It will perhaps be thought very unfeeling of Katherine to have received
as she did this unlooked for elderly lover. All Sliplin, it is true,
could have told her for some time past that the Rector was in love with
her, and meant to make her an offer, and Miss Mildmay believed that she
had been aware of it long before that. But it had never occurred to
Katherine that the father of Charlotte and Gerard was occupied with
herself in any way, or that such an idea could enter his mind. He had
heard her say her catechism! He had given Charlotte in her presence the
little sting of a reproof about making a noise, and other domestic sins
which Katherine was very well aware she was intended to share. In the
_douceurs_ which, there was no denying, he had lately shed about, she
had thought of nothing but a fatherly intention to console her in her
changed circumstances; and to think that all the time this old
middle-aged man, this father of a family, had it in his mind to make her
his wife! Katherine let her flowers lie drooping, and paced up and down
the room furious, angry even with herself. Forty-five is a tremendous
age to three-and-twenty; and it was the first time she had ever received
a proposal straight in the face, so to speak. Turny and Company had
treated with her father, but had retreated from before her own severe
aspect when she gave it to be seen how immovable she was. And to think
that her first veritable proposal should be this--a thing that filled
her with indignation! What! did the man suppose for a moment that she,
his daughter’s friend, would marry him? Did all men think that a girl
would do anything to be married?--or what did they think?
Katherine could not realise that Mr. Stanley to the Rector was not at
all the same person that he was to her. The Rector thought himself in
the prime of life, and so he was. The children belonged to him and he
was accustomed to them, and did not, except now and then, think them a
great burden; but himself was naturally the first person in his
thoughts. He knew that he was a very personable man, that his voice was
considered beautiful, and his aspect (in the pulpit) imposing. His
features were good, his height was good, he was in full health and
vigour. Why shouldn’t he have asked anybody to marry him? The idea that
it was an insult to a girl never entered his mind. And it was no insult.
He was not even poor or in pursuit of her wealth. No doubt her wealth
would make a great difference, but that was not in the least his motive,
for he had thought of her for years. And in his own person he was a man
any woman might have been proud of. All this was very visible to him.
But to Katherine it only appeared that Mr. Stanley was forty-five, that
he was the father of a girl as old as herself, and of a young man, whom
she had laughed at, indeed, but who also had wished to make love to her.
What would Gerard say? This was the first thing that changed Katherine’s
mood, that made her laugh. It brought in a ludicrous element. What
Charlotte would say was not half so funny. Charlotte would be horrified,
but she would probably think that any woman might snatch at a man so
admired as her father, and the fear of being put out of her place would
occupy her and darken her understanding. But the thought of Gerard made
Katherine laugh and restored her equilibrium. Strengthened by this new
view she came down from her pinnacle of indignation and began to look
after the things she had to do. The snow went on falling thickly, a
white moving veil across every one of the windows; the great flickering
flakes falling now quickly, now slowly, and everything growing whiter
and whiter against the half-seen grey of the sky. This whiteness shut in
the house, encircling it as with a flowing mantle. Nobody would come
near the house that afternoon, nobody would come out that could help
it--not even the midge was likely to appear along the white path. The
snow made an end of visitors, and Katherine felt herself shut up within
it, condemned not to hear any voice or meet with any incident for the
rest of the day. It was not a cheering sensation. She finished her
letter to Stella, and paused and wondered whether she should tell her
what had happened; but she fortunately remembered that a high standard
of honour forbade the disclosure of secrets like this, which were the
secrets of others as well as her own. She had herself condemned from
that high eminence with much indignation the way in which other girls
blazoned such secrets. She would not be like one of them. And besides,
Stella and her husband would laugh and make jokes in bad taste and hold
up the Rector to the laughter of the regiment, which would not be fair
though Katherine was so angry with him. When she had finished her letter
she returned to the flowers, and finally arranged them as she had
intended to do long ago. And then she went and stood for a long time at
the window watching the snow falling. It was very dull to see nobody, to
be alone, all alone, for all these hours. There was a new novel fresh
from Mudie’s on the table, which was always something to look forward
to; but even a novel is but a poor substitute for society when you have
been so shaken and put out of your _assiette_ as Katherine had been by a
personal incident. Would she have told anyone if anyone had come? She
said to herself, “No, certainly not.” But as she was still thrilling and
throbbing all over, and felt it almost impossible to keep still, I
cannot feel so sure as she was that she would not have followed a
multitude to do evil, and betrayed her suitor’s secret by way of
relieving her own mind. But I am sure that she would have felt very
sorry had she done so as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
She had seated herself by the fire and taken up her novel, not with the
content and pleasure which a well-conditioned girl ought to exhibit at
the sight of a new story in three volumes (in which form it is always
most welcome, according to my old-fashioned ideas) and a long afternoon
to enjoy it in, but still with resignation and a pulse beating more
quietly--when there arose sounds which indicated a visit after all.
