A month later, Mr Proctor had got fairly settled in his new rectory,
with a complete modest establishment becoming his means--for Carlingford
was a tolerable living. And in the newly-furnished sober drawing-room
sat a very old lady, lively but infirm, who was the Rector's mother.
Nobody knew that this old woman kept the Fellow of All-Souls still a
boy at heart, nor that the reserved and inappropriate man forgot his
awkwardness in his mother's presence. He was not only a very affectionate
son, but a dutiful good child to her. It had been his pet scheme for
years to bring her from her Devonshire cottage, and make her mistress of
his house. That had been the chief attraction, indeed, which drew him
to Carlingford; for had he consulted his own tastes, and kept to his
college, who would insure him that at seventy-five his old mother might
not glide away out of life without that last gleam of sunshine long
intended for her by her grateful son?
This scene, accordingly, was almost the only one which reconciled him
to the extraordinary change in his life. There she sat, the lively old
lady; very deaf, as you could almost divine by that vivid inquiring
twinkle in her eyes; feeble too, for she had a silver-headed cane beside
her chair, and even with that assistance seldom moved across the room
when she could help it. Feeble in body, but alert in mind, ready to read
anything, to hear anything, to deliver her opinions freely; resting in
her big chair in the complete repose of age, gratified with her son's
attentions, and over-joyed in his company; interested about everything,
and as ready to enter into all the domestic concerns of the new people
as if she had lived all her life among them. The Rector sighed and
smiled as he listened to his mother's questions, and did his best, at
the top of his voice, to enlighten her. His mother was, let us say, a
hundred years or so younger than the Rector. If she had been his bride,
and at the blithe commencement of life, she could not have shown more
inclination to know all about Carlingford. Mr Proctor was middle-aged,
and preoccupied by right of his years; but his mother had long ago got
over that stage of life. She was at that point when some energetic
natures, having got to the bottom of the hill, seem to make a fresh
start and reascend. Five years ago, old Mrs Proctor had completed the
human term; now she had recommenced her life.
But, to tell the very truth, the Rector would very fain, had that been
possible, have confined her inquiries to books and public affairs. For
to make confidential disclosures, either concerning one's self or other
people, in a tone of voice perfectly audible in the kitchen, is somewhat
trying. He had become acquainted with those dread parishioners of
his during this interval. Already they had worn him to death with
dinner-parties--dinner-parties very pleasant and friendly, when one got
used to them; but to a stranger frightful reproductions of each other,
with the same dishes, the same dresses, the same stories, in which the
Rector communicated gravely with his next neighbour, and eluded as long
as he could those concluding moments in the drawing-room which were worst
of all. It cannot be said that his parishioners made much progress in
their knowledge of the Rector. What his "views" were, nobody could divine
any more than they could before his arrival. He made no innovations
whatever; but he did not pursue Mr Bury's Evangelical ways, and never
preached a sermon or a word more than was absolutely necessary. When
zealous Churchmen discussed the progress of Dissent, the Rector scarcely
looked interested; and nobody could move him to express an opinion
concerning all that lovely upholstery with which Mr Wentworth had
decorated St Roque's. People asked in vain, what was he? He was neither
High nor Low, enlightened nor narrow-minded; he was a Fellow of All-Souls.
"But now tell me, my dear," said old Mrs Proctor, "who's Mr Wodehouse?"
With despairing calmness, the Rector approached his voice to her ear.
"He's a churchwarden!" cried the unfortunate man, in a shrill whisper.
"He's what?--you forget I don't hear very well. I'm a great deal deafer,
Morley, my dear, than I was the last time you were in Devonshire. What
did you say Mr Wodehouse was?"
"He's an ass!" exclaimed the baited Rector.
Mrs Proctor nodded her head with a great many little satisfied assenting
nods.
"Exactly my own opinion, my dear. What I like in your manner of
expressing yourself, Morley, is its conciseness," said the laughing old
lady. "Just so--exactly what I imagined; but being an ass, you know,
doesn't account for him coming here so often. What is he besides, my
dear?"
