It may now be necessary to indicate the outline, at least, of an
incident which was the reason why, at the most critical period of
the affairs both of her brother and sister, Minnie's supervising and
controlling care was neutralised. Whether it is the case that nothing
that did happen would have happened, as is her sincere conviction, had
she been free to observe and guide the course of events, is what neither
the writer of this history nor any other human looker-on can say. We are
all disposed to believe that certain possibilities would have changed
the entire face of history had they ever developed, and that life would
have been a different thing altogether had not So-and-So got ill, or gone
on a journey, or even been so ill-advised as to die at a particular
juncture. Miss Warrender was of this opinion strongly, but it is possible
the reader may think that everything would have gone on very much as it
did, in spite of all that she could have said or done. It is a problem
which never can be settled, should we go on discussing it for evermore.
The thing which deprived the family of Minnie's care at the approaching
crisis was what cannot be otherwise described than as a happy event. In
the early summer, before Mr. Warrender died, a new curate had come to
Underwood. This, however, is not an entirely just way of stating the
case. A curate, in the ordinary sense of the word, was not wanted at
Underwood. The parish was small. Such a thing as a daily service had not
begun to be thought of, and the rector, who was full of energy, would
have thought it wasteful extravagance to give a hundred pounds a year to
another clergyman, in order that he might have the lessons read for
him and the responses led by an educated voice. Ideas about educated
voices, as well as about vestments and lights on the altar, have all
developed since that time. People in general were quite satisfied with
the clerk in those days, or, if they were not satisfied, at least accepted
him as a necessary evil, at which one was free to laugh, but against
which there was nothing to be said. The morning service on Sunday was
the only one that was of much importance, to which the whole parish
came. That in the afternoon was attended only by the village people, and
did not count for much. The rector would not have said in so many words,
like a French cure, that vespers was _pas obligatoire_, but he had the
same feeling. Both he and his wife felt kindly to the people who came,
as if it were a personal compliment. It is needless to say that things
ecclesiastical have very, very much changed since, and that this easy
indulgence exists no longer.
Thus there was evidently no need of a curate at Underwood proper. But
the parish was now a double one. Once "St Mary's Underwood," it was now
"Underwood-cum-Pierrepoint;" and the condition of drawing the revenues
of the latter district was, that the rector should always provide for
the duty in the little church at Pierrepoint, which was considered a
fine specimen of early architecture, though not much adapted to modern
needs. It had been usually some shabby old parson, some poor gentleman
who had been a failure in life, one of those wonderful curates who are
rich in nothing but children, and to whom the old, rambling, out-at-elbows
parsonage house at Pierrepoint was of itself an attraction, who had taken
this appointment. And it had been a great surprise to the neighbourhood
when it was known that the Honourable and Reverend Eustace Thynne (to
say the Reverend the Honourable, which is now the highest fashion in such
matters, postponing, as is meet, secular rank to that of the Church, was
unknown in those pre-Ritualistic days), a young man, an earl's son, an
entirely unexceptionable and indeed every way laudable individual, had
accepted this post. A greater surprise it would be impossible to imagine.
The Warrenders had been as much interested as anybody before the death
in the family had made such sentiments for a time inappropriate. But
Mr. Thynne had turned out a very sympathetic young clergyman. He had
left his card and kind inquiries at once. He had helped to officiate at
the funeral, and afterwards Minnie had been heard to say that no one had
given her so true an idea of how grief ought to be borne. He had been a
frequent visitor through the summer. If Theo saw little of him, that was
entirely Theo's fault. It was Mr. Thynne who persuaded the girls that
to resume their duties in the Sunday school was not only right, but the
best thing for them,--so soothing and comforting; and he had come a
great deal to the Warren while Theo was so much away, and in many things
had made himself useful to the girls, as Theo had been doing to Lady
Markland. He did not, indeed, devote himself to them with the same
indiscriminate devotion. There was no occasion for anything of the kind.
