XVI. BELLA GOES ON A VISIT 262
XVII. MRS. PIPER’S TROUBLES 272
XVIII. A WITNESS FROM THE GRAVE 299
AN OPEN VERDICT.
CHAPTER I.
MRS. DULCIMER HAS HER VIEWS.
‘SIR KENRICK would be a splendid match for her’, said the Vicar’s wife.
‘As poor as Job, and as proud as Lucifer,’ retorted the Vicar, without
lifting his eyes from a volume of his favourite Bishop Berkeley.
It was the Vicar’s way in these _tête-à-tête_ conversations by the
domestic hearth. He read, and his wife talked to him. He could keep
his attention on the most intricate chain of argument, and yet never
answer Mrs. Dulcimer’s speculative assertions or vague questionings
away from the purpose. This was the happy result of long habit. The
Vicar loved his books, and his wife loved the exercise of her tongue.
His morning hours were sacred. He studied or read as he pleased till
dinner-time, secure from feminine interruption. But the evening was
a privileged time for Mrs. Dulcimer. She brought a big workbasket,
like an inverted beehive, into the library directly after dinner, and
established herself in the arm-chair opposite the Vicar’s, ready for a
comfortable chat. A comfortable chat meant a vivacious monologue, with
an occasional remark from Mr. Dulcimer, who came in now and then like
a chorus. He had his open book on the reading easel attached to his
chair, and turned the leaves with a languid air, sometimes as if out of
mere absence of mind; but he was deep in philosophy, or metaphysics,
or theology, or antiquarianism, for the greater part of his time; and
his inward ear was listening to the mystic voices of the dead, while
his outward ear gave respectful attention to Mrs. Dulcimer’s critical
observations upon the living.
‘As poor as Job, and as proud as Lucifer,’ repeated the Vicar, with
his eye upon a stiffish passage in Berkeley.
‘I call it a proper pride,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘And as for poverty,
she would have money enough for both. And then he has the estate.’
‘Mortgaged up to the hilt.’
‘And the title.’
‘Now do you really believe, Selina, that those three letters of the
alphabet, S I R, prefixed to a man’s name, can give him the smallest
possible distinction in the estimate of any of his fellow-creatures not
lunatic?’
‘What is the use of talking in that high and mighty way, Clement? I
know that Mary Turner, an insignificant little thing with red hair and
a speckly skin, who was at school with me at the Misses Turk’s, at
Great Yafford, was very much looked up to by all the girls because her
uncle was a baronet. He lived a long way off, and he never took any
notice of her, that we could find out; but he was a baronet, and we
all felt as if there was a difference in her on that account. I don’t
pretend to say that we were not very ridiculous for thinking so,
but still you know a school is only the world in little--and the world
sets a high value on titles. I should like to see Beatrix mistress of
Culverhouse Castle.’
‘Her father’s money would be convenient for paying off the mortgages,
no doubt, provided Mr. Harefield approved of the marriage. Rather a
difficult old gentleman, I fancy.’
‘Difficult!’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer; ‘he’s detestable! a wicked old
tyrant. If it were not for our friendship Beatrix’s life would be
unendurable.’
‘Do you really think we are any good to her?’ inquired the Vicar, in
his dreamily uncertain way, as of a man who was too doubtful about the
groundwork of existence to feel any certainty about its minor details.
This was his Bishop Berkeley mood, his mind varying in hue and tone
according to the book he was reading. Just now he felt that mind was
paramount over matter, and was hardly disposed to interest himself
warmly in a young woman who might have no existence except in his own
idea of her.
‘My dear, our house is the only notion of home the poor child has,--the
only place where she meets pleasant people, or hears and sees pleasant
things. How can we fail to improve and develop her? I am sure, without
egotism, I may say that I have been a God-send to that motherless girl.
Think how _farouche_ she was when she first came to us.’
‘Yes, she was a wild, untamed kind of creature,’ assented the Vicar.
