That weekly ceremony--well known to Trimmer's Green--Mrs. Lovegrove's
afternoon at-home, was in progress. She wore her black satin gown, and
her white Maltese lace fichu, just to give it a touch of summer
lightness. It must be added that she was warm and uncomfortable, having
conscientiously superintended preparations in respect of commissariat
in the overheated atmosphere of the basement; hurried upstairs--the
imagined tinkle of the front-door bell perpetually in her ears--to pull
her stays in at the waist and project herself into the aforementioned
official garments--a very trying process on a June day to a person of
ample contours and what may be described as the fluidic temperament.
Later she had cooled off, or tried so to cool--for on such occasions
there is invariably some window-blind, ornament, or piece of furniture
actively in need of straightening--sitting in her somewhat fog-stained
and sun-faded drawing-room during that evil period of waiting in which
the intending hostess first suffers acute mortification because she is
"quite sure nobody will come," and then gets hot all over from the
equally agitating certainty that everybody she has ever known will
appear simultaneously, and that there will be neither cakes nor
conversation enough to go round.
But this disquieting and oft-repeated preface to the afternoon's
festivity was now happily over. And the good lady, oblivious of
discomfort and a slightly disorganised complexion, sat purring with
satisfaction upon her best Chesterfield sofa, Dr. Giles Nevington
beside her. "Pleasure, not business, to-day, Mrs. Lovegrove. For once I
am going to make no demands on my faithful and able coadjutor. This
call is a purely friendly one--no subscription lists of any sort or
description in my pocket," the clergyman had said in his resonant bass
when clasping her hand.--A large, dark, clean-shaven man of forty, a
studied effect of geniality and benevolence about him, slightly
tempered, perhaps, by cold and watchful blue-grey eyes, fixed--so said
his detractors--with unswerving determination upon the shovel-hat,
apron, and gaiters of the Anglican episcopate.
Rhoda Lovegrove, however, was very far from being among the detractors.
She relished this gracious speech enormously. She also approved the
attitude of her husband at this juncture; since, with praiseworthy
tact, he engaged the attention of her two other guests, a Mrs. Ballard
and her daughter. These ladies were rich, the younger had pretensions
both to beauty and fashion; but their present was, alas! stained by
Noncomformity, their past contaminated by association with retail
trade. At the entrance of the vicar, remembering these sad defects,
George Lovegrove rose to the occasion. Gently, but firmly, he pranced
round them heading them towards the doorway.
"Who are those?" Dr. Nevington inquired, with some interest. "Not
parishioners, I fancy."
"Not in any true sense," Mrs. Lovegrove replied. "Dissenters, and I am
sorry to say rather spiteful against the Church."
The clergyman leaned back and crossed his legs comfortably.
"Ah! well, poor human nature! A touch of jealousy perhaps," he remarked.
Mrs. Lovegrove beamed.
"Very likely--still I should be just as well pleased not to continue
their acquaintance. I don't like to hear things that are disrespectful.
I should have ceased to call, but relatives of theirs are old friends
of Mr. Lovegrove's mother's family."
"Quite so, quite so," the other returned. Even when silent the sound of
him seemed to encompass him, as the roll of a drum seems to salute you
when merely beholding that instrument. His speech filled all the room,
flowing forth into every corner, sweeping upward in waves to the very
cornice. The feminine members of his congregation found this most
beautiful; having, indeed, been known to declare that did he preach in
Chinese, they would still receive edification and spiritual
benefit.--"Quite so," he repeated, "the breaking of old family ties is
certainly to be avoided. And then, moreover, we should always guard
against any appearance of harshness or illiberality in dealing with
Christians from whom we have reason to differ in minor questions of
doctrine or practice. We must never forget that the Nonconformists,
though they went out from us, do remain the brethren of all
right-minded Churchmen in a very special sense, since they have the
great lessons of the Reformation at heart. I could wish that certain
parties within the Church were animated by the same manly and
intelligent intolerance of idolatry and superstition as the majority of
the dissenters whom I meet. Personally I should welcome greater freedom
of intercourse, and a frequent interchange of pulpits."
