The Squire’s preceptor, Mr Randy, saw with concern that he could never
hope to obtain undivided empire over his pupil. He had, it is true,
considerable influence with him—knew and humoured his foibles—assisted
him with advice on difficult points, and had, in fact, become in various
ways almost necessary to him. Nevertheless, he felt that Mr Dubbley’s
susceptibility to female fascinations perpetually endangered his
position. He had, indeed, attained the post of grand vizier, but might
at any moment be stripped of his dignities at the first suggestion of a
hostile sultana.
After long consideration of the subject, Mr Randy came to the conclusion
that the most effectual way to establish himself firmly at Monkstone
would be, to take care that this other great power, whose possible
advent be constantly dreaded, instead of being a rival, should be
entirely in his interests. This seemed to him, theoretically, a
master-stroke of policy; to carry it into practice might not be easy. As
he was revolving the matter in his mind one evening, after passing
through Lanscote on his way home from Monkstone to Doddington, he
perceived the Curate’s housekeeper taking a little fresh air at the
garden gate. She had heated herself with the operation of making her own
tea, and leaving the tea-pot on the hob, to “draw” as she termed it, had
come out to cool herself before drinking it.
At the sight of her, Mr Randy’s air became brisker. He walked more
jauntily—he swung and twirled his stick, instead of leaning on it—he
placed his hat a little on one side of his head—and he re-buttoned his
coat, which he had loosened in order to walk with more ease and
convenience.
He was acquainted with Mrs Greene, and frequently stopped to talk with
her as he passed; and, as he approached now, he took off his hat, and
made what would have been a very imposing bow had he not unluckily slipt
at a critical moment on a pebble, and thus impaired the dignity of the
obeisance.
“A lovely evening, Mrs Greene,” said Mr Randy, whose courtesy was
somewhat ponderous and antique, and whose conversation, when he was on
his stilts, rather resembled scraps from a paper of the _Rambler_ than
the discourse of ordinary men. “Happy are you, my good Mrs Greene, who,
‘far from the busy hum of men,’” (whenever Mr Randy indulged in a
quotation he made a pause before and after it) “can dwell placidly in
such a scene as this. A scene,” added Mr Randy, looking round at the
house and garden with a gratified air—“a scene that Horus would have
revelled in. A pleasant life, is it not, my good madam?”
“It’s lonesome,” said Mrs Greene.
“The better for meditation,” returned Mr Randy didactically. “What says
the poet?—‘My mind to me a kingdom is,’—and who could desire a fairer
dominion? Ay,” (shaking his head and smiling seriously) “with a few
favourite authors, and with the necessaries of life, one might be
content to let the hours slip by here without envying the proud
possessors of palluses.”
Though Jennifer admired this style of conversation exceedingly, she was
hardly equal to sustaining it. “You seem to be a good deal with Squire
Dubbley, Mr Randy,” she said.
Mr Randy answered in the affirmative, taking, at the same time, a pinch
of snuff.
“He’s a queer one, they say,” said Jennifer. “I should think ’twas
tiresome for a book-learned gentleman like you, Mr Randy, to be so much
in his company.”
“Not at all, Mrs Greene,” said Mr Randy. “What says the Latin
writer?—‘Homo sum, nihil humanum a me alienum puto,’ which means, my
good madam, that, being myself a human being, I am interested in all
that appertains to humanity. I study the squire with much satisfaction.”
“He’s a gay man the Squire,” said Jennifer sententiously. “Why don’t he
marry and live respectable, I wonder? Hasn’t he got a lady in his eye
yet, Mr Randy?”
“Marriage is a serious thing, my good Mrs Greene—a very serious thing
indeed. No,” said Mr Randy, confidentially: “what he wants is a
housekeeper, Mrs Greene, such a one as some gentlemen I could name are
so fortunate as to possess—a respectable, careful person, who could take
care of his domestic affairs, and prevent him from being fooled by any
idle hussy of a servant-maid who may happen to have an impudent, pretty
face of her own.”
“I should like,” said Jennifer, with compressed lips and threatening
eyes—“I should like to see any such show their impudent faces in a house
where I was. They wouldn’t come again in a hurry, I can tell ’em.” And,
indeed, it was very likely they would not.
