HONORIA’S LETTERS.
1.
“CARWITHIEL, Oct. 25, 18--.”
“MY DEAR TAFFY,--Your letter was full of news, and I read it
over twice: once to myself, and again after dinner to George
and Sir Harry. We pictured you dining in the college hall.
Thanks to your description, it was not very difficult: the long
tables, the silver tankards, the dark panels and the dark
pictures above, and the dons on the dais, aloof and very
sedate. It reminded me of Ivanhoe--I don’t know why; and no
doubt if ever I see Magdalen, it will not be like my fancy in
the least. But that’s how I see it; and you at a table near
the bottom of the hall, like the youthful squire in the
story-books--the one, you know, who sits at the feast below the
salt until he is recognised and forced to step up and take his
seat with honour at the high table. I began to explain all
this to George, but found that he had dropped asleep in his
chair. He was tired out after a long day with the pheasants.”
“I shall stay here for a week or two yet, perhaps. You know how
I hate Tredinnis. On my way over, I called at the Parsonage
and saw your mother. She was writing that very day, she said,
and promised to send my remembrances, which I hope duly reached
you. The Vicar was away at the church, of course. There is
great talk of the Bishop coming in February, when all will be
ready. George sends his love; I saw him for a few minutes at
breakfast this morning, before he started for another day with
the pheasants.”
“Your friend,”
“HONORIA.”
2.
“CARWITHIEL, Nov. 19, 18--.”
“MY DEAR TAFFY,--Still here, you see! I am slipping this into a
parcel containing a fire-screen which I have worked with my
very own hands; and I trust you will be able to recognise the
shield upon it and the Magdalen lilies. I send it, first, as a
birthday present; and I chose the shield--well, I dare say that
going in for a demy-ship is a matter-of-fact affair to you, who
have grown so exceedingly matter-of-fact; but to me it seems a
tremendous adventure; and so I chose a shield--for I suppose
the dons would frown if you wore a cockade in your college cap.
I return to Tredinnis to-morrow; so your news, whatever it is,
must be addressed to me there. But it is safe to be good
news.”
“Your friend,”
“HONORIA.”
3.
“TREDINNIS, Nov. 27, 18--.”
“MOST HONOURED SCHOLAR,--Behold me, an hour ago, a great lady,
seated in lonely grandeur at the head of my own ancestral
table. This is the first time I have used the dining-room;
usually I take all my meals in the morning-room, at a small
table beside the fire. But to-night I had the great table
spread and the plate spread out, and wore my best gown, and
solemnly took my grandfather’s chair and glowered at the ghost
of a small girl shivering at the far end of the long white
cloth. When I had enough of this (which was pretty soon) I
ordered up some champagne and drank to the health of
Theophilus John Raymond, Demy of Magdalen College, Oxford.
I graciously poured out a second glass for the small ghost at
the other end of the table; and it gave her the courage to
confess that she, too, in a timid way, had taken an interest in
you for years, and hoped you were going to be a great man.
Having thus discovered a bond between us, we grew very
friendly; and we talked a great deal about you afterwards in
the drawing-room, where I lost her for a few minutes and found
her hiding in the great mirror over the fire-place--a habit of
hers.”
“It is time for me to practise ceremony, for it seems that
George and I are to be married some time in the spring. For my
part I think my lord would be content to wait longer; for so
long as he is happy and sees others cheerful he is not one to
hurry or worry. But Sir Harry is the impatient one: and has
begun to talk of his decease. He doesn’t believe in it a bit,
and at times when he composes his features and attempts to be
lugubrious I have to take up a book and hide my smiles. But he
is clever enough to see that it worries George.”
“I saw both your father and mother this morning. Mr. Raymond has
been kept to the house by a chill; nothing serious: but he is
fretting to be out again and at work in that draughty church.
He will accept no help; and the mistress of Tredinnis has no
right to press it on him. I shall never understand men and how
they fight. I supposed that the war lay between him and my
grandfather. But it seems he was fighting an idea all the
while; for here is my grandfather beaten and dead and gone; and
still the Vicar will give no quarter. If you had not assured
me that your demy-ship means eighty pounds a year, I could
believe that men fight for shadows only. Your mother and
grandmother are both well....”