"We know who'd be the gainers," Mrs. Lovegrove put in gracefully.
"Ah! well, I am prepared to believe that the gain might not be
exclusively on one side."
Mrs. Lovegrove folded her fat hands, purring almost audibly. He seemed
to her so very wise and good.
"That's so like you, Dr. Nevington," she said. "As I always tell Mr.
Lovegrove, we have a great responsibility in having you for our pastor
and friend. You are a standing rebuke to many of us, being so
wide-minded yourself."
"Hardly that, hardly that," he answered with becoming modesty. "In my
humble way I do strive towards unity, that is all. Even towards the
Church of Rome I would extend a friendly and helpful hand. We cannot,
of course, go to her, yet she should never be discouraged from coming
to us.--But here is your good husband back again--ceased to be unevenly
yoked with the unbeliever, eh, Lovegrove?"
"I was glad you took them away, Georgie," Mrs. Lovegrove put in. "Still
I'm sorry for you, for the vicar's been talking so nobly. You've missed
such a lot."
"Ah, hardly that. I have merely been giving your dear good wife a
little lecture on Christian charity. How is Mrs. Nevington? Thank you,
wonderfull well, earnest and energetic as ever. I do not know how I
could meet the demands of this large parish without her."
"A true helpmeet," purred Mrs. Lovegrove.
"Truly so--and specially in all questions of organisation. She is
altogether my superior in administrative capacity. Indeed, it is an
understood thing between us that I relieve her of what may be called
the bad third of her marriage vow. If she will love and honour, I
assure her I am ready to obey. A capital working rule for husbands--eh,
Lovegrove?--always supposing they have found the right woman, as you
and I have."
In the midst of this delicious badinage the hostess had to rise to
receive further guests. Conflicting emotions struggled within her ample
bosom--namely, regret at leaving that thrice happy sofa, and
satisfaction that others should behold the glory thereon so visibly
enthroned.
"How d'ye do, Mrs. Porcher? How d'ye do, Miss Hart?" she said. "Very
kind of you to come and call. Only a few friends as yet, but perhaps
that's just as pleasant this warm afternoon. Dr. Nevington, as you see,
and at his very best"--she lowered her voice discreetly. "So at home,
so full of great thoughts, and yet so comical--quite a privilege for
all to hear him talk."
Encouraged by recent commendation, George Lovegrove again rose with
praiseworthy tact to the occasion. It may be stated in passing that, in
person, he was below the middle height, a thick oblong man, his figure,
indeed, not unsuggestive of a large carapace, from the four corners of
which sprouted short arms and legs. His face was round, fresh-coloured,
and clean to the point of polish. His yellowish grey hair, well
flattened and shining, grew far back on his forehead. And this,
combined with small blue eyes, clear as a child's, a slight inward
squint to them, produced an effect of permanent and innocent surprise
not devoid of pathos. In character he was guileless and humble-minded.
The spectacle of cruelty or injustice would, however, rouse him to the
belligerent attitude of the proverbial _brebis enragé_. He believed
himself to be very happy--an added touch of pathos perhaps--and was
pained and surprised if it was brought home to him that others found
life a less comfortable and kindly invention than he himself did. Hence
reports of suicides worried him sadly. He would always have returned a
verdict of temporary insanity, this being to him the only explanation
conceivable of a voluntary exit from our so excellent present form of
existence. Yet George Lovegrove was not without his little secret
sorrow--who indeed is? A deep-seated regret for nonexistent small
Lovegroves possessed him, the instinct of paternity being strong in
him. He loved children, and, when alone, often lingered beside
perambulators in Kensington Gardens fondly observing their contents.
Yet not for ten thousand pounds sterling would he have admitted this
weakness, lest in doing so he should hurt "the wife's feelings." And it
was in obedience to consideration for the said feelings that he now
threw himself gallantly into the breach. For, after acting as
appreciative chorus to an interlude of sonorous trifling on the part of
the clergyman with the newcomers, he adroitly--under promise of showing
her recent additions to his collection of picture postcards--detached
Miss Eliza Hart from the neighbourhood of the sofa and conveyed her to
the farther side of the room. Mrs. Porcher, neat, pensive, and
sentimental, could be trusted to play the part of attentive listener;
but the great Eliza, as he knew by experience, was liable to develop
dangerous energy, to get a little above herself, shake her leonine mane
of upstanding sandy hair, and become altogether too talkative, not to
say loud, for such distinguished company. Personally he had a soft spot
in his heart for Eliza. But, if she put herself forward, he feared for
"the wife's feelings," therefore did he skilfully detach her.