The Rector made spasmodic gestures towards the door, to the great
amusement of his lively mother; and then produced, with much confusion
and after a long search, his pocketbook, on a leaf of paper in which he
wrote--loudly, in big characters--"He's a churchwarden--they'll hear in
the kitchen."
"He's a churchwarden! And what if they do hear in the kitchen?" cried
the old lady, greatly amused; "it isn't a sin. Well, now, let me hear:
has he a family, Morley?"
Again Mr Proctor showed a little discomposure. After a troubled look at
the door, and pause, as if he meditated a remonstrance, he changed his
mind, and answered, "Two daughters!" shouting sepulchrally into his
mother's ear.
"Oh so!" cried the old lady--"_two daughters_--so, so--that explains it
all at once. I know now why he comes to the Rectory so often. And, I
declare, I never thought of it before. Why, you're always there!--so,
so--and he's got _two daughters_, has he? To be sure; now I understand
it all."
The Rector looked helpless and puzzled. It was difficult to take
the initiative and ask why--but the poor man looked so perplexed and
ignorant, and so clearly unaware what the solution was, that the old
lady burst into shrill, gay laughter as she looked at him.
"I don't believe you know anything about it," she said. "Are they old or
young? are they pretty or ugly? Tell me all about them, Morley."
Now Mr Proctor had not the excuse of having forgotten the appearance of
the two Miss Wodehouses: on the contrary, though not an imaginative man,
he could have fancied he saw them both before him--Lucy lost in noiseless
laughter, and her good elder sister deprecating and gentle as usual. We
will not even undertake to say that a gleam of something blue did not
flash across the mind of the good man, who did not know what ribbons
were. He was so much bewildered that Mrs Proctor repeated her question,
and, as she did so, tapped him pretty smartly on the arm to recall his
wandering thoughts.
"One's one thing," at last shouted the confused man, "and t'other's
another!" An oracular deliverance which surely must have been entirely
unintelligible in the kitchen, where we will not deny that an utterance
so incomprehensible awoke a laudable curiosity.
"My dear, you're lucid!" cried the old lady, "I hope you don't preach
like that. T'other's another!--is she so? and I suppose that's the one
you're wanted to marry--eh? For shame, Morley, not to tell your
mother!"
The Rector jumped to his feet, thunderstruck. Wanted to marry!--the
idea was too overwhelming and dreadful--his mind could not receive it.
The air of alarm which immediately diffused itself all over him--his
unfeigned horror at the suggestion--captivated his mother. She was
amused, but she was pleased at the same time. Just making her cheery
outset on this second lifetime, you can't suppose she would have been
glad to hear that her son was going to jilt her, and appoint another
queen in her stead.
"Sit down and tell me about them," said Mrs Proctor; "my dear, you're
wonderfully afraid of the servants hearing. They don't know who we're
speaking of. Aha! and so you didn't know what they meant--didn't you? I
don't say you shouldn't marry, my dear--quite the reverse. A man _ought_
to marry, one time or another. Only it's rather soon to lay their plans.
I don't doubt there's a great many unmarried ladies in your church,
Morley. There always is in a country place."
To this the alarmed Rector answered only by a groan--a groan so
expressive that his quick-witted mother heard it with her eyes.
"They will come to call on me," said Mrs Proctor, with fun dancing in
her bright old eyes. "I'll tell you all about them, and you needn't be
afraid of the servants. Trust to me, my dear--I'll find them out. And
now, if you wish to take a walk, or go out visiting, don't let me detain
you, Morley. I shouldn't wonder but there's something in the papers I
would like to see--or I even might close my eyes for a few minutes: the
afternoon is always a drowsy time with me. When I was in Devonshire, you
know, no one minded what I did. You had better refresh yourself with a
nice walk, my dear boy."