It was a raw December afternoon--within a week of the end of term--
and Taffy had returned from skating in Christ Church meadow, when he
found a telegram lying on his table. There was just time to see the
Dean, to pack, and to snatch a meal in hall, before rattling off to
his train. At Didcot he had the best part of an hour to wait for the
night-mail westward.
“_Your father dangerously ill. Come at once_.”
There was no signature. Yet Taffy knew who had ridden to the office
with that telegram. The flying dark held visions of her, and the
express throbbed westward to the beat of Aide-de-camp’s gallop.
Nor was he surprised at all to find her on the platform at Truro
Station. The Tredinnis phaeton was waiting outside.
He seemed to her but a boy after all, as he stepped out of the train
in the chill dawn: a wan-faced boy, and sorely in need of comfort.
“You must be brave,” said she, gathering up the reins as he climbed
to the seat beside her.
Surely yes; he had been telling himself this very thing all night.
The groom hoisted in his portmanteau, and with a slam of the door
they were off. The cold air sang past Taffy’s ears. It put vigour
into him, and his courage rose as he faced his shattered prospects,
shattered dreams. He must be strong now for his mother’s sake; a man
to work and be leant upon.
And so it was that whereas Honoria had found him a boy, Humility
found him a man. As her arms went about him in her grief, she felt
his body, that it was taller, broader; and knew in the midst of her
tears that this was not the child she had parted from seven short
weeks ago, but a man to act and give orders and be relied upon.
“He called for you... many times,” was all she could say.
For Taffy had come too late. Mr. Raymond was dead. He had
aggravated a slight chill by going back to his work too soon, and the
bitter draughts of the church had cut him down within sight of his
goal. A year before he might have been less impatient. The chill
struck into his lungs. On December 1st he had taken to his bed, and
he never rallied.
“He called for me?”
“Many times.”
They went up the stairs together and stood beside the bed. The
thought uppermost in Taffy’s mind was--“He called for me. He wanted
me. He was my father and I never knew him.”
But Humility in her sorrow groped amid such questions as these,
“What has happened? Who am I? Am I she who yesterday had a husband
and a child? To-day my husband is gone and my child is no longer the
same child.”
In her room old Mrs. Venning remembered the first days of her own
widowhood, and life seemed to her a very short affair, after all.
Honoria saw Taffy beside the grave. It was no season for out-of-door
flowers, and she had rifled her hothouses for a wreath. The exotics
shivered in the north-westerly wind; they looked meaningless,
impertinent, in the gusty churchyard. Humility, before the coffin
left the house, had brought the dead man’s old blue working-blouse,
and spread it for a pall. No flowers grew in the Parsonage garden;
but pressed in her Bible lay a very little bunch, gathered, years
ago, in the meadows by Honiton. This she divided and, unseen by
anyone, pinned the half upon the breast of the patched garment.
On the evening after the funeral and for the next day or two she was
strangely quiet, and seemed to be waiting for Taffy to make some
sign. Dearly as mother and son loved one another, they had to find
their new positions, each toward each. Now Taffy had known nothing
of his parents’ income. He assumed that it was little enough, and
that he must now leave Oxford and work to support the household.
He knew some Latin and Greek; but without a degree he had little
chance of teaching what he knew. He was a fair carpenter, and a more
than passable smith.... He revolved many schemes, but chiefly
found himself wondering what it would cost to enter an architect’s
office.
“I suppose,” said he, “father left no will?”
“Oh yes, he did,” said Humility, and produced it: a single sheet of
foolscap signed on her wedding day. It gave her all her husband’s
property absolutely--whatever it might be.
“Well,” said Taffy, “I’m glad. I suppose there’s enough for you to
rent a small cottage, while I look about for work?”
“Who talks about your finding work? You will go back to Oxford, of
course.”
“Oh, shall I?” said Taffy, taken aback.
“Certainly; it was your father’s wish.”
“But the money?”
“With your scholarship there’s enough to keep you there for the four
years. After that, no doubt, you will be earning a good income.”
“But--” He remembered what had been said about the lace-money, and
could not help wondering.
