After supper, one of those little rumours, which start mysteriously
and surprise no one so much as the people to whom they refer, began
running about Mrs. Spenser-Smith's drawing-room. For a skilfully long
time she pretended not to hear it, but the moment arrived, and it was
hastened by Ernest's clumsy kindness, when it was impossible to resist
the knowledge that Mr. Pilgrim could recite. Solo performances were
against her rule. She knew what sort of talent the members of the
chapel possessed, its devastating effect on the gaiety of her parties
and the little jealousies that could arise, but Mr. Pilgrim was a
newcomer, invited, as a lonely bachelor, at Ernest's particular desire,
and though she doubted his ability and disliked singling him out for
honour, she could not refuse the eager requests of those ladies, of all
ages, who were thrilled by the presence of another and a new minister
and begged her to let him recite, nor could she ignore Ernest's open
persuasions of the apparently reluctant Mr. Pilgrim. It was noticeable
that no other male voice joined in the solicitations, and that even
the thinnest-necked of the young men, to whom a minister was a natural
object of veneration, put his back against the wall and settled his
features into an expression he hoped they would be able to maintain.
Hannah longed for Wilfrid but, lacking him, she found some consolation
in watching Uncle Jim's unguarded look of amazement and Robert Corder's
earnestness to do as he would be done by, and when she met the eyes
of Samuel Blenkinsop, who stood among the other young men against
the opposite wall, she felt that she was more than compensated for
the loss of Wilfrid. Mr. Blenkinsop was looking at her with a solemn
dismay, as though she was his only hope in this calamity, and though
she had not much time to give to anyone, being anxious not to miss a
word or a gesture of Mr. Pilgrim's performance, or to lose one drop
of her revenge for his persistence in dogging her with glances all
the evening, it was very pleasant to know that it was her eye Mr.
Blenkinsop had sought.
Mr. Pilgrim was a tragedian and he did not spare himself. The long
poem he recited was all too short for the enraptured Hannah, and if
the clapping at the end did not express a correspondence with her own
feelings, Mr. Pilgrim was not a prey to doubts. He wiped his face with
the freedom of the man who has obviously done his utmost, and Mrs.
Spenser-Smith managed, with great adroitness, to start another game
as she went forward to thank him. Ethel was thanking him already; she
had no doubts either, but, for the first time in the history of Mrs.
Spenser-Smith's parties, there were no charades. The games went merrily
on until Miss Patsy Withers's elder sister was whispered towards the
piano and the opening bars of Sir Roger de Coverley were played. Robert
Corder partnered Mrs. Spenser-Smith, Ernest tucked the hand of the
shabbiest of the spinsters under his kind arm and seemed to regret that
he could not take care of all the other women who were not wanted, and
Hannah, smiling gaily at him as he passed and trying to look as though
she did not want to dance, saw Ethel beaming in her place opposite to
Mr. Pilgrim and Ruth happy with her Uncle Jim.
'Could you bear it?' Mr. Blenkinsop asked her crossly.
'I should love it.'
'I generally get away before this begins, I feel such a fool, capering
down the room with my hands out.'
'From _capra_, a goat,' Hannah murmured to herself. 'But if we're
capering together--'
'That's what I thought,' he admitted gloomily. 'Is there any chance of
walking home with you? It would do me good to talk to somebody about
that recitation.'
'Somebody?' Hannah said sharply. 'Try Mrs. Ridding. Yes, try her as a
sort of test. There ought to be a preliminary examination for every
vocation, you know, and if she fails in the subject of Mr. Pilgrim, I
should plough her altogether.'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' Mr. Blenkinsop said with a
trace of sulkiness, as they took their places for the dance.
'And anyhow,' Hannah bent towards him to whisper, 'Mr. Corder doesn't
approve of followers. It would embarrass me to be escorted across the
Downs by a single gent. I have to pay for my pleasures, Mr. Blenkinsop!'
There was more annoyance than amusement in his smile. Apparently this
sort of banter was not to his taste and, either in expression of his
disapproval, or in deference to her wish, there was no sign of him when
the Beresford Road party started across the Downs followed by Mrs.
Spenser-Smith's regret that, for some unexplained reason, she could not
send them in the car.
They went in pairs, like a girls' school; Uncle Jim with Howard, and
Ethel and Ruth in an accidental companionship which left their father
with Miss Mole.
'This is the first time we have not had charades,' he burst out, like
a disappointed child. 'I can't remember one of Mrs. Spenser-Smith's
parties when we haven't had charades after supper. We choose a word,
Miss Mole, and as I am always expected to be the leader of one of the
sides, I'd given a little thought to the matter, to save time. I don't
grudge that and the whole thing is of no importance, but I must say I
think the party was not quite so successful this year.'
'Mrs. Spenser-Smith is a clever woman,' Hannah said.
'Certainly. Yes. But I think she showed less cleverness than usual.'
'Clever--and considerate, to us and to Mr. Pilgrim. He would have
expected to be the leader of the other side. We had seen him as a
tragedian; we might have had to listen to him being funny. Considerate
to all of us, but more considerate to him,' she added in a slow, droll
tone, and Mr. Corder laughed so suddenly and loudly that his daughters
looked round as they walked in front, and Howard and Uncle Jim, still
further ahead, slackened their pace and turned to see who had joined
the little company and made Robert Corder laugh as he seldom laughed in
the family.