“Ah,” said Mr Randy, in deep admiration, “Mr Young is a fortunate man.
He has secured a housekeeper whom we may safely pronounce to be one in a
thousand.”
Jennifer, though austere, was not quite steeled against flattery. She
looked on the learned man with prim complacency—she remembered that her
tea had now stood long enough—and she suggested that perhaps Mr Randy’s
walk had disposed him for some refreshment, and she should take his
company during the meal as a favour.
Mr Randy was not particularly addicted to tea: on all those points for
which it has been extolled—as a stimulant, as a refresher, as an
agreeable beverage—he considered it to be greatly excelled by
brandy-and-water. But the subject just touched upon was one in which he
was greatly interested, and he resolved to follow up an idea that had
occurred to him; so he courteously accepted Jennifer’s invitation, and
followed her into the parsonage.
Mrs Greene’s room was a model of order, rather too much so perhaps for
comfort—and showed other traces of her presiding spirit in a certain air
of thriftiness which pervaded it. Reigning supreme, as Jennifer did in
the Curate’s household, she might have indulged in small luxuries at her
pleasure had she possessed any taste for them, but the practice of
saving, for its own sake, afforded her positive delight. The shelves
were rather sparingly furnished with jam-pots of very small dimensions,
carefully tied down and corded, and marked with the name of the
confection, and the year of its manufacture; various boxes and
canisters, labelled as containing different groceries, were securely
padlocked, as if they were not likely to be opened on light or
insufficient grounds; the curtains rather scantily covered the window,
and the carpet was too small for the floor.
Jennifer, unlocking the tea-caddy, put in two additional spoonfuls of
tea in consideration of her guest. Then she invited Mr Randy to sit
down, which he did with great ceremony; while she placed on the table
two saucers of jam, helped Mr Randy to toast and butter, and some of the
sweetmeat, and poured out the tea. And Mr Randy observing that Jennifer
transferred hers to her saucer, for the better convenience of drinking,
not only did the like, but also blew on the surface to reduce the
temperature before the successive gulps, which were then both copious
and sonorous.
“So the Squire’s not a good manager, eh, Mr Randy?” said Jennifer, after
some little conversation on indifferent matters.
“No comfort, no elegance,” said Mr Randy. “The superintending hand of a
female is greatly wanted.”
“And does the Squire think of getting a housekeeper?” asked Jennifer.
“I’ve not suggested it to him as yet,” returned her guest, “but I’m
thinking of doing so, if I could fix my eye on a proper person.”
“Bless me, you’ve got no preserve,” said Jennifer, emptying, in a sudden
access of liberality, the saucer of damsons on Mr Randy’s plate. “And
there’s nothing but grounds in your cup—perhaps you’d like it a little
stronger, sir.”
“No more, my good madam, I’m obliged to you,” said that gentleman,
drawing away his cup, and covering it with his hand to show he was in
earnest, so that Jennifer, pressing ardently upon him with the tea-pot,
very nearly poured the hot tea upon his knuckles. “I’ve had quite an
abundance—quite a sufficiency, I assure you. No, ma’am, things do not go
on at Monkstone precisely as I could wish in all respects. For instance,
it would be agreeable to me sometimes to find an attentive female to
receive me—to say to me, Mr Randy you are wet, won’t you have a basin of
soup to warm you?—or, Mr Randy, it rains, you’ll be the better of a
glass of spirits and water to fortify you against the inclemency of the
elements. Mr Dubbley is very kind, but these little things don’t occur
to him.”
“Indeed, then, I think they might,” said Mrs Greene with warmth. “The
least he could do is to be civil. Take some toast, sir.”
“’Tis forgetfulness, Mrs Greene, not incivility—a sin of omission, not
of commission. I flatter myself few men would venture to be uncivil to
me,” and Mr Randy drew himself up and looked majestic. “Then the want of
a proper person in the house obliges him to look more closely after some
small matters than is quite becoming in a man of property.”
“Closeness,” said Jennifer, with great disdain, “is what I never could
abide. I could forgive anything better than that.”
