Serena's manner, though gracious, was lofty, almost regal. She had,
indeed, lately looked upon crowned heads, and the glory of them seemed,
somehow, to have rubbed off on her.
"Yes," she said, "I came up for the Queen's funeral. Lady Samuelson
felt it was a thing I ought not to miss, and I agreed with her. It was
inconvenient to leave home, because I had a number of engagements.
Still, I felt I might regret it afterwards if I did not see it. And
then, of course, Lady Samuelson was so kind the year before last, when
I had so very much to worry me, that I feel I owe it to her to stay
with her whenever she asks me to do so. Where did you see the
procession from, Rhoda?"
"Well, on the whole I thought it better to remain at home," Mrs.
Lovegrove confessed, "though Georgie was most pressing I should go with
him. You are slender, Serena, and that makes a great deal of difference
in going about. But I find crowds and excitement very trying. And then
it must all have been very affecting and solemn. I doubted if I could
witness it without giving way too much and troubling others. It is
mortifying to feel you are spoiling the pleasure of those that are with
you, and I wanted poor Georgie to enjoy himself as much as he could."
"In that case it was certainly better to remain at home," Serena
rejoined. "I have my feelings very much under control. Even when I was
quite a child that used to be said of me. It used to irritate Susan."
"Susan has a more impetuous nature," Mrs. Lovegrove observed. The day
of domestic eclipse was happily passed. She had come into her own
again; consequently she was disposed to be slightly argumentative,
sitting here upon her own Chesterfield sofa in her own drawing-room,
even with Serena.
"I wonder if she has--I mean I wonder whether Susan really has a more
impetuous nature," the latter rejoined, "or whether she is only more
wanting in self-control. I often think people get credit for strong
feelings, when it is only that they make no effort to control
themselves. And that is unfair. I never have been able to see why it
was considered so creditable to have strong feelings. They usually give
a lot of inconvenience to other people. I am not sure that it is not
self-indulgent to have strong feelings.--We had excellent places just
opposite the Marble Arch. Of course Lady Samuelson has a great deal of
interest; and we saw everything. In some ways I think, as a sight, the
procession was overrated. But I am glad I went. You can never tell
whether anything is worth seeing or not until you have seen it; and so
I certainly might have regretted if I had not gone. Still, I think you
were quite wise in not going, Rhoda, if you were likely to be upset;
and then, as you say, it must be unpleasant getting about if one is
very stout. Of course, I cannot really enter into that. I take after
mamma's family. They are always slender. But the Lovegroves often grow
stout. George, of course, has, and I should not be surprised if Susan
did when she is older. But then Susan and I are entirely different in
almost everything."
"I suppose you have heard of our dear vicar being appointed to the new
bishopric of Slowby, Serena," Mrs. Lovegrove remarked. The amplitude,
or non-amplitude, of the family figure was beginning to get upon her
nerves.
"Oh! dear, yes, of course I have," Serena answered with raised eyebrows
and a condescending expression of countenance. "Not that it will make
very much difference to me, I suppose. I am so little at home now. But
naturally people, hearing we knew the Nevingtons, came to us for
information about them. I don't think anybody had ever heard of Dr.
Nevington at Slowby, and so they were very glad to learn anything we
could tell them. Of course it is a very great rise for Dr. Nevington,
though he will only be a suffragan bishop. Still, he must be very much
flattered, after merely having a parish of this kind. Susan is very
pleased at the appointment. She wrote to Dr. Nevington immediately and
has had a number of letters from him. I was quite willing she should
write, but she told him how popular his appointment was in
Midlandshire. And I thought that was going rather far, because Susan
has no real means of knowing whether it is popular or not. She could
only know that she thought she liked it herself, and had praised him
among her friends. And I wonder whether she is right--I mean I wonder
whether she really will like it. Of course Susan has been very
prominent and has had everything her own way with most of the
clergymen's wives in Slowby. I think that has been rather bad for Susan
and given her an undue idea of her own importance. Now naturally Mrs.
Nevington will be the head of everything and the clergymen's wives will
go for advice to her. I do not see how Susan can help disliking that.
And then Mrs. Nevington is said to be a very good public speaker. I am
perfectly certain Susan will dislike that. For I always observe that
people who speak a great deal themselves, like Susan, never get on well
with other good speakers."--She moved a little, throwing back the
fronts of her black beaded jacket--her complimentary mourning was
scrupulously correct--and adjusting the black silk tie at her throat.