“Taffy,” said his mother, touching his hand, “leave all this to me
until your degree is taken. You have a race to run and must not
start unprepared. If you could have seen _his_ joy when the news
came of the demy-ship!”
Taffy kissed her and went up to his room. He found his books laid
out on the little table there.
4.
“TREDINNIS, February 13, 18--.”
“MY DEAR TAFFY,--I have a valentine for you, if you care to
accept it; but I don’t suppose you will, and indeed I hope in
my heart that you will not. But I must offer it.
Your father’s living is vacant, and my trustees (that is to
say, Sir Harry; for the other, a second cousin of mine who
lives in London, never interferes) can put in someone as a
stop-gap, thus allowing me to present you to it when the time
comes, if you have any thought of Holy Orders. You will
understand exactly why I offer it; and also, I hope, you will
know that I think it wholly unworthy of you. But turn it over
in your mind and give me your answer.”
“George and I are to be married at the end of April. May is an
unlucky month. It shall be a week--even a fortnight--earlier,
if that fits in with your vacation, and you care to come.
See how obliging I am! I yield to you what I have refused to
Sir Harry. We shall try to persuade the Bishop to come and
open the church on the same day.”
“Always your friend,”
“HONORIA.”
5.
“TREDINNIS, February 21. 18--.”
“My Dear Taffy,--No, I am not offended in the least; but very
glad. I do not think you are fitted for the priesthood; but my
doubts have nothing to do with your doubts, which I don’t
understand, though you tried to explain them so carefully.
You will come through _them_, I expect. I don’t know that I
have any reasons that could be put on paper: only, somehow, I
cannot _see_ you in a black coat and clerical hat.”
“You complain that I never write about George. You don’t
deserve to hear, since you refuse to come to our wedding.
But would _you_ talk, if you happened to be in love? There, I
have told you more than ever I told George, whose conceit has
to be kept down. Let this console you.”
“Our new parson, when he comes, is to lodge down in Innis
Village. Your mother--but no doubt she has told you--stays in
the Parsonage while she pleases. She and your grandmother are
both well. I see her every day: I have so much to learn, and
she is so wise. Her beautiful eyes--but oh, Taffy, it must be
terrible to be a widow! She smiles and is always cheerful; but
the _look_ in them! How can I describe it? When I find her
alone with her lace-work, or sometimes (but it is not often)
with her hands in her lap, she seems to come out of her silence
with an effort, as others withdraw themselves from talk.
I wonder if she does talk in those silences of hers.
Another thing, it is only a few weeks now since she put on a
widow’s cap, and yet I cannot remember her--can scarcely
picture her--without it. I am sure that if I happened to call
one day when she had laid it aside, I should begin to talk
quite as if we were strangers.”
“Believe me, yours sincerely,”
“HONORIA.”
But the wedding, after all, did not take place until the beginning of
October, a week before the close of the Long Vacation; and Taffy,
after all, was present. The postponement had been enforced by many
delays in building and furnishing the new wing at Carwithiel; for Sir
Harry insisted that the young couple must live under one roof with
him, and Honoria (as we know) hated the very stones of Tredinnis.
The Bishop came to spend a week in the neighbourhood; the first three
days as Honoria’s guest. On the Saturday he consecrated the work of
restoration in the church, and in the afternoon held a confirmation
service. Taffy and Honoria knelt together to receive his blessing.
It was the girl’s wish. The shadow of her responsibility to God and
man lay heavy on her during the few months before her marriage: and
Taffy, already weary and dispirited with his early doubtings,
suffered her mood of exaltation to overcome him like a wave and sweep
him back to rest for a while on the still waters of faith.
Together they listened while the Bishop discoursed on the dead
Vicar’s labours with fluency and feeling; with so much feeling,
indeed, that Taffy could not help wondering why his father had been
left to fight the battle alone.
On the Sunday and Monday two near parishes claimed the Bishop. On the
Tuesday he sent his luggage over to Carwithiel, whither he was to
follow after the wedding service, to spend a day or two with Sir Harry.