‘Beautiful as a portrait by Rembrandt though, with that tawny skin
of hers. I call her _la belle sauvage_. She always reminds me of
Pocahontas.’
‘Now wouldn’t it be a blessing, Clement, if we could see her
well married--married to a man of position, you know--and an
honourable-minded man, like Kenrick? You know you always said he was
honourable. You could always believe him.’
‘True, my love. Kenrick had his good qualities. He was not a lad that
my heart ever warmed to, but I believe he did his work honestly, and he
never told me a lie.’
‘Then don’t you think,’ urged the enthusiastic Selina, ‘that he would
make Beatrix Harefield an excellent husband?’
‘My dear,’ said the Vicar, gravely, ‘you are the best natured of women;
but I am afraid you do a great deal of harm.’
‘Clement!’
‘Yes, my love. Good-nature in the abstract is undoubtedly beautiful;
but an active good-nature, always on the alert to do some service to
its fellow-creatures, is of all attributes the most dangerous. Even the
attempt of this good man, Bishop Berkeley, to found a college in the
Bermudas resulted in waste of time and money. He would have done better
had he stayed at his Irish Deanery. The man who does least harm in the
world is your calmly selfish person who goes through life by the narrow
path of a rational self-indulgence, and never turns aside to benefit or
interfere with the rest of the human race.’
‘One of your dreadful paradoxes, Clement. How does that agree with St.
Paul’s definition of charity?’
‘My love, St. Paul’s charity is a supremely passive virtue. It
suffereth long, is not easily provoked, is not puffed up, thinketh no
evil--all which qualities are compatible with strict neutrality as to
one’s fellow-creatures’ affairs.’
‘Suffereth long--_and is kind_, you left that out, Clement.’
‘Kindness there I take to imply a mental state, and not a pushing,
exacting benevolence,’ replied the Vicar. ‘Charity poketh not its nose
into its neighbour’s business--maketh not matches--busieth not itself
with the conduct of other people’s lives--and never doeth any harm.
Good-nature does no end of mischief--in a perfectly well-meaning way.’
The Vicar spoke with some soreness. Poor Mrs. Dulcimer’s good-nature,
and sometimes misdirected energy, had been getting her into trouble
for the last twenty years. Everybody liked her; everybody dreaded and
abhorred her good-nature. She had no children of her own, and was
always full of good advice for the mothers of her acquaintance. She
knew when babies ought to be weaned, and when they were sickening for
the measles. She tried to heal family quarrels, and invariably made the
breach wider. She loved match-making, but her matches, when brought
to the triumphant conclusion of licence or wedding cake, seldom stood
the test of a few years’ matrimony. She was so eager to do the best
for the young men and women of her acquaintance, that she generally
brought ill-assorted people together, taking too broad a view of the
fitness of things, on the ground of income, family, age, and such
vulgar qualifications, and ignoring those subtle differences which set
an eternal mark of separation upon certain members of the human family.
‘I think, Selina, if I were you, I would leave Beatrix to find
a husband for herself,’ said the Vicar, stretching out his legs
comfortably before the wide hearth. ‘She is young--there is plenty of
time. Let her come here as often as she pleases. I like to see that
Rembrandt face of hers. But let things take their own course.
“There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will.”
Don’t you think it is almost an impertinence towards that ever active
Providence for us poor worms to be always taking one another’s lives
under our petty protection, and trying to shape them our way?’
‘Clement!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, ruffling her plumes a little. She
wore a good deal of lace frilling and muslin puffing about her neck and
breast, and these adornments were subject to an occasional agitation,
like the feathers of an excited Dorking, or one of the Vicar’s
golden-pencilled Hamburgs. ‘Clement,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘you have a
beautiful temper, but I’m afraid you are selfish.’
The Vicar laid down his book with a smile of satisfaction. He saw the
opportunity for a paradox.