And he had reason to congratulate himself on this manoeuvre, for Eliza
undoubtedly was in a frolicsome humour.
"Yes," she remarked, contemplating the portrait of a celebrated
actress. "That is very taking and stylish; and it is just what I should
like to have done with my Peachie." This graceful _sobriquet_ was
generally understood to bear testimony to the excellence of Mrs.
Porcher's complexion. "Now, if we wanted a gentleman guest or two more
at any time, a picture postcard of her like this, just slightly tinted,
in answer to inquiries?"
Miss Hart, her head on one side, looked playfully at Mr. Lovegrove.
"What about a subsequent summons for over-crowding?" he chuckled. The
whole breadth of the room, well understood, was between him and the
wife's feelings, not to mention the august presence beside her upon the
sofa.
"No doubt that has to be thought of!" Eliza nodded sagely. "But is she
not looking sweeter than ever to-day? Do not pretend you have not
noticed it, Mr. Lovegrove. There's no deceiving me! I know you."
Like all mild and moral men, Lovegrove flushed with delight at any
suggestion that he was a gay dog, a dashing blade. His good, honest
face took on a higher polish than ever.
"You are too clever by half, Miss Hart."
"Well, somebody has to keep their wits about them, with such a love as
Peachie to care for. I dressed her myself to-day. 'The pearl-grey gown
if you like,' I said, 'but not a scrap of black with it. Just a touch
of colour at the throat, please.' 'No, dear Liz,' she said, 'it would
call for remark, since I have never done so since I lost Major
Porcher.' But there, Mr. Lovegrove, I insisted. For why she should go
on wearing complimentary mourning all her life for a wretch that nearly
broke her heart and ruined her, passes me. 'Forget the serpent,' I
said, 'and put on a little turquoise tulle pompom.' Now just look at
her!"
"Rather dangerous for some people, is it not?" Lovegrove inquired quite
slyly.
"Hard on our gentlemen, you mean? Well, perhaps it is. But then they
always have the sight of me to put up with.--No compliments, thank you.
I have my eyesight and my toilet-glass, and they have let me know I was
no Venus ever since I can remember. It would not do to depress our
gentlemen too much. They might leave, and then wherever would Cedar
Lodge be?"
Miss Hart became suddenly serious and confidential. "And that reminds
me," she went on. "I wanted to have a private word with you to-day
about a certain gentleman."
"Who may be?" the good George inquired.
"You can guess, can't you? Your own candidate."
"Mr. Iglesias?"
The lady nodded.
"Peachie must be spared anxiety, therefore I speak, Mr. Lovegrove.
Something is going on, and she is getting worried. You cannot approach
the person to whom we are alluding as you can either of our others.
Rather stand-offish, even now after nearly eight years that he has been
with us. Between you and me and the bedpost, Mr. Lovegrove, I am just a
wee bit nervous of that person. So if you could hint, quite in
confidence, what his plans may be for the future it would' be really
friendly."
"Dear me, dear me! Plans? I do not quite follow you, Miss Hart. Nothing
wrong with him, I trust?"
"That is just what we cannot find out. No spying, of course, Mr.
Lovegrove. Neither Peachie nor I would descend to such meanness. Our
gentlemen have perfect liberty. We would scorn to put questions. But it
is close on a week now since the person we are alluding to has been to
the City."
"Bless me! You surprise me. He cannot have left Barking Brothers &
Barking?"
The great Eliza shook her leonine mane.
"I believe that is just exactly what he has done."
"You do surprise me. I can hardly credit it. Nearly a week, and he as
punctual and regular as clockwork! I must run over this evening and
catch him. Something must be wrong. And yet why has he not been here?