It had been Honoria’s wish that George should choose Taffy for his
best man; but George had already invited one of his sporting friends,
a young Squire Philpotts from the eastern side of the Duchy; and as
the date fell at the beginning of the hunting season, he insisted on a
“pink” wedding. Honoria consulted the Bishop by letter. “Did he approve
of a ‘pink’ wedding so soon after the bride’s confirmation?” The Bishop
saw no harm in it.
So a “pink” wedding it was, and the scarlet coats made a lively patch
of colour in the gray churchyard: but it gave Taffy a feeling that he
was left out in the cold. He escorted his mother to the church, and
left her for a few minutes in the Vicarage pew. The bridegroom and his
friends were gathered in a showy cluster by the chancel step, but the
bride had not arrived, and he stepped out to help in marshalling the
crowd of miners and mine-girls, fishermen, and mothers with unruly
children--a hundred or so in all, lining the path or straggling among
the graves.
Close by the gate he came on a girl who stood alone.
“Hullo, Lizzie--you here?”
“Why not?” she asked, looking at him sullenly.
“Oh, no reason at all.”
“There might ha’ been a reason,” said she, speaking low and hurriedly.
“You might ha’ saved me from this, Mr. Raymond; and her too; one time,
you might.”
“Why, what on earth is the matter?” He looked up. The Tredinnis
carriage and pair of grays came over the knoll at a smart trot, and
drew up before the gate.
“Matter?” Lizzie echoed with a short laugh. “Oh, nuthin’. I’m goin’ to
lay the curse on her, that’s all.”
“You shall not!” There was no time to lose.
Honoria’s trustee--the second cousin from London, a tall, clean-shaven
man with a shiny bald head, and a shiny hat in his hand--had stepped
out and was helping the bride to alight. What Lizzie meant Taffy could
not tell; but there must be no scene. He caught her hand. “Mind--I say
you shall not!” he whispered.
“Lemme go--you’re creamin’ my fingers.”
“Be quiet then.”
At that moment Honoria passed up the path. Her wedding gown almost
brushed him as he stood wringing Lizzie’s hand. She did not appear to
see him; but he saw her face beneath the bridal veil, and it was hard
and white.
“The proud toad!” said Lizzie. “I’m no better’n dirt, I suppose, though
from the start she wasn’ above robbin’ me. Aw, she’s sly ... Mr.
Raymond, I’ll curse her as she comes out, see if I don’t!”
“And I swear you shall not,” said Taffy. The scent of Honoria’s
orange-blossom seemed to cling about them as they stood.
Lizzie looked at him vindictively. “You wanted her yourself, _I_ know.
You weren’t good enough, neither. Let go my fingers!”
“Go home, now. See, the people have all gone in.”
“Go’st way in too, then, and leave me here to wait for her.”
Taffy shut his teeth, let go her hand, and taking her by the shoulders,
swung her round face toward the gate.
“March!” he commanded, and she moved off whimpering. Once she looked
back. “March!” he repeated, and followed her down the road as one
follows and threatens a mutinous dog.
The scene by the church gate had puzzled Honoria, and in her first
letter (written from Italy) she came straight to the point, as her
custom was:
“I hope there is nothing between you and that girl who used to
be at Joll’s. I say nothing about our hopes for you, but you
have your own career to look to; and as I know you are too
honourable to flatter an ignorant girl when you mean nothing,
so I trust you are too wise to be caught by a foolish fancy.
Forgive a staid matron (of one week’s standing) for writing so
plainly, but what I saw made me uneasy--without cause, no
doubt. Your future, remember, is not yours only. And now I
shall trust you, and never come back to this subject.”
“We are like children abroad, George’s French is wonderful, but
not so wonderful as his Italian. When he goes to take a ticket
he first of all shouts the name of the station he wishes to
arrive at (for some reason he believes all foreigners to be
deaf), then he begins counting down francs one by one, very
slowly, watching the clerk’s face. When the clerk’s face tells
him he has doled out enough, he shouts ‘Hold hard!’ and
clutches the ticket. It takes time; but all the people here
are friends with him at once--especially the children, whom he
punches in the ribs and tells to ‘buck up.’ Their mothers nod
and smile and openly admire him; and I--well, I am happy and
want everyone else to be happy.”