(I)
Winter at Merefield Rectory is almost as delightful as summer, although
in an entirely different way. The fact is that the Rectory has managed
the perfect English compromise. In summer, with the windows and doors
wide open, with the heavy radiant creepers, with the lawns lying about
the house, with the warm air flowing over the smooth, polished floors
and lifting the thin mats, with the endless whistle of bird song--then
the place seems like a summer-house. And in winter, with the heavy
carpets down, and the thick curtains, the very polished floors, so cool
in summer, seem expressly designed to glimmer warmly with candle and
fire-light; and the books seem to lean forward protectively and reassert
themselves, and the low beamed ceilings to shelter and safeguard the
interior comfort. The center of gravity is changed almost imperceptibly.
In summer the place is a garden with a house in the middle; in winter a
house surrounded by shrubberies.
The study in one way and the morning-room in another are the respective
pivots of the house. The study is a little paneled room on the
ground-floor, looking out upon the last of the line of old yews and the
beginning of the lawn; the morning-room (once known as the school-room)
is the only other paneled room in the house, on the first floor, looking
out upon the front. And round these two rooms the two sections of the
house-life tranquilly revolve. Here in one the Rector controls the
affairs of the parish, writes his sermons, receives his men friends (not
very many), and reads his books. There in the other Jenny orders the
domestic life of the house, interviews the cook, and occupies herself
with her own affairs. They are two rival, but perfectly friendly, camps.
* * * * *
Lately (I am speaking now of the beginning of November) there had not
been quite so much communication between the two camps as usual, not so
many informal negotiations. Jenny did not look in quite so often upon
her father--for ten minutes after breakfast, for instance, or before
lunch--and when he looked in on her he seemed to find her generally with
rather a preoccupied air, often sitting before the wide-arched
fireplace, with her hands behind her head, looking at the red logs.
He was an easy man, as has been seen, and did not greatly trouble his
head about it: he knew enough of the world to recognize that an
extremely beautiful girl like Jenny, living on the terms she did with
the great house--and a house with men coming and going continually, to
say nothing of lawn-tennis parties and balls elsewhere--cannot
altogether escape complications. He was reasonable enough, too, to
understand that a father is not always the best confidant, and he had
supreme confidence in Jenny's common sense.
I suppose he had his dreams; he would scarcely have been human if he had
not, and he was quite human. The throwing over of Frank had brought him
mixed emotions, but he had not been consulted either at the beginning or
the end of the engagement, and he acquiesced. Of Dick's affair he knew
nothing at all.
That, then, was the situation when the bomb exploded. It exploded in
this way.
He was sitting in his study one morning--to be accurate, it was the
first Saturday in November, two days after the events of the last
chapter--preparing to begin the composition of his sermon for the next
day. They had dined up at the great house the night before quite quietly
with Lord Talgarth and Archie, who had just come back.
He had selected his text with great care from the Gospel for the day,
when the door suddenly opened and Jenny came in. This was very unusual
on Saturday morning; it was an understood thing that he must be at his
sermon; but his faint sense of annoyance was completely dispelled by his
daughter's face. She was quite pale--not exactly as if she had received
a shock, but as if she had made up her mind to something; there was no
sign of tremor in her face; on the contrary, she looked extremely
determined, but her eyes searched his as she stopped.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, father, but may I talk to you for a few minutes?"
She did not wait for his answer, but came straight in and sat down in
his easy-chair. He laid his pen down and turned a little at his
writing-table to face her.
"Certainly, dear. What is it? Nothing wrong?"
(He noticed she had a note in her hand.)
"No, nothing wrong...." She hesitated. "But it's rather important."
"Well?"
She glanced down at the note she carried. Then she looked up at him
again.
"Father, I suppose you've thought of my marrying some day--in spite of
Frank?"
"Eh?"
"Would you mind if I married a man older than myself--I mean a good deal
older?"
He looked at her in silence. Two or three names passed before his mind,
but he couldn't remember--
"Father, I'm in trouble. I really am. I didn't expect--"
Her voice faltered. He saw that she really found it difficult to speak.
A little wave of tenderness rolled over his heart. It was unlike her to
be so much moved. He got up and came round to her.
"What is it, dear? Tell me."