Mrs. Warrender was quite capable of looking after things herself, and
Minnie's energy was almost greater than was necessary for the needs of
their position; so that it was not at all needful or desirable that he
should put himself at their disposal in any exaggerated way. But all
that a man and a clergyman could do to make himself useful and agreeable
Eustace Thynne did. They got to call him Eustace Thynne quite naturally,
when they were talking of him, though they still called him Mr. Thynne
when conversing with him. They saw a great deal of him. There was very
little to do at Pierrepoint, and he was a great walker, and constantly
met them when they were out. And he was very sound in his views, not
extreme in anything; not an evangelical, much less inclining towards the
section of the Church which began to be known in the world under the
name of Puseyists. Eustace Thynne had no exaggerated ideas; he was not
eccentric in anything. The Thirty-Nine Articles sat as easily upon him
as his very well made coat; he never forgot that he was a clergyman, or
wore even a gray checked necktie, which the rector sometimes did, but
always had a white tie, very neatly tied, and a tall hat, which was
considered in those days the proper dress for a clergyman, even in the
country. His political ideas inclined to Conservatism, whereas, as
Minnie always said, the Warrenders were Liberal; but it was a very
moderate Conservatism, and the difference was scarcely appreciable.
From all this it may be divined that Minnie was in the way of following
the example set her by her mother and grandmother, and the majority of
women generally. She had not thought herself very likely to marry for
some time back; for the county had wonderfully few young men in it, and
she had no desire ever to leave home. But when Providence sent Eustace
Thynne in her way, there was no reason why she should shut her eyes to
that divine and benevolent intention. She softened in some ways, but
hardened in others, during the course of the year. In matters upon which
Eustace Thynne agreed with her,--and these were the principal features
of her social creed,--she was more determined than ever, having his
moral support to fall back upon: and would not allow the possibility
of a doubt. And this made her the more severe upon Theo, for in all
questions of propriety Mr. Thynne was with her, heart and soul.
As usually happens in the forming of new bonds, the old ones were a
little strained while the process was going on. Chatty, who had been
very deeply interested at first, when she saw in her elder sister
symptoms of a state about which she herself had entertained only the
vaguest dreams, became sometimes a little tired of it, when she found
one of the results to be a growing inclination to get rid of herself.
When they went out together to visit a pensioner, if they met Mr. Thynne
(as they often did) on the road, Minnie would stop at the end of the
lane. "Will you just run in and see how old Sarah is?" she would say to
Chatty. "Two of us in such a little place is too much for the poor old
dear;" and Mr. Thynne would remark, in a low voice, that Miss Warrender
was so considerate (if everybody would be as considerate!), and linger
and talk, while Chatty went and informed herself about all old Sarah's
ills. This, however, the younger sister could have borne; but when she
found, on rejoining the pair, that they had been discussing Theo, and
that Minnie had been asking Mr. Thynne's advice, and that he entirely
agreed with her, and thought she was quite right about Lady Markland,
Chatty's spirit rose. "I would not talk about Theo to any one," she
said, indignantly. "Who do you call any one? Mr. Thynne takes a great
interest in all of us, and he is a clergyman, and of whom should one ask
advice if not of a clergyman?" Minnie replied, with triumphant logic.
"If he was a bishop, I would not talk over Theo; not with him, nor any
one," Chatty replied. She had always been inclined to take Theo's part,
and she became his partisan in these new circumstances, standing up for
him through thick and thin. And in her little expeditions up and down
the lane to ask after old Sarah, while Minnie strolled slowly along with
her clerical lover, Chatty began to form little opinions of her own,
and to free herself more or less from that preponderating influence of
the elder sister which had shaped all her previous life. And a little
wistfulness began to float across Chatty's gentle mind, and little
thrills of curiosity to go through it. Her surroundings at this moment
gave much room for thought. Minnie, who had never shown any patience in
respect to such vanity, and was always severe with the maids and their
young men, wandering on ahead with Mr. Thynne; and Theo, who had always
been so imperious, given up in every thought to Lady Markland, and not
to be spoken to on ordinary subjects during the short time he spent at
home! With these two before her eyes, it can scarcely be supposed that
Chatty did not ask herself, now and then, whether for her also there was
not somebody whose appearance would change everything? And for the first
time she began to get impatient of the Warren, in the gloom of the
winter, and to wish, like her mother, for a change.