The Rector got up well pleased. The alacrity with which he left the
room, however, did not correspond with the horror-stricken and helpless
expression of his face, when, after walking very smartly all round the
Rectory garden, he paused with his hand on the gate, doubtful whether to
retreat into his study, or boldly to face that world which was plotting
against him. The question was a profoundly serious one to Mr Proctor. He
did not feel by any means sure that he was a free agent, or could assert
the ordinary rights of an Englishman, in this most unexpected dilemma.
How could he tell how much or how little was necessary to prove that a
man had "committed himself"? For anything he could tell, somebody might
be calculating upon him as her lover, and settling his future life for
him. The Rector was not vain--he did not think himself an Adonis; he
did not understand anything about the matter, which indeed was beneath
the consideration of a Fellow of All-Souls. But have not women been
incomprehensible since ever there was in this world a pen with sufficient
command of words to call them so? And is it not certain that, whether
it may be to their advantage or disadvantage, every soul of them is
plotting to marry somebody? Mr Proctor recalled in dim but frightful
reminiscences stories which had dropped upon his ear at various times
of his life. Never was there a man, however ugly, disagreeable, or
penniless, but he could tell of a narrow escape he had, some time
or other. The Rector recollected and trembled. No woman was ever
so dismayed by the persecutions of a lover, as was this helpless
middle-aged gentleman under the conviction that Lucy Wodehouse meant
to marry him. The remembrance of the curate of St Roque's gave him no
comfort: her sweet youth, so totally unlike his sober age, did not
strike him as unfavourable to her pursuit of him. Who could fathom
the motives of a woman? His mother was wise, and knew the world, and
understood what such creatures meant. No doubt it was entirely the
case--a dreadful certainty--and what was he to do?
At the bottom of all this fright and perplexity must it be owned that
the Rector had a guilty consciousness within himself, that if Lucy drove
the matter to extremities, he was not so sure of his own powers of
resistance as he ought to be? She might marry him before he knew what
he was about; and in such a case the Rector could not have taken his
oath at his own private confessional that he would have been so deeply
miserable as the circumstances might infer. No wonder he was alarmed at
the position in which he found himself; nobody could predict how it
might end.
When Mr Proctor saw his mother again at dinner, she was evidently full
of some subject which would not bear talking of before the servants. The
old lady looked at her son's troubled apprehensive face with smiles and
nods and gay hints, which he was much too preoccupied to understand, and
which only increased his bewilderment. When the good man was left alone
over his glass of wine, he drank it slowly, in funereal silence, with
profoundly serious looks; and what between eagerness to understand what
the old lady meant, and reluctance to show the extent of his curiosity,
had a very heavy half-hour of it in that grave solitary dining-room. He
roused himself with an effort from this dismal state into which he was
falling. He recalled with a sigh the classic board of All-Souls. Woe for
the day when he was seduced to forsake that dear retirement! Really, to
suffer himself to fall into a condition so melancholy, was far from
being right. He must rouse himself--he must find some other society
than parishioners; and with a glimpse of a series of snug little
dinner-parties, undisturbed by the presence of women, Mr Proctor rose
and hurried after his mother, to hear what new thing she might have to
say.
Nor was he disappointed. The old lady was snugly posted, ready for a
conference. She made lively gestures to hasten him when he appeared at
the door, and could scarcely delay the utterance of her news till he had
taken his seat beside her. She had taken off her spectacles, and laid
aside her paper, and cleared off her work into her work-basket. All was
ready for the talk in which she delighted.
"My dear, they've been here," said old Mrs Proctor, rubbing her
hands--"both together, and as kind as could be--exactly as I expected.
An old woman gets double the attention when she's got an unmarried son.
I've always observed that; though in Devonshire, what with your fellowship
and seeing you so seldom, nobody took much notice. Yes, they've been
here; and I like them a great deal better than I expected, Morley, my
dear."
The Rector, not knowing what else to say, shouted "Indeed, mother!" into
the old lady's ear.