She remained perfectly motionless for an instant. Then she held out the
note to him, and simultaneously stood up. As he took it, she went
swiftly past him and out of the door. He heard the swish of her dress
pass up the stairs, and then the closing of a door. But he hardly heeded
it. He was reading the note she had given him. It was a short, perfectly
formal offer of marriage to her from Lord Talgarth.
(II)
"Father, dear," said Jenny, "I want you to let me have my say straight
out, will you?"
He bowed his head.
They were sitting, on the evening of the same day, over the tea-things
in his study. He had not seen her alone for one moment since the
morning. She had refused to open her door to him when he went up after
reading the note: she had pleaded a headache at lunch, and she had been
invisible all the afternoon. Then, as he came in about tea-time, she had
descended upon him, rather pale, but perfectly herself, perfectly
natural, and even rather high-spirited. She had informed him that tea
would be laid in his study, as she wanted a long talk. She had poured
out tea, talking all the time, refusing, it seemed, to meet his eyes.
When she had finished, she had poured out his third cup, and then pushed
her own low chair back so far that he could not see her face.
Then she had opened the engagement.
* * * * *
To say that the poor man had been taken aback would be a very poor way
of describing his condition. The thing simply had never entered his
head. He had dreamed, in wild moments, of Archie; he had certainly
contemplated Dick; but Lord Talgarth himself, gouty and aged
sixty-five!... And yet he had not been indignant. Indignation not only
did not do with Jenny, but it was impossible. To be quite frank, the man
was afraid of his daughter; he was aware that she would do ultimately
as she wished, and not as he wished; and his extreme discomfort at the
thought of this old man marrying his daughter was, since he was human,
partly counter-balanced by the thought of who the old man was. Lastly,
it must be remembered that Jenny was really a very sensible girl, and
that her father was quite conscious of the fact.
Jenny settled herself once more in her chair and began.
* * * * *
"Father, dear, I want to be quite sensible about this. And I've been
very foolish and silly about it all day. I can't imagine why I behaved
as I did. There's nothing to go and mope about, that Lord Talgarth has
been kind enough to do me this honor. Because it is an honor, you know,
however you look at it, that anyone should ask one to be his wife.
"Well, I want to say what I have to say first, and then I want you to
say exactly what you think. I've thought it all out, so I shan't be very
long."
(He put down his cup noiselessly, as if in the presence of a sick
person. He was anxious not to lose a word, or even an inflection).
"First of all, let's have all the things against it. He's an old man. We
mustn't forget that for one minute. And that's a very strong argument
indeed. Some people would think it final, but I think that's
foolish....
"Secondly, it never entered my head for one instant." (Jenny said this
quite deliberately, almost reverently.) "Of course I see now that he's
hinted at it very often, but I never understood it at the time. I've
always thought of him as a sort of--well--a sort of uncle. And that's
another strong argument against it. If it was a right thing to do,
oughtn't it to have occurred to me too? I'm not quite sure about that.
"Thirdly, it's unsuitable for several reasons. It'll make talk. Here
have I been engaged to Frank for ages and broken it off. Can't you
imagine how people will interpret that now? I suppose I oughtn't to mind
what people say, but I'm afraid I do. Then I'm the Rector's daughter ...
and I've been running in and out continually--dining with them, sitting
with him alone. Can't you imagine what people--Lady Richard, for
instance--will make of it?... I shall be an adventuress, and all the
rest of it. That's not worth much as an argument, but it is a ... a
consideration. One must look facts in the face and think of the future.
"Fourthly, Lord Talgarth probably won't live very long...." (Jenny
paused, and then, with extraordinary impressiveness, continued).... "And
that, of, course, is perhaps the strongest argument of all. If I could
be of any real use to him--" She stopped again.
The Rector shifted a little in his chair.
It was impossible for him to conceal from himself any longer the fact
that up to now he had really been expecting Jenny to accept the offer.
But he was a little puzzled now at the admirable array of reasons she
had advanced against that. She had put into words just the sensible view
of which he himself had only had a confused apprehension; she had
analyzed into all its component parts that general sense which one side
of him had pushed before him all day--that the thing was really
abominable. And this side of him at this time was uppermost. He drew a
whistling breath.
"Well, my dear," he began, and the relief was very apparent in his
voice. But Jenny interrupted.