Dear me. Miss Hart, you----"
But the end of the sentence was lost in the bass notes issuing from the
presence upon the sofa.
"Truly, the prosperity of the nation," Dr. Nevington was saying, "of
this dear old England of ours that we so love, is wholly bound up with
the prosperity of her national Church. I use the word prosperity in a
plain, manly, straightforward sense. Personally I should rejoice to see
the bonds of Church and State drawn closer. It could not fail to make
for the welfare of both. Then, among other benefits, we should see the
poverty of many members of my cloth, which is now a crying scandal--"
"You do hear very sad tales from the country districts, certainly,"
sighed Mrs. Lovegrove.
"The state of affairs is more than sad, it is iniquitous. And therefore
the Church must assert herself. The individual minister must assert
himself, and claim a higher scale of remuneration. Help yourself, show
push and principle, cultivate practical aims--that is what I preach to
young men reading for Holy Orders. We have no place in these days for
visionaries and dreamers. We want men who march with the times, who are
interested in politics, and can make themselves felt."
So did the great voice roll on and outward. Very beautiful to the
listeners in sound--though, in sense, it may be questioned whether it
conveyed very definite ideas to them--but highly embarrassing to the
house-parlourmaid, whose feminine tones quite failed to make headway
against the volume of it. With the consequence that Dominic Iglesias
was left standing in the shadow of the doorway unheeded.
He was aware, and that not without surprise, how much these few days of
freedom and leisure had quickened his perceptions. His mental attitude
had changed. His demand had ceased to be moderate. Hence he suffered a
hundred offences to taste and sensibility hitherto unknown, or at least
unregistered. He knew when a woman was plain, when a conversation was
vapid or vulgar, a manner pretentious, a speech lacking in sincerity.
Consciously he stood aside, no longer out of humility or indifference,
but critically observant, challenging things however familiar, and
passing judgment upon them. For example, the unlovely character of Mrs.
Lovegrove's drawing-room engrossed his attention--the dirty-browns and
tentative watery blues of it, the multiplicity of flimsy, worthless,
little ornaments revealing a most lamentable absence of artistic
perception. In that fine booming clerical voice he detected a kindred
absence of delicate perception, a showiness born of very inadequate
conception of relative values. Indeed, the voice and the sentiments
given forth by it, in as far as he caught the drift of them, raised a
definite spirit of antagonism in him. The voice seemed to trample.
Dominic Iglesias was taken with an inclination--very novel in him--to
trample, too. He crossed the room, an added touch of gravity and
dignity in his aspect and manner.
The clergyman gazed at him with some curiosity, while Mrs. Lovegrove
surged up off the sofa.
"Mr. Iglesias! Well, of all people! Whoever would have expected to see
you at this early hour of the day?"
"Talk of a certain gentleman and that gentleman appears," Miss Eliza
Hart whispered. Then wagging her finger at her host, "Now don't you
forget that little question of mine. Find out his intentions, just, as
you may say, under the rose. But there's Peachie signalling to go."
In the ensuing interval of farewells, which were slightly protracted
owing to friskiness on the part of the fair Eliza, Iglesias found
himself standing beside the clergyman. The latter still regarded him
with curiosity. But, whatever his faults, not his worst enemy could
accuse Dr. Nevington of being a respecter of persons unless he was well
assured beforehand whom such persons might be. He therefore turned to
Iglesias with the easy air of patronage not uncommon to his cloth, as
one who should say: "My good sir, don't be afraid. I am a man of the
world as well as a Christian. I will handle you gently. I won't hurt
you."
"I think I caught a foreign name," he remarked. "You are paying a visit
to London? I hope our capital makes an agreeable impression upon you."
"The visit has been of such long duration," Iglesias answered, "that
impressions have, I am afraid, become slightly blurred by usage."
"Ah! indeed--no doubt that happens in some measure to all of us. I am
to understand that you are a resident?"
Iglesias assented.
"In this district?"
Again he assented.
"Indeed. Really, I wish I had known it sooner. It always gives me
pleasure to meet persons of another nationality than my own.
Intercourse with them makes for liberality of view. It often dispels
anti-English prejudice. I am always glad to be helpful to strangers."