Katherine listened eagerly, then subsided as the footsteps and voices
faded again, going off to the other end of the house.
“Dr. Burnet to see papa,” she said half with relief, half with
expectation. She had no desire to see Dr. Burnet. She could not
certainly to him breathe the faintest sigh of a revelation, or relieve
her mind by the most distant hint of anything that had happened. Still,
he was somebody. It was rather agreeable to give him tea. The bread and
butter disappeared so quickly, and it had come to be such a familiar
operation to watch those strong white teeth getting through it.
Certainly he had wonderful teeth. Katherine gave but a half attention to
her book, listening to the sounds in the house. Her father’s door
closed, he had gone in, and then after a while the bell rang and the
footsteps became audible once more in the corridor. She closed her book
upon her hand wondering if he would come this way, or---- He was coming
this way! She pushed her chair away from the hearth, feeling that, what
with the past excitement and the glow of the fire, her cheeks were
ablaze.
But Dr. Burnet did not seem to see this when he came in. She had gone to
the window by that time to look out again upon the falling snow. It was
falling, falling, silent and white and soft, in large flakes like
feathers, or rather like white swan’s down. He joined her there and they
stood looking at it together, and saying to each other how it seemed to
close round the house and wrap everything up as in a downy mantle.
“I like to see it,” the doctor said, “which is very babyish, I know. I
like to see that flutter in the air and the great soft flakes dilating
as they fall. But it puts a great stop to everything. You have had no
visitors, I suppose, to-day?”
“Oh, yes, before it came on,” said Katherine; and then she added in a
voice which she felt to be strange even while she spoke, “The Rector was
here.”
That was all--not another word did she say; but Dr. Burnet gave her a
quick look, and he knew as well as the reader knows what had happened.
The Rector, then, had struck his blow. No doubt it was by deliberate
purpose that he had chosen a day threatening snow, when nobody was
likely to interrupt him. And he had made his explanation and it had not
been well received. The doctor divined all this and his heart gave a
jump of pleasure, though Katherine had not said a word, and indeed had
not looked at him, but stood steadily with a blank countenance in which
there was nothing to be read, gazing out upon the snow. Sometimes a
blank countenance displays more than the frankest speech.
“He is a handsome man--for his time of life,” Dr. Burnet said, he could
not tell why.
“Yes?” said Katherine, as if she were waiting for further evidence; and
then she added, “It is droll to think of that as being a quality of the
Rector--just as you would say it of a boy.”
“Do you think that handsome is as handsome does, Miss Katherine? I
should not have expected that of you. I always thought you made a great
point of good looks.”
“I like nice-looking people,” she said, and in spite of herself gave a
glance aside at the doctor, who in spite of those fine teeth and very
good eyes and other points of advantage, could not have been called
handsome by the most partial of friends.
“You are looking at me,” he said with a laugh, “and the reflection is
obvious, though perhaps it is only my vanity that imagines you to have
made it. I am not much to brag of, I know it. I am very ’umble. A man
who knows he is good-looking must have a great advantage in life to
begin with. It must give him so much more confidence wherever he makes
his appearance--at least for the first time.”
“Do you think so?” she said. “I should think one would forget it so
quickly, both the possessor himself and those who look at him. If people
are _nice_ you think of that and not of their beauty, unless----”
“Unless what, Miss Katherine? You can’t think how interesting this talk
is to me. Tell me something on which an ugly man can rest and take
courage. You are thinking of John Wilkes’ famous saying that he only
wanted half-an-hour’s start of the handsomest man----”
“Who was John Wilkes?” said Katherine with the serenest ignorance. “I
suppose one of the men one ought to know; but then I know so little.
After a year of the Mutual Improvement Society----”
“Don’t trouble about that,” cried the doctor, “but my ambulance classes
are really of the greatest use. I do hope you will attend them. Suppose
there was an accident before your eyes--on the lawn there, and nobody
within reach--what should you do?”
“Tremble all over and be of use to nobody,” Katherine said with a
shudder.
“That is just what I want to obviate--that is just what ought to be
obviated. You, with your light touch and your kind heart and your quick
eye----”
“Have I a quick eye and a light touch?” said Katherine with a laugh;
“and how do you know? It is understood that every girl must have a kind
heart. On the whole, I would rather write an essay, I think, than be
called upon to render first aid. My hand is not at all steady if my
touch is light.”
She lifted one of the vases as she spoke to change its position and her
hand shook. He looked at it keenly, and she, not thinking of so sudden a
test, put down the vase in a hurry with a wave of colour coming over her
face.
“That’s not natural, that’s worry, that’s excitement,” Dr. Burnet said.