"One minute, please, father! In fairness to--to everyone I must put the
other side.... I suppose the main question is this, after all. Am I fond
of him?--fond enough, that is, to marry him--because, of course, I'm
fond of him; he's been so extraordinarily kind always.... I suppose
that's really the only thing to be considered. If I were fond enough of
him, I suppose all the arguments against count for nothing. Isn't that
so?... Yes; I want you to say what you think."
He waited. Still he could make out nothing of her face, though he
glanced across the tea-things once or twice.
"My dear, I don't know what to say. I--"
"Father, dear, I just want that from you. Do you think that any
consideration at all ought to stand in the way, if I were--I don't say
for one single moment that I am--but if I were--well, really fond of
him? I'm sorry to have to speak so very plainly, but it's no good being
silly."
He swallowed in his throat once or twice.
"If you really were fond of him--I think ... I think that, no
consideration of the sort you have mentioned ought to ... to stand in
your way."
"Thank you, father," said Jenny softly.
"When did you first think of it?"
Jenny paused.
"I think I knew he was going to ask me two days ago--the day you met us
out riding, you know."
* * * * *
There was a long silence.
They had already discussed, when Frank's affair had been before them,
all secondary details.
The Rector's sister was to have taken Jenny's place. There was nothing
of that sort to talk about now. They were both just face to face with
primary things, and they both knew it.
The Rector's mind worked like a mill--a mill whose machinery is running
aimlessly. The wheels went round and round, but they effected nothing.
He was completely ignorant as to what Jenny intended. He perceived--as
in a series of little vignettes--a number of hypothetical events, on
this side and that, but they drew to no conclusion in his mind. He was
just waiting on his daughter's will.
* * * * *
Jenny broke the silence with a slow remark in another kind of voice.
"Father, dear, there's something else I must tell you. I didn't see any
need to bother you with it before. It's this. Mr. Dick Guiseley proposed
to me when he was here for the shooting."
She paused, but her father said nothing.
"I told him he must wait--that I didn't know for certain, but that I was
almost certain. If he had pressed for an answer I should have said 'No.'
Oddly enough, I was thinking only yesterday that it wasn't fair to keep
him waiting any longer. Because ... because it's 'No' ... anyhow, now."
The Rector still could not speak. It was just one bewilderment. But
apparently Jenny did not want any comments.
"That being so," she went on serenely, "my conscience is clear, anyhow.
And I mustn't let what I think Mr. Dick might say or think affect
me--any more than the other things. Must I?"
"... Jenny, what are you going to do? Tell me!"
"Father, dear," came the high astonished voice, "I don't know. I don't
know at all. I must think. Did you think I'd made up my mind? Why! How
could I? Of course I should say 'No' if I had to answer now."
"I--" began the Rector and stopped. He perceived that the situation
could easily be complicated.
"I must just think about it quietly," went on the girl. "And I must
write a note to say so.... Father ..."
He glanced in her direction.
"Father, about being fond of a man.... Need it be--well, as I was fond
of Frank? I don't think Lord Talgarth could have expected that, could
he? But if you--well--get on with a man very well, understand him--can
stand up to him without annoying him ... and ... and care for him,
really, I mean, in such a way that you like being with him very much,
and look up to him very much in all kinds of ways--(I'm very sorry to
have to talk like this, but whom am I to talk to, father dear?) Well, if
I found I did care for Lord Talgarth like that--like a sort of daughter,
or niece, and more than that too, would that--"
"I don't know," said the Rector, abruptly standing up. "I don't know;
you mustn't ask me. You must settle all that yourself."
She looked up at him, startled, it seemed, by the change in his manner.
"Father, dear--" she began, with just the faintest touch of pathetic
reproach in her voice. But he did not appear moved by it.
"You must settle," he said. "You have all the data. I haven't. I--"
He stepped towards the door.
"Tell me as soon as you have decided," he said, and went out.
(III)
The little brown dog called Lama, who in an earlier chapter once trotted
across a lawn, and who had lately been promoted to sleeping upon Jenny's
bed, awoke suddenly that night and growled a low breathy remonstrance.
He had been abruptly kicked from beneath the bedclothes.
"Get off, you heavy little beast," said a voice in the darkness.
Lama settled himself again with a grunt, half of comfort, half of
complaint.
"_Get off!_" came the voice again, and again his ribs were heaved at by
a foot.