Mr. Thynne was not ineligible, like most curates. It was not for
poverty, or because he had no other place to turn to, that he had taken
the curacy at Pierrepoint. There was a family living awaiting him, a
very good living; and he had some money, which an uncle had left him;
and he was the honourable as well as the reverend. Minnie had her
own opinion, as has been seen, on matters of rank. She did not think
overmuch of the nobility. She was of opinion that the country gentry
were the support and salvation of England. Still, while a plain Mrs. or
Miss may be anybody to those who don't know her, a dairyman's daughter
or a scion of the oldest of families--an honourable to your name does at
once identify you as occupying a certain position. "It is a very good
thing," she said, "in that way; it is a sort of hall-mark, you know."
"It is sometimes put on very false metal, Minnie."
"Oh, I don't know," said Minnie, with an indignant flush; "no more than
any other kind of distinction. The peerage does not go wrong oftener,
perhaps not so often, as other people: but it does give a _cachet_. It
is known then who you belong to, and that you must be more or less nice
people. I like it for that."
"There could be no doubt about Mr. Thynne, any way, my dear."
"I never said I was thinking of Mr. Thynne," said Minnie, with a violent
flush, as she broke off the conversation and hurried away. And, indeed,
it was not at all of Mr. Thynne that she was thinking, but rather of a
possible Mrs. Thynne, and what her advantages might be over other ladies
who did not possess that pretty and harmless affix. She decided that,
unquestionably, it was an advantage. Out of your own county it might
very well happen that nobody might know who you were: but an honourable
never could be mistaken. She came gradually to change her views about
the peerage in general, after that discovery, and made up her mind that
a title in the family was good in every way. There could never be any
doubt about that. There it was in Debrett, and everybody could satisfy
themselves about its genuineness and antiquity, and lay their finger
upon the descendants and relatives of the house. There were inconveniences
in that, especially in respect to age, but still it was an advantage;
and to be sure, for those who were added to a noble family by marriage
even that inconvenience did not exist.
Mr. Thynne declared himself in summer, after the year of mourning was
over, and when even Miss Warrender felt that it was permitted to be
lively, and wear white dresses, though with black ribbons, of course;
and as the family living fell vacant immediately, the wedding took place
almost at once. It made a great sensation in the parish, it need not be
said; and while the few people in Pierrepoint gave the curate a teapot,
in Underwood there was a great agitation in the Sunday school and much
collecting to buy a fine big Bible, with a great deal of gilding outside,
for Miss Warrender, which was given to her at a tea in the schoolroom,
with a speech from the rector, who was chary of public speaking, and had
to be egged up to it by many little moral pricks from his wife. It was
considered a very suitable present for a young lady who was going to
marry a clergyman, just as the teapot was most suitable for a young
clergyman about to be married. In those days there was not the rain of
marriage presents from everybody within reach which are the painful
fashion now. But Minnie had a very excellent, solid trousseau, as might
be expected, full of useful clothes; the silks very handsome, and
the dinner dresses, though serious, which she thought suitable to a
clergyman's wife, quite good enough to go _anywhere in_. If she had
been yielded to in that respect, her going-away dress would have been
lavender with black lace, quite second mourning. But not only her mother
and sister, but Mrs. Wilberforce and even Mr. Thynne himself, who did
not fancy a bride in mourning, remonstrated so strongly that she was
obliged to yield. "I am in favour of showing every respect to our dear
ones who are gone; but there are limits," the bridegroom said, and Mrs.
Wilberforce declared that, though herself a Conservative and staunch
upholder of the past she did think dear Minnie sometimes went a little
too far, notwithstanding that the Warrenders were Liberals. This
determined stand on the part of all belonging to her resulted in
Minnie's departure from the Warren clothed in a suit of russet brown,
which was very becoming to her,--much more so than the whiteness of her
bridal dress and veil.