‘My love, did you ever know a good-tempered man who wasn’t selfish?
or rather, did you ever know a thoroughly selfish person who wasn’t
good-tempered? Your wisely selfish man knows his own interest too well
to fret and fume about trifles. He knows that, after five-and-twenty
years of age, the supreme good in this life is repose, and that he can
never enjoy it unless he cultivates an easy temper.’
‘Selfishness is a vice, Clement.’
‘That depends upon what we call selfishness. If a strict neutrality as
to my neighbour’s business means selfishness, assuredly I am the most
selfish of men.’
‘The Gospel tells us we are to love our neighbour as ourselves,
Clement.’
‘I obey that divine precept implicitly. I never worry myself. I never
worry my neighbour.’
The Vicar might have gone a step further, and said that he liked to
feed his neighbour as well as he liked to feed himself--for, in that
one quality of caring for the body as well as for the souls of other
people, Clement Dulcimer was a faithful follower of his Divine Master.
‘And I’m afraid you allow things in your parish that oughtn’t to be,
Clement, sometimes,’ ventured Mrs. Dulcimer.
‘My dear, God allows them. They are done under the All-seeing Eye. If
He cannot make men better, do you suppose I can?’
‘You might lead them to Him, dear.’
‘I try my best to do that, Selina; but I don’t drive them. That’s
where I fall short, I admit. Cyril is trying his hand at the driving
process. He’s young and energetic. We shall see how it answers, and how
long he sticks at it.’
‘Cyril is the most earnest young man you’ve ever had as a curate.’
‘I taught him myself, and I know what he’s made of,’ murmured the Vicar.
‘And there’s no denying that he has done good already, Clement. The
schools are better attended, and there are more poor people at church
on a Sunday evening.’
‘Since you have such a high opinion of Cyril, how is it that you have
never thought of him as a husband for Beatrix? A clergyman ought to
marry a fortune if he marries at all. He can put the money out to
higher interest than any one else. He keeps a deposit account in
heaven.’
‘But, Clement, the title!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, ‘and Culverhouse
Castle. Such a position for dear Beatrix.’
‘Ah, to be sure, the position! I suppose a girl thinks more about
that now-a-days than of her lover’s mind or person. But certainly
Cyril is both handsomer and cleverer than his cousin Kenrick. I
should like a curate with a large income, it would be so good for the
parish. And then we might rub on without the weekly offertory Cyril is
always plaguing me to institute, and which I am convinced will set my
congregation against me. Fancy me going up to my pulpit as a beggar
every Sunday, and my people expecting value for their money out of my
sermon. Imagine their remarks at the church door: “Not much there for
sixpence,” “A very poor shilling’s worth,” and so forth.’
‘Clement,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, thoroughly scandalized this time,
and with all her frills in motion, ‘you ought never to have been a
clergyman.’
‘My love, I freely admit that some easier walk in life might have
suited me better. A sub-librarian’s place, now, in some antique
library, like the Cheetham Institution at Manchester. I should have
had my books round me, and my superior to tell me what to do. No
responsibilities, and leisure for self-culture. But if I am a poor
creature as a parson, you supplement me so well, Selina, that, between
us, I think we do our duty to the parish. That last batch of soup was
excellent. I tasted it yesterday at old dame Hardy’s. The clear soup
we get at Lord Highflyer’s state dinners is mere pot-liquor compared
with it. Indeed, I think,’ pursued the Vicar, dreamily, as if he were
meditating a proposition of Berkeley’s, ‘that all clear soups are more
or less a mistake--tasting only of sherry and burnt sugar.’
‘Always thinking of temporal blessings, Clement.’
‘They are the only blessings we can fully realize while on this side of
eternity, my dear. We may be excused if we sometimes set an undue value
on them.’