"Of course I may be mistaken," she added, "but if you ask me, Rhoda, I
fancy you will find that Susan and Mrs. Nevington will not remain
friends for very long."
"I am distressed to hear you express such an opinion, Serena," Mrs.
Lovegrove returned. The tone of mingled patronage and possession in
which her guest spoke of her own two particular sacred totems, vicar
and vicaress, incensed her highly. She wished she had not introduced
the subject of the Slowby bishopric.--"When the object in view is a
truly good one," she added, with some severity, "I should suppose all
right-meaning people would strive to sink petty rivalries and
cooperate. I should quite believe it would prove so in Susan's case."
"Of course she would not give Mrs. Nevington's speaking well as her
reason, if they did not remain on friendly terms," Serena returned
negligently. "But then people so very seldom give their real reasons
for what they do, Rhoda. Surely you must have observed that. I think
they are generally very willing to deceive themselves a good deal."
"I am afraid it is so with too many, Serena, and with some who would be
the last to own it when applied to themselves."--Then the wife
determined by a piece of daring strategy to carry the war into the
enemy's country.--"And that reminds me," she said. "I suppose you have
heard that Mr. Iglesias has left Trimmer's Green?"
"I do not the least know what right you have to suppose anything of the
kind, Rhoda," the lady addressed replied with a haste and asperity far
from regal. "You must have very odd ideas of the people I meet, either
at Lady Samuelson's or at Slowby, if you imagine I am likely to hear
anything about Mr. Iglesias from them. If I had not met him here, of
course, I should never have heard of him at all; and if I had never
heard of him I should have been spared a great deal. Still, after all
that has occurred, I can quiet see that Mr. Iglesias might find it
better to leave Trimmer's Green."
"Miss Eliza Hart, if you please, ma'am," this from the
house-parlourmaid.
In accordance with established precedent, Serena should have risen from
the place of honour, upon the sofa, making room for the newcomer. But
she defied precedent. Acknowledging the said newcomer with the stiffest
of bows, she sat tight. Her hostess, however, proved equal to the
occasion.
"Dear me, Miss Hart," she began, "I am sure you are quite the stranger.
Take that chair, will you not? And how is Mrs. Porcher? The numbers, I
trust, filling up again at Cedar Lodge? Mr. Lovegrove and myself did
truly sympathise in Mrs. Porcher's trouble in the autumn. Such a
terrible occurrence to have in your house! Of course very damaging, for
a time, to all prospects. And I shall always believe it was the great
exertions he made then that broke down poor Mr. Iglesias' health.--Yes,
indeed, Miss Hart, I regret to say he does remain very ailing. Mr.
Lovegrove sees him almost daily. He has run round to Holland Street
now, has Georgie; but I expect him back any minute.--We were just
speaking of Mr. Iglesias--were we not, Serena?--and I was about to tell
Miss Lovegrove what a sweet pretty house he has. You have seen it often
no doubt, Miss Hart."
But here Serena arose, with much dignity, and retired in the direction
of the window.
"Pray do not think about me, Rhoda," she said over her shoulder, "or
let me interrupt your and your friend's conversation. I am going to see
if the carriage is here. Lady Samuelson said she might be able to send
it for me. She could not be sure, but she might. And I told her I would
be on the watch, as she objects to the horses being kept standing in
this weather. But pray do not think about me. Until it comes I can
quite well amuse myself."
Holding aside the lace curtain she looked out. Upon the rawly green
grass remnants of discoloured snow lay in unsightly patches, while the
bare branches of the plane-trees and balsam-poplars shuddered in the
harsh blast. The prospect was far from alluring, and Serena surveyed it
with a wrathful eye.
"Really, Rhoda's behaviour to me is most extraordinary," she said to
herself. "I had to mark my displeasure. For poor George's sake she
ought not to be allowed to go too far. She has grown so very
self-assertive. Last year her manner was much better. I suppose she and
George have made it up again. People who are not really ladies, like
Rhoda, are always so very much nicer when they are depressed. I wonder
what has happened to make George make it up with her!"
And then she fell very furiously to listening.