“Well, well, Mrs Greene,” said her visitor, waving his hand, “we won’t
be hard upon him—he means well. Yes, I’ve been looking out for some time
for a lady that would answer the Squire’s purpose.”
“And what kind of person would be likely to suit you?” inquired Jennifer
with interest.
“We should require,” said Mr Randy, brushing some crumbs from
his lap with his pocket-handkerchief, as he concluded his
meal—“we should require a character not easy to be met with;—a
sensible—respectable—experienced—discreet—per-r-son—and one, too, who
would not give herself presumptuous airs, but would conduct herself
towards me—me, Mrs Greene, as I could wish.”
“Of course,” said Jennifer, “if she was beholden to you for her place,
’twould be her duty to make things pleasant to you, sir.”
“Ah,” said Mr Randy, “_you_ are both a discreet and a sensible person,
Mrs Greene, I perceive.”
“And as to terms, Mr Randy,” suggested Jennifer.
“As to terms, they would be hardly worth higgling about, Mrs Greene—for,
if the lady possessed the manifold merits I have enumerated, and allowed
herself to be guided in all things by me, why, she would be _de
facto_—that is to say, in reality—mistress of Monkstone, and might
feather her nest to her own liking.”
This was a dazzling prospect indeed, and well calculated to appeal to
the heart of Jennifer. There was a grand indefiniteness as to the extent
of power and profit which might be acquired, which she found
inexpressibly alluring; for Jennifer was, after her fashion, ambitious,
though her ambition was of too practical a nature to set itself on
objects hopelessly remote.
Mr Randy perceiving the effect of what he had said, and considering it
would be well to give her time to digest it before entering into
details, now rose to take leave.
“Good evening, sir, and thank you,” said Jennifer. “When you’re passing
another day, I hope you’ll look in;” and Mr Randy, having promised to do
so, walked with his customary dignity up the road.
Mr Randy had not directly said that he thought Jennifer, if she would
agree to share interests with him, would be exactly the person he
wanted; nor had Jennifer directly stated that, if she succeeded in
obtaining the post of housekeeper to the Squire, she would show her
gratitude by being all Mr Randy could wish. But the knowledge of human
nature displayed by the Randies and Jennifers is intuitive and unerring,
so long as it is employed upon natures on a level with their own; and
Jennifer knew perfectly well that Mr Randy wanted her for the
furtherance of his own designs at Monkstone; while Mr Randy never
doubted that the lure he had held out would secure her.
Jennifer, however, had by no means made up her mind to accept the offer
at once. It was dazzling, certainly; but, on the other hand, she did not
like the idea of giving up her long and persevering designs upon the
Curate’s heart, which, as the reader knows, she had from the first been
determined to attack. That was too grievous a waste of time and subtlety
to be contemplated. But Mr Randy’s implied offer gave her an opportunity
of carrying into execution a scheme she had long meditated. She
considered (her cogitations being assisted by a third cup of tea,
obtained by putting fresh water in the tea-pot after Mr Randy’s
departure) that she had now lived so long with the Curate that she could
not possibly become more necessary to him than she already was—that the
sooner he was brought to the point the better—that being such an absent
person, far from making any proposals of the kind she desired of his own
accord, a very strong hint from herself would be required in order to
extract them. Now if she resolved upon giving this hint, she must also
be prepared to quit the parsonage in case of failure; and Monkstone
would form exactly the point she wanted to retreat upon.
This secured, she would commence operations at once with the Curate. He
was, in Jennifer’s estimation, a man who did not know his own mind or
his own interests. But though he might never discover what was for his
own good unassisted, yet a man must be foolish indeed who can’t perceive
it when ’tis shown him. From frequent victories obtained over the
Curate, and long managing and ruling him, she flattered herself she
might now make her own terms, for that he could never bear to part with
her; but if she deceived herself in this, why, then Monkstone would be a
more lucrative place. So in any case she should gain some end, and she
determined to put her powers of cajolery to proof without delay. Indeed,
there was no time to lose, for that very morning Miss Rosa had signified
her intention of coming to live with her brother when the ladies left
the Heronry.