"You are very kind," Iglesias said with gravity.
"Not at all--not at all. I hold very practical views not only regarding
the duties of the Englishman to the alien, but of the pastor towards
his flock. But I find it almost impossible, I regret to say, to become
personally acquainted with all my parishioners. My curates are capital
young fellows--earnest, active, go-ahead. But in a large area such as
this there is always a shifting population with which the clergy,
however energetic, find it difficult to keep in touch. We are obliged
to discriminate between dwellers and sojourners. As soon as any person
is proved to be a _bona fide_ dweller my curates pass his or her name
on to me, and either I or my wife call in due course."
Dominic Iglesias permitted himself to smile.
"An excellent system, no doubt," he remarked.
"I find it works very well on the whole. But no system is infallible.
There must be occasional oversights, and you have been the victim of
one. I mention this to disabuse your mind of the idea of any
intentional neglect. Well, Mrs. Lovegrove, and so our good friends Mrs.
Porcher and Miss Hart have gone--estimable women both of them in their
own line. I ought to be running away, too, and I have just been having
a word with your other guest here, Mr.----"
"Iglesias," Dominic put in coldly. He was in a state of pretty high
displeasure. To hear his name mispronounced might, he felt, precipitate
a catastrophe.
"Iglesias?--ah! yes, thank you--I have been explaining to Mr. Iglesias
our system of parochial visiting and quoting our well-known joke about
the dwellers and sojourners. You remember it? He has, I regret to find,
been counted among the latter, while he has qualified as one of the
former. The mistake must be remedied. Well, good-by to you, Mrs.
Lovegrove; I shall see your good husband on my way downstairs. Good-day
to you, Mr. Iglesias. I shall hope to meet you again."
And with that he, and the encompassing sound of him, moved towards the
door. Mrs. Lovegrove subsided upon the sofa. The supreme glory had
departed, yet an afterglow from the effulgence of it remained in her
beaming face as she looked up at Mr. Iglesias.
"It was a good fairy that brought you in so early to-day," she said.
"Really, I am pleased you should have had the chance to meet Dr.
Nevington. And I could see he was quite taken with you, by the way he
began to talk before I had the chance to introduce you. But that's the
vicar all over! He never is one to stand upon ceremony."
"So I can believe," Dominic said.
"You saw it? Ah, part of his thoughtfulness, wanting to put everybody
at their ease. And I'm sure if there's one thing more disheartening
than another, it is to have two of your friends standing up side by
side, as stiff as a couple of pokers, without so much as a word. I know
I am too ready to enter into conversation with strangers; but if there
is a thing I cannot bear, it's any appearance of coolness."
She passed her handkerchief round her forehead and across her lips. She
was marshalling her energies for a daring effort.
"Very warm, is it not?" she remarked, perhaps superfluously. Then she
came to the point. "I know you are not very much of a churchgoer, Mr.
Iglesias."
"I am afraid not"--he paused a moment. "You see, I was born and brought
up in another faith."
"Yes--so George has told me. But I am sure none of us would ever be so
illiberal as to throw that up against you. The vicar has been talking
so beautifully about Christian charity; and we all know it was a thing
you could not help. It was your misfortune, anybody would understand
that, not your fault. Too, it's all over long ago and forgotten."
Dominic looked rather hard at her; but it was clear her words were
innocent of any intention of offence.
"I suppose it is," he said sadly, Old Age and Loneliness laying their
hands upon him, for some reason, very sensibly once again.
"Not that that's anything to be otherwise than thankful for," she
added, with a slightly misplaced effort at consolation. "Of course
anyone must feel how providential it is to be saved from all those
terrible false doctrines and practices--not that I know anything about
them. There's so much, don't you think, it is so much better not to
know anything about. Then one feels more at liberty to speak."
Mr. Iglesias smiled.
"I am not sure that the matter had occurred from exactly that point of
view before."