"We did talk it over, did Peachie Porcher and myself," the great Eliza
was saying, "for I do not deny, at the time of our trouble, a certain
gentleman came out very well. He may have had his reasons, but I will
not go into that, Mrs. Lovegrove. I am all for giving everybody his
due. But Peachie felt when he left it would be better the connection
should cease as far as visiting went. 'Should Mr. Iglesias call here,
dear Liz,' she said to me, 'I should not refuse to see him. But, after
what has passed and situated as I am, I cannot be too careful. And
calling on a bachelor living privately, with whom your name has been at
all associated, must invite comment. Throughout all,' she said, 'my
conscience tells me I have done my duty, and in that I must find my
reward.' Very affecting, was it not?"
"Yes," the other lady admitted, candour and natural goodness of heart
getting the better alike of resentment and diplomacy. "I always have
maintained there were many sterling qualities in Mrs. Porcher."
"So there are, the sweet pet!" Eliza responded warmly. "And I sometimes
question, Mrs. Lovegrove, whether a certain gentleman, now that he has
cut himself adrift from her, may not be beginning to find that out and
wish he had been less stand-offish and stony. Not that it would be any
use now. For, if he did not appreciate Peachie Porcher, there are other
and younger gentlemen, not a thousand miles from here, who do. I am not
at liberty to speak more plainly at present, as the poor young fellow
is very shy about his secret. A long attachment, and some might think
it rather derogatory to Peachie's position to entertain it. But straws
tell which way the wind blows; and a little bird seems to twitter to
me, Mrs. Lovegrove, that if Charlie Farge did come to the point--why--"
Miss Hart shook her leonine mane and laid her finger on her lip in an
arch and playful manner. But before her hostess could rally
sufficiently from the stupor into which this announcement plunged her
to make suitable rejoinder, a fine booming clerical voice and large
clerical presence invaded the room.
"How d'ye do, Mrs. Lovegrove? I come unannounced but not unsanctioned.
I met with your good husband in the street just now, and he encouraged
me to look in on you. Good-day to you, Miss Hart. All is well, I trust,
with our excellent friend Mrs. Porcher.--Ah! and here is Miss Serena
Lovegrove.--An unexpected piece of good fortune."
Promptly Serena had emerged from her self-imposed exile; and it was
with an air of assured proprietorship that she greeted the clergyman.
"Mrs. Nevington heard from your kind sister only this morning," he
continued. "Full of active helpfulness as usual, Mrs. Lovegrove.--She
proposes that we should quarter ourselves upon you and her for a few
days, Miss Serena, while we are seeking a temporary residence. She
kindly gives us the names of several houses which she considers worth
inspection."
Here by an adroit flank movement, rapidly executed, Serena managed to
possess herself once again of the seat of honour upon the sofa, thereby
interposing a thin but impenetrable barrier between her hostess and the
latter's own particular fetish, the bishop-designate.
"You have enough room? I do not crowd you, Rhoda?" she remarked
parenthetically. Then turning sideways, so as to present an expanse of
neatly clad back and shoulder to her outraged relative, she
continued:--"I wonder which, Dr. Nevington--I mean I wonder which
houses Susan has recommended. Of course there is the Priory. But nobody
has lived in it for ages and ages. It is in a very low neighbourhood,
close to the canal and brickfields on the Tullingworth Road. I should
think it was dreadfully damp and unwholesome. And there is old Mrs.
Waghorn's in Abney Park. That is well situated and the grounds are
rather nice. But the reception-rooms are poor, I always think. Susan
was fond of Mrs. Waghorn. I cannot say I ever cared for her myself; but
there is a tower to it, of course."
"Ah! we hardly need towers yet, Miss Lovegrove. A 'suffering
bishop'--you recall the well-worn joke?--such as myself, must not
aspire to anything approaching castles or palaces, but be content with
a very modest place of residence."
Here his unhappy hostess, sitting quite perilously near the edge of the
sofa, craned round the interposing barrier.
"But that is only a matter of time, Dr. Nevington," she said, "surely.
There is but one voice all round the Green, and through the parish
generally, that this is but the first step for you; and that it will
lead on--though I am far from wishing to hasten the death of the
present archbishop--to the primacy."