"Quite so," continued that lively observer--"nice young women--not at
all like their father, which is a great consolation. That elder one is a
very sensible person, I am sure. She would make a nice wife for somebody,
especially for a clergyman. She is not in her first youth, but neither
are some other people. A very nice creature indeed, I am quite sure."
During all this speech the Rector's countenance had been falling, falling.
If he was helpless before, the utter woe of his expression now was a
spectacle to behold. The danger of being married by proxy was appalling
certainly, yet was not entirely without alleviations; but Miss Wodehouse!
who ever thought of Miss Wodehouse? To see the last remains of colour
fade out of his cheek, and his very lip fall with disappointment, was
deeply edifying to his lively old mother. She perceived it all, but made
no sign.
"And the other is a pretty creature--certainly pretty: shouldn't you say
she was pretty, Morley?" said his heartless mother.
Mr Proctor hesitated, hemmed--felt himself growing red--tried to intimate
his sentiments by a nod of assent; but that would not do, for the old
lady had presented her ear to him, and was blind to all his gestures.
"I don't know much about it, mother," he made answer at last.
"_Much_ about it! it's to be hoped not. I never supposed you did; but
you don't mean to say you don't think her pretty?" said Mrs Proctor--"but,
I don't doubt in the least, a sad flirt. Her sister is a very superior
person, my dear."
The Rector's face lengthened at every word--a vision of these two Miss
Wodehouses rose upon him every moment clearer and more distinct as his
mother spoke. Considering how ignorant he was of all such female
paraphernalia, it is extraordinary how correct his recollection was of
all the details of their habitual dress and appearance. With a certain
dreadful consciousness of the justice of what his mother said, he saw in
imagination the mild elder sister in her comely old-maidenhood. Nobody
could doubt her good qualities, and could it be questioned that for a
man of fifty, if he was to do anything so foolish, a woman not quite
forty was a thousand times more eligible than a creature in blue ribbons?
Still the unfortunate Rector did not seem to see it: his face grew
longer and longer--he made no answer whatever to his mother's address;
while she, with a spice of natural female malice against the common
enemy triumphing for the moment over the mother's admiration of her son,
sat wickedly enjoying his distress, and aggravating it. His dismay and
perplexity amused this wicked old woman beyond measure.
"I have no doubt that younger girl takes a pleasure in deluding her
admirers," said Mrs Proctor; "she's a wicked little flirt, and likes
nothing better than to see her power. I know very well how such people
do; but, my dear," continued this false old lady, scarcely able to
restrain her laughter, "if I were you, I would be very civil to Miss
Wodehouse. You may depend upon it, Morley, that's a very superior
person. She is not very young, to be sure, but you are not very young
yourself. She would make a nice wife--not too foolish, you know, nor
fanciful. Ah! I like Miss Wodehouse, my dear."
The Rector stumbled up to his feet hastily, and pointed to a table at
a little distance, on which some books were lying. Then he went and
brought them to her table. "I've brought you some new books," he shouted
into her ear. It was the only way his clumsy ingenuity could fall upon
for bringing this most distasteful conversation to an end.
The old lady's eyes were dancing with fun and a little mischief, but,
notwithstanding, she could not be so false to her nature as to show no
interest in the books. She turned them over with lively remarks and
comment. "But for all that, Morley, I would not have you forget Miss
Wodehouse," she said, when her early bedtime came. "Give it a thought
now and then, and consider the whole matter. It is not a thing to be
done rashly; but still you know you are settled now, and you ought to be
thinking of settling for life."
With this parting shaft she left him. The troubled Rector, instead of
sitting up to his beloved studies, went early to bed that night, and was
pursued by nightmares through his unquiet slumbers. Settling for life!
Alas! there floated before him vain visions of that halcyon world he had
left--that sacred soil at All-Souls, where there were no parishioners to
break the sweet repose. How different was this discomposing real world!