This withdrew Minnie's thoughts in great measure from the other events
which were preparing, and finally carried her off altogether on the eve
of many and great changes, such as turned topsy-turvy the life of the
Warrenders. She was naturally very much taken up by her husband and her
new surroundings, and the delightful trouble of settling down in her new
parish and home. And she was at a considerable distance from them, half
a day's journey, which made very frequent visits impossible. It has been
already said that we do not pretend to give our opinion as to whether,
if Minnie had not married, things might not have gone very differently
in the Warrender family life.
After the wedding guests had departed Warrender ordered his horse to
be brought round, as usual. He had, of course, been occupied all the
morning with his own family, and with the marriage and the entertainment
afterwards. Geoff had got a holiday, which he prized very much. (Lady
Markland and the boy had been asked, of course, to the wedding, but it
was perhaps a relief to all that they declined to come.) And if there
ever was a moment in which Mrs. Warrender wanted her son it was that
day. She was tired out, and in the nervous state to which the best of us
are liable at agitating moments. Minnie was not, perhaps, in absolute
sympathy with her mother, but Mrs. Warrender had a great deal of
imagination, and partly by those recollections of the past that are
called up by every great family event, and partly by inevitable
anticipations of the future, she was in special need of kindness and
filial care. Her heart swelled within her when she saw the black horse
brought round. She went to the door in the gray gown which she had got
for Minnie's marriage, and met her son as he came into the hall. "Oh,
Theo, are you going to leave us to-day? I thought you would have stayed
with us to-day," she said, with what an unfavourable judge would have
called a querulous tone in her voice. It was in reality fatigue and
weariness, and a great desire for her boy's affection and comforting
care; but the other explanation was not without reason.
"Why should I stay to-day, more than any other day?" he said.
"You don't require me to tell you, Theo. It is getting late; you can't
be wanted _there_, surely, to-day."
Now this was injudicious on Mrs. Warrender's part: but a woman cannot
always be judicious, however it may hurt her. He looked at her with
quick offence.
"Suppose I think differently?" he said; "or suppose that it is for my
own pleasure I am going, as you say, _there_?"
"I meant no harm," said Mrs. Warrender. "I have not opposed you. Often I
have longed to have you a little more at home: but I never said
anything, Theo,--you know I have never said anything."
"I can't imagine, mother, what there was to say."
She checked herself with difficulty, but still she did check herself.
"There are some things," she said, "that I wish you would attend to,--I
cannot help feeling that there are several things; but to-day, dear
Theo, both Chatty and I are feeling low. Stay with us this afternoon. It
will do us so much good."
She thought that he wavered for an instant, but if so it was only for an
instant. "I don't believe that," he said. "We should only quarrel; and
what is the use of a thing that is forced? And besides, of all days, this
is the one above all others that I want to go. It is my best chance"--and
then he stopped and looked at her, the colour rising to his face.
"I thought Geoff was to go somewhere, for a holiday."
He gave her another look, and the red became crimson. "That is just the
reason," he said enigmatically, and with a slight wave of his hand passed
her, and went out to the door.
"You will be back to dinner, Theo?"
He turned round his head as he was about to ride away, looking down upon
her. "Perhaps I may be back immediately," he said,--"most likely; but
never mind me, one way or another. I want nothing but to be let alone,
please."
Chatty had come out to the door, and they both stood and watched him as
he rode along, disappearing among the trees. "I think he must be going
to--seek his fortune," his mother said, restraining a sob.
"Oh, mamma!" said simple Chatty, "I would go and pray for him, but I
don't know what to ask."
"Nor I," said Mrs. Warrender. "God bless him,--that is all that one can
say."
But the house looked very dreary as they went back to it, with all the
confusion of the wedding feast and the signs of a great company departed.
They scarcely knew where to sit down, in the confusion that had been so
gay a few hours ago, and looked so miserable now.
But Theo! What was he doing? Where was he carrying the heart that beat
so high, that would be silent no longer? Was he going to lay it at the
feet of a woman who would spurn it? When would he come back, and how?
Already they began to listen, though he had scarcely set out, for the
sound of his return,--in joy or in despair, who could say?