"Hardly that, hardly that," he rejoined with becoming modesty. Yet the
speech was not unpalatable to him. "Out of the mouth of babes," he said
to himself, leaning back in his chair, and eyeing--in imagination--the
chaste outline of an episcopal apron and well-cut black gaiter, while
visions of Lambeth and Canterbury floated enticingly before
him.--"Hardly that. This is little more than an embryo bishopric.
Still, though it is a wrench to leave my dear old congregation, here in
this wonderful London of ours, I cannot refuse the call to a wider
sphere of usefulness. My views as a churchman are well known. I have
never, even though it might have been professionally advantageous to me
to do so, attempted any concealment."
"No, truly," Rhoda put in, still balancing and craning. "Everyone, I am
sure, must bear witness you have always been most nobly outspoken."
"I trust so," he returned. "I have never disguised the fact that I take
my stand upon the Reformation Settlement. Therefore I cannot but think
it a most hopeful sign of the times that I should receive this call to
the episcopate.--Ah, here is Lovegrove. You find us deep in matters
ecclesiastical. I only hope I am not taxing your ladies' patience too
heavily by talking on such serious subjects.--In Slowby itself that
grand old stalwart, the late Dr. Colthurst--a positively Cromwellian
figure--has left a sound Protestant tradition. But I hear--your good
sister confirms the rumour, Miss Serena--that there is a strong
ritualistic party at Tullingworth. I shall deal very roundly with
persons of that persuasion. My conviction is that we must suit our
teaching to the progressive spirit of this modern world of ours.
Personally I am willing, if necessary, to sacrifice very much so-called
dogma to conciliate our worthy Nonconformist brethren; while I shall
lose no opportunity of cutting at the roots of those Romanising
tendencies which are so lamentably and insidiously active in the very
heart of our dear old National Church."
While the great drum-like voice was thus rolling and booming, George
Lovegrove had shaken hands with Serena. But there was none of the
accustomed respectful enthusiasm in his greeting. He wore a preoccupied
and dejected air. For once he looked upon that pearl of spinsterhood
with a lack-lustre and indifferent eye.
"I wonder what can have happened to George," the lady in question said
to herself, in high displeasure. "I think his manner is really very
odd--nearly as odd as Rhoda's. I wish I had not come. But then if I had
not come I should have had no opportunity of showing Rhoda what
intimate terms Susan and I are upon with the Nevingtons. And I think it
is right she should know.--Oh! that detestable Miss Hart is going. What
a dreadfully vulgar purple blouse she has on! And her hair is so
unpleasant. It always looks damp and shows the marks of the comb. I
wonder why hair of that particular colour always does look damp." Here
she bowed stiffly without rising.--"I shall simply ignore George, and
not speak to him. I think that will be sufficiently marked. But I shall
stay as long as Dr. Nevington does--I don't for one moment believe
Miranda Samuelson really intended to send the carriage--so I will just
wait and go when he goes. I think I owe it to myself to show George and
Rhoda that they cannot drive me away against my will, however much they
may wish to do so."
Having come to which amiable decision Serena turned her mind and
conversation to questions of house-hunting in Slowby. The subject,
however, began to pall, before long, upon her companion. Dr. Nevington
changed his position more than once. His replies became vague and
perfunctory, while his attention evidently strayed to the conversation
taking place at the other end of the sofa.
"I fear you did not find Mr. Iglesias very bright then to-day?" the
wife was inquiring in her kindliest tones.
George Lovegrove shook his head sadly. "No, my dear, I am sorry to say
not. I have been rather broken up. I will tell you all later."
The clergyman had risen.
"Iglesias?--ah yes," he said. "I remember meeting a person of that name
here once, eh, Lovegrove? One of our parochial oversights,
unfortunately. He proved to be a dweller. His appearance pleased me and
I proposed to call on him; and then in the press of my many duties the
matter was forgotten."
Serena had risen likewise. A spot of colour burned on either of her
cheeks. Her eyes snapped. She carried her small head high. Her presence
asserted itself quite forcibly. Her skirts rustled. At that moment she
was young and very passably pretty--an elegant spirited Serena of
eighteen, rather than a faded and, alas! spiteful Serena of close upon
fifty.
"Oh! really, I think it was just as well you did not call, Dr.