He considered it a moment or two, and even shifted nearer the wall,
still blind with sleep; but the foot pursued him, and he awoke finally
to the conviction that it would be more comfortable by the fire; there
was a white sheepskin there, he reflected. As he finally reached the
ground, a scratching was heard in the corner, and he was instantly
alert, and the next moment had fitted his nose, like a kind of
india-rubber pad, deep into a small mouse-hole in the wainscoting, and
was breathing long noisy sighs down into the delicious and
gamey-smelling darkness.
"Oh! be quiet!" came a voice from the bed.
Lama continued his investigations unmoved, and having decided, after one
long final blow, that there was to be no sport, returned to the
sheepskin with that brisk independent air that was so characteristic of
him. He was completely awake now, and stood eyeing the bed a moment,
with the possibility in his mind that his mistress was asleep again,
and that by a very gentle leap--But a match was struck abruptly, and he
lay down, looking, with that appearance of extreme wide-awakedness in
his black eyes that animals always wear at night, at his restless
mistress.
He could not quite understand what was the matter.
First she lit a candle, took a book from the small table by the bed and
began to read resolutely. This continued till Lama's eyes began to blink
at the candle flame, and then he was suddenly aware that the light was
out and the book closed, and all fallen back again into the clear gray
tones which men call darkness.
He put his head down on his paws, but his eyebrows rose now and again as
he glanced at the bed.
Then the candle was lighted again after a certain space of time, but
this time there was no book opened. Instead, his mistress took her arms
out of bed, and clasped them behind her head, staring up at the
ceiling....
This was tiresome, as the light was in his eyes, and his body was just
inert enough with sleep to make movement something of an effort....
Little by little, however, his eyebrows came down, remained down, and
his eyes closed....
He awoke again at a sound. The candle was still burning, but his
mistress had rolled over on to her side and seemed to be talking gently
to herself. Then she was over again on this side, and a minute later was
out of bed, and walking to and fro noiselessly on the soft carpet.
He watched her with interest, his eyes only following her. He had never
yet fully understood this mysterious change of aspect that took place
every night--the white thin dress, the altered appearance of the head,
and--most mysterious of all--the two white things that ought to be feet,
but were no longer hard and black. He had licked one of them once
tentatively, and had found that the effect was that it had curled up
suddenly; there had been a sound as of pain overhead, and a swift slap
had descended upon him.
He was observing these things now--to and fro, to and fro--and his eyes
moved with them.
* * * * *
After a certain space of time the movement stopped. She was standing
still near a carved desk--important because a mouse had once been
described sitting beneath it; and she stood so long that his eyes began
to blink once more. Then there was a rustle of paper being torn, and he
was alert again in a moment. Perhaps paper would be thrown for him
presently....
She came across to the hearth-rug, and he was up, watching her hands,
while his own short tail flickered three or four times in invitation.
But it was no good: the ball was crumpled up and thrown on to the red
logs. There was a "whup" from the fire and a flame shot up. He looked at
this carefully with his head on one side, and again lay down to watch
it. His mistress was standing quite still, watching it with him.
Then, as the flame died down, she turned abruptly, went straight back to
the bed, got into it, drew the clothes over her and blew the candle out.
* * * * *
After a few moments steady staring at the fire, he perceived that a part
of the ball of paper had rolled out on to the stone hearth unburned. He
looked at it for some while, wondering whether it was worth getting up
for. Certainly the warmth was delicious and the sheepskin exquisitely
soft.
There was no sound from the bed. A complete and absolute silence had
succeeded to all the restlessness.
Finally he concluded that it was impossible to lie there any longer and
watch such a crisp little roll of paper still untorn. He got up, stepped
delicately on to the wide hearth, and pulled the paper towards him with
a little scratching sound. There was a sigh from the bed, and he paused.
Then he lifted it, stepped back to his warm place, lay down, and
placing his paws firmly upon the paper, began to tear scraps out of it
with his white teeth.
"Oh, _be quiet_!" came the weary voice from the bed.
He paused, considered; then he tore two more pieces. But it did not
taste as it should; it was a little sticky, and too stiff. He stood up
once more, turned round four times and lay down with a small grunt.
In the morning the maid who swept up the ashes swept up these fragments
too. She noticed a wet scrap of a picture postcard, with the word
"Selby" printed in the corner. Then she threw that piece, too, into the
dustpan.