'So you didn't enjoy the recitation?' he asked with some eagerness.
'It was one of the brightest moments of my life,' she replied, 'but
then, I'm afraid I am not charitable.'
There was a pause before Robert Corder, having digested this, said
kindly, 'But I'm glad to find you have a sense of humour, Miss Mole.
A sense of humour, I sometimes think, is as valuable a possession as
brains.'
'Then I must try to cultivate mine,' Hannah said.
'However,' he said, following her into the tram-car in which the
others already sat, four tired-looking people in the otherwise empty,
brightly lit conveyance, 'I am sorry we both had to exercise it
to-night. I'm afraid Mr. Pilgrim made himself rather ridiculous and it
was lucky for him that his own people did not hear him. Though,' he
added with satisfaction, 'they might have missed the absurdity. They
are not a highly intelligent little community,' and putting his hand
into his pocket, for the fares, he fell into talk with the conductor
who, like most of the conductors in Radstowe, was an acquaintance.
Hannah saw that, to the young man clipping the tickets, Robert Corder
was a fine reverend with no nonsense about him, and she knew it was
not fair to judge him by the only side he showed her. It seemed to her
that he had to be given a certain character before he could live up to
it, and that if his children would see him as the conductor did, he
would be the kind of father he thought he was. Perhaps everybody was
like that, she mused, but when she looked at Uncle Jim, she saw a man
unaffected by opinion and quite unconscious of himself as a possible
object of interest to anyone. That, probably, was the happy thing to
be, and it was what poor Ethel certainly was not. Like her father, but
without his self-assurance and with less stability, and urged by her
pitiful desire for love, she reacted violently to appreciation, and Mr.
Pilgrim had taken her in to supper, he had chosen her for the dance,
and the hard words just uttered by the father she admired were painful,
but of no critical value, when she remembered the kind looks of the man
who seemed to admire her, and she cast distrustful glances at the two
who had been discussing him.
Looking at the young Corders, at Ethel with the flush of excitement on
her cheeks and gleams of resentment in her eyes, and yet with a mouth
willing to smile, at Ruth, tired and leaning contentedly against her
uncle, and at Howard, sitting in the far corner of the tram-car, as
though to mark his spiritual distance from his father, Hannah renewed
her unreasonable feeling of responsibility for them all, and now it was
not Ruth, but Ethel, who demanded most of her. This change might have
been due to the knowledge that Ruth was safely hers and Ethel was still
a half-conquered country, and Hannah would have been ready enough to
accept this less creditable explanation if the truth had not lain in
her conviction that Ruth was fundamentally less helpless than Ethel.
She had some of Hannah's own qualities under the layer of nervousness
her conditions had imposed on her, and Hannah could liken her, as she
had so often likened herself, to the little ship in the bottle, sailing
gallantly and alone, but towards a surer harbour than Hannah's, with
her Uncle Jim for port in a storm, while Ethel rolled helplessly at
the mercy of winds and tides, defenceless against piracy, starvation,
thirst, and all those Acts of God which would be no less lamentable on
account of their name. Hannah wondered if Mr. Pilgrim was a pirate or a
pilot. Probably, he intended to be neither, but his intentions counted
for little, in their emotional effect, compared with Ethel's wishes
and ready credence. Poor Ethel, ready to make a hero of Mr. Pilgrim,
Hannah thought, and her compassion turned suddenly against herself,
and changed to scorn, for she had been as foolish and as pitiable as
Ethel and she was as much Mr. Pilgrim's prey, and a little panic came
over her, not for her future, though that was desperate enough, but for
her sad little past, held and turned over in Mr. Pilgrim's soft, damp
hands.
Nevertheless, her future had to be thought of and when they alighted
at the end of Beresford Road, and the same procession walked up the
street, she took advantage of Robert Corder's restrained but evident
approval of the woman who had laughed at Mr. Pilgrim, to make her first
request. She hoped Mr. Corder would be able to spare her for a whole
day, before long; she had business to do in the country.
'Why, certainly, Miss Mole. We must manage as best we can without you,
and if I can be of any help--But if your business has to do with the
tenancy of your farm, you should consult a lawyer. Mr. Wyatt, one of
my deacons, is a sound lawyer and he tells me ladies are generally too
trustful in business dealings.'
'Yes, I suppose we are,' Hannah said, including herself among the
trustful ladies.
'Too ready to make arrangements by word of mouth, and he would advise
you well, I am sure, and make a nominal charge, at my request.'
'Thank you,' Hannah said. She had seen Mr. Wyatt, taking round the
offertory plate: he did not slip past the poorer members of the
congregation, as Ernest Spenser-Smith took care to do; she doubted
his liberality of pocket or opinion and, as she glanced up at Robert
Corder, striding beside her, sure of himself and his little world,
stepping over crevasses he did not see, blind to the clouds confronting
him, amiably companioning the woman whose virtue he took for granted,
because all decent, useful women were virtuous, Hannah's long nose
took on its derisive twist. There were several shocks awaiting Robert
Corder, but she thought his chief suffering would come from the memory
of his gradual softening towards the bad Miss Mole.