Mrs. Dulcimer sighed, and opened her workbasket. There were little
shirts and flannel swathings to be made for new-comers into this world
of troubles--heirs apparent to a life of labour, with a reversionary
interest in the workhouse. The Vicar’s wife spread her piece of linen
on the table, and began a series of problems with a parallelogram
in stiff brown paper, in order to find out how she might get the
maximum of baby-shirts out of the minimum of linen. It vexed her that
her husband should take life so lightly, and be troubled about a few
things, when she was troubled about so many. She had no doubt that he
was in the wrong, and that she and Cyril Culverhouse understood the
real meaning of their duties a great deal better than the Vicar.
Clement Dulcimer was the living embodiment of an idea which at this
time had not yet been put before the world by Mr. Matthew Arnold. He
was all sweetness and light. He believed in culture as the highest
good. He lived among his books, and upon his books; and those books
were of the best that the elect of this world have written. He sought
no happiness beyond his library, save in his garden and poultry yard,
which afforded his senses the gratification of colour and sweet scents,
sunshine and balmy air. He had travelled little, and sighed but faintly
for a pleasure which he found impossible. His books and his poor
absorbed all his spare cash. There was none left for foreign travel--so
Mr. Dulcimer was content to enjoy Greece in the pages of Thucydides,
or Childe Harold--to stand on the threshold of the sacred grove with
Antigone--to know Cithæron only on the lips of Œdipus--to see the sandy
plain of Marathon, or the walls of Thebes, with his mind’s eye alone.
‘I dare say I should be disappointed if I saw the reality,’ he murmured
placidly. ‘Realities are so disenchanting. Or I might be taken by
brigands, and poor Selina would have to sell her great-grand-father’s
silver tea-kettle to ransom me.’
The living at Little Yafford was a good one, and the parish was small.
It was altogether one of those exceptional cures which are reserved
for the more fortunate sons of the Church. Mr. Dulcimer had obtained
it while he was still a young man, the living being in the gift of his
uncle, Sir Philip Dulcimer, of Hawtree Hall and Yafford Park. Yafford
Park was rather a dreary place, with an unwieldly barrack of the
Georgian era in the middle of it, and Sir Philip had been very glad to
grant a large lease of park and mansion to Mr. Piper, the Great Yafford
cotton-spinner, who spent a great deal more money in little Yafford
than Sir Philip would have done, but who was looked down upon by his
neighbours on principle. Great Yafford, the manufacturing town five
miles off, was as Radical a place as you would care to find, but Little
Yafford was essentially aristocratic, ignored the commercial element
altogether, and thought it an affliction to be so near the tall chimney
shafts of the busy town.
Little Yafford had perhaps some right to give itself airs, on the
strength of being one of the prettiest villages in Yorkshire. It was
like a spoiled beauty, and felt that nothing could be too good for it.
Great bleak hills rose up between it and the bitter east winds, a river
wound in and out of the village like a shining serpent, and licked its
green meadows and garden boundaries. The long low stone bridge was as
old as the Romans. There was not an ugly house in the place--except
that big barrack of Sir Philip’s, and that was hidden behind the fine
old elms and oaks of the park. There was not a neglected garden, or
an objectionable pigsty. The gentry were all well-to-do people, who
bestowed money and care upon the beautification of their homes; while
the poorer parishioners were under the influence of Mr. Dulcimer’s
sweetness and light, and Mrs. Dulcimer’s active good-nature, and
laboured industriously to make their cottages lovely.
To come from stony, noisy, smoky, crowded Great Yafford to pastoral
Little Yafford, was like coming from purgatory to paradise--an earthly
paradise of rustic beauty and placid repose, content, and harmony. Yet
Mr. Dulcimer’s last new curate, Cyril Culverhouse, breathed many a
thoughtful sigh over the ignorances and even vice which he discovered
in this smiling village. Coming out of some cottage door, over which
the roses and honeysuckle hung in unpruned luxuriance, his lips would
often involuntarily ejaculate the familiar words of the evening
collect--‘Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, O Lord.’