“The outlook is not very exciting, is it?” cried Katherine; “one does
not come in the way of much excitement at Sliplin, and I have not even
seen Miss Mildmay and Mrs. Shanks. No, it is natural, doctor. So you see
how little use it would be to train me. Come to the fire and have some
tea.”
“I must not give myself this pleasure too often,” he said. “I find
myself going back to it in imagination when I am out in the wilds. It is
precious cold in my dog-cart facing the wind, Miss Katherine. I say to
myself, Now the tea is being brought in in the drawing-room on the
Cliff, now it is being poured out. I smell the fragrance of it driving
along the bitter downs; and then I go and order some poor wretch the
beastliest draught that can be compounded to avenge myself for getting
no tea.”
“You should give them nothing but nice things, then, when you do have
tea--as now,” said Katherine.
He came after her to where the little tea-table shone and sparkled in
the firelight, and took from her hand the cup of tea she offered him,
and stood with his back to the fire holding it in his hand. His groom
was driving his dog-cart round and round the snowy path, crossing the
window from time to time, a dark apparition amid the falling of the
snow. What the thoughts of the groom might be, looking in through the
great window on this scene of comfort, the figure of Katherine in her
pretty dress and colour stooping over the table, and his master behind
standing against the firelight with his cup of tea, nobody asked.
Perhaps he was making little comparisons as to his lot, perhaps only
thinking of the time when he should be able to thrust his hands into his
pockets and the doctor should have the reins. Yet Dr. Burnet did not
ignore his groom. “There,” he said, “is fate awaiting me. This time she
has assumed the innocent form of John Dobbs, my groom. I have got ten
miles to drive, there and back, to see Mrs. Crumples, who could do
perfectly well without me, and then to the Chine for a moment to
ascertain if the new man there has digested his early dinner, and then
to Steephill to look after the servants’ hall. I am not good enough,
except on an emergency, for the family or Lady Jane.”
“I would not go more, then, if it is only for the servants’ hall,” cried
Katherine.
“Why not?” he said. “I consider Mrs. Cole, the cook, is quite as
valuable a member of society as Lady Jane. The world would not come to
an end if Lady Jane were absent for a day, or laid up, but it would very
nearly--at Steephill--if anything happened to the cook.”
“You said you were ’umble, Dr. Burnet, and I did not believe you. I see
that you are really so, now.”
“Ah, there I disagree with you,” he said, a little flush on his face. “I
am ’umble about my personal appearance, but I only don’t mind with Lady
Jane. She thinks of me merely as the general practitioner from Sliplin,
which shows she doesn’t know anything--for I am more than a general
practitioner.”
“I know,” cried Katherine quickly, half with a generous desire not to
leave him to sing his own praises, and half with a wondering scorn that
he should think it worth the while; “you will be a great physician one
of these days.”
“I hope so,” he said quietly. Then, after a while, “But I am still more
than that; at least, what would seem more in Lady Jane’s eyes. I am not
a doctor only, Miss Katherine. I have not such a bad little estate
behind me. My uncle has it now, but I’m the man after him; and a family
a good deal better known than the Uffingtons, who are not a century
old.” He said this with a little excitement, and a flourish in his hand
of the teaspoon with which he had been stirring his tea.
Jim Dobbs, driving past the window, white with snow, yet looking like a
huge blackness in the solidity of the group, he and his high coat and
his big horse amid the falling feathers, caught the gesture and wondered
within himself what the doctor could be about; while Katherine, looking
up at him from the tea-table, was scarcely less surprised. Why should he
tell her this? Why at all? Why now? The faint wonder in her look made
Dr. Burnet blush.
“What a fool I am! As if you cared about that,” he said with a stamp of
his foot, in impatience with himself, and shame.
“Oh, yes, I care about it. I am glad to hear of it. But--Dr. Burnet, let
me give you another cup of tea.”
“But,” he said, “you think what have I to do with the man’s antecedents?
You see I want you to know that I can put my foot forward
sometimes--like----” he paused for a moment and laughed, putting down
his cup hastily. “No more! No more! I must tear myself from this
enchanted cliff, or Jim Dobbs will mistake the window for the stable
door--like my elderly friend, Miss Katherine,” he said over his shoulder
as he went away.
Like--his elderly friend? Who was his elderly friend, and what did the
doctor mean? Katherine watched from the window while Burnet got into his
dog-cart and whirled away at a very different pace from that of his
groom. She could not see this from her window, but listened till the
sounds died away, looking out upon the snow. What a fascination that
snow had, falling, falling, without any dark object now to disturb its
absolute possession of the world! Katherine stood for a long time
watching before she went back to her novel, which was only when the
lamps were brought in, changing the aspect of the place. Did she care
for Dr. Burnet’s revelations, or divine the object of them? In the first
place not at all; in the second, I doubt whether she took the trouble to
ask herself the question.