"Really now, and a clever person like you!" Mrs. Lovegrove passed her
handkerchief across her forehead again. "George has a wonderful opinion
of your cleverness, you know. And that is why I have always wished you
and the vicar could be brought together. I have--yes, I own to it--I
have been afraid sometimes you were a little unsettled about religion,
and that it might unsettle Georgie, too. But I knew if you once met the
vicar that would all be set right. As I often say to George, let
anybody just _see_ Dr. Nevington and then they will begin to have an
inkling of all they miss in not hearing him in the pulpit."
But here, perhaps fortunately, the master of the house trotted back.
He, too, beamed. He was filled with innocent rejoicing. Had he not
successfully protected the wife's feelings, and was not Iglesias--who
remained to him a wonderful being, stirring whatever element of romance
might be resident in his guileless nature--present in person?
"Why, what's the meaning of this, Dominic?" he chuckled. "You've turned
over a new leaf, gadding round to at-home days! Where's Threadneedle
Street? What's come over you?"
"Threadneedle Street and I have agreed to part company."
"What, for good? Never?" this from both husband and wife.
"Yes, for good," Iglesias said.
Mr. Lovegrove ceased to beam. He became anxious again, and consequently
solemn.
"Well, you do surprise me," he said. "Nothing gone wrong, I trust? Not
any unpleasantness happened?"
"None," Iglesias answered. In breaking the news to these kindly but
rudimentary souls he had determined to treat it very lightly. "I have
come to the conclusion that I have worked long enough. It is a mistake
to risk dying in harness. You retired, Lovegrove, three years ago. I am
going to look about me a little and see what the rest of the world is
doing."
"You'll miss the bank, and feel a little strange at first. Georgie did,
though he had his home to interest him," Mrs. Lovegrove remarked.
"Undoubtedly George was more fortunate than I am," Iglesias replied, in
his most courtly manner.
"Not but that all that could be easily remedied," she added, with a
touch of archness. Then Mr. Iglesias thought it time to depart. In the
hall his host held him, literally by the buttonhole, looking up with
squinting blue eyes into his face.
"It's all rather sudden, Dominic," he said. "I do not want to intrude
upon your confidence; but if there is anything behind, anything in
which I can help?"
Mr. Iglesias shook his head.
"Nothing, my good old friend," he said.
"The wife's right, you know. You'll miss the bank, the regular hours,
and the occupation. She's quite right. I did at first."
"I know. But already I have pretty well got through that phase, I
think."
"Ah, you have a bigger mind than mine. You can rise to a wider view.
Change affects a commonplace man like myself most. I was dreadfully
lost at first--more than the wife knew. Females are very sensitive, and
it would have hurt her to know all I felt. If the Almighty is good
enough to give a man a faithful woman to look after him, he can't be
too scrupulous in sparing her pain--at least, so I think." Suddenly his
tone changed. "But you are not going to leave us, Dominic?--you are not
going to move, I do hope?"
He was mindful of his promise to Eliza Hart, but he was also mindful of
himself. It had occurred to him for how very much in the interest and
pleasure of his life Dominic Iglesias really stood.
"Why, should you regret my going? Should you miss me?" the other asked,
struck by his tone.
"Miss you," he said, "and after a friendship covering forty years! I
know you are my superior in every way. I know I am not on your level.
All the advantage is on my side in our friendship, always has been. But
that is just where it is. Why, you know, Dominic--next to the wife of
course--all along you have been the best thing I had."
Then it came to Iglesias, looking down at him, that among the many
millions of his fellow-mortals, this whimsical childlike being stood
nearest to him in sympathy and in love. The thought moved him
strangely, at once deepening his sense of isolation and lessening the
load of it.
"In that case I will not move. I will stay here, at Trimmer's Green,"
he said.
When Mr. Lovegrove reentered the sun-faded drawing-room his wife
greeted him in these words:
"Well, I have been thinking it all over, Georgie, and we shall only be
doing our duty by Mr. Iglesias if we send for your cousin Serena. For
my part, I don't trust Mrs. Porcher. Did you see that fly-away blue
bow? Those who seem so soft are often the deepest. And widows have all
sorts of little cunning ways with them." She rose from the thrice happy
sofa. "I was gratified to have Dr. Nevington and Mr. Iglesias meet. But
we certainly will have to send for Serena," she said.