Nevington," she cried. "I do not think it would have been in the least
suitable. Of course I may be wrong, but I do not think you would have
found anything to like in Mr. Iglesias. There was so much that was
never really explained about him.--You know you acknowledged that
yourself at one time, Rhoda. But now you and George seem to have gone
round again completely.--One cannot help knowing he associated with
such very odd people; and then the way in which he turned Roman
Catholic, all of a sudden, really was disgraceful."
Dr. Nevington's cold, watchful glance steadied on to the speaker, then
travelled to the two other members of the little company in sharp
inquiry. George Lovegrove's innocent countenance bore an expression of
agonised entreaty, of yearning, of apology, yet of defiance. The
corners of Rhoda's mouth drooped, her large soft cheeks shook; yet she
stood firm, her sorrow tempered, and her whole warm-hearted person
rendered stubborn, by virtuous indignation.
"You forget yourself greatly, Serena," she said, "and when you have
time to think it over will repent having passed such cruel remarks.
They are liable to create a very wrong impression, and cannot fail to
cause severe pain to others."
For an appreciable space the clergyman hesitated. But Slowby and the
bishopric were ahead of him; Trimmer's Green and all its quaint
unimportant little inhabitants behind. She was tedious, no doubt; but
her sister promised to be very useful, so he threw in his lot with
Serena.
"Ah, well, ah, well, for I my part I admire zeal, I must confess, Mrs.
Lovegrove," he said. "No doubt these terrible lapses will occur.
Superstition and bigotry will claim their victims even in our
enlightened century, and this free England of ours. I would not judge
the case of this poor fellow, Iglesias, too harshly. Race influences
are strong; and we of the Anglo-Saxon stock, with our enormous
advantages of brain, and grit, and hard-headed manliness of character,
can afford--deeply though we deplore their weakness and errors--to be
lenient toward the less favoured foreigner. Our mission is to educate
him.--And this I think you should not have forgotten, Lovegrove. You
should have acted upon it. You should have brought your unfortunate
friend to me. I should have been quite willing to give him half an
hour, or even longer. A few facts, a little plain speaking, might have
saved him from more than I quite care to contemplate, both here and
hereafter.--However, good-bye to you, Mrs. Lovegrove. You are starting,
too, Miss Serena? Assure your good, kind sister, when you write, how
gladly Mrs. Nevington and I shall avail ourselves of her proffered
hospitality."
"Don't fret, don't take it too much to heart, Georgie dear," the wife
said soothingly later. "The vicar did seem very stern, but that was
owing to Serena. I am afraid she's a terrible mischief-maker, is
Serena. She turns things inside out so in saying them, that you do not
recognise your own words again. All this afternoon she was most trying.
If Dr. Nevington heard the real story, he would never blame you. You
must not fret."
"I am not fretting about Dr. Nevington," he answered, "but about
Dominic. I am afraid we shall not have him with us very much longer,
Rhoda."
"Oh! dear, oh! dear, you don't mean it? Never!" she cried in accents of
genuine distress. "Did you see him, Georgie?"
"No, Miss St. John was there."
The wife's large cheeks shook again.
"You know," she said, "I am never very partial to hearing anything
about that Miss St. John. Actresses are all very well in the theatre, I
daresay, but they are out of place in private houses. And from what I
hear, though there may be nothing really wrong with many of them, they
are all sadly free in their manners. I should be very hurt if you got
into the habit of frequenting their society much, Georgie.--But there,
I'm sure I cannot tell what is coming to all the women nowadays! You
don't seem as if you could be safe with any one of them. To think of a
middle-aged person like Mrs. Porcher, for instance, taking up with that
little snip of a Farge, and she old enough to be his mother!"
The wife bustled about the room straightening the chairs, patting
cushions into place, folding up the handkerchief which, in the
interests of human conversation, had been thrown over the cage of the
all-too-articulate parrot.
"I feel terribly stirred up somehow," she said, "what with the vicar,
and Serena, and all the talk about Roman Catholics and Protestants, and
Mrs. Porcher's engagement, too, and then this bad news of Mr.
Iglesias--not but that I am sure enough we shall meet him in heaven
some day, if we can ever contrive to get there ourselves in all this
chatter and worry--"
She laid the handkerchief away in the drawer of the work-table.
"Such an afternoon," she declared, "what with one thing and another! I
always do say there's nothing for making unpleasantnesses like religion
and marriages.--But, thank God, through all of it you are spared to me,
Georgie."