The rectory at Markham Royal was a pretty house, situated on a little
elevation, with pretty lawns and gardens, and a paddock at the foot of
the little height, open to the lawn, where there was a tent erected, and
plenty of space for the games. Spectators of the higher class
constituted quite another little party in the pretty slope of the
gardens, where they were walking about in bright-coloured groups, and
paying their various greetings to the rector and his daughter when the
little Markhams arrived. Their appearance was a great disappointment to
the company in general, and especially to Dolly Stainforth, who was the
hostess and the soul of everything that was going on. The rector himself
was old, and not able to take much trouble. He had a large family of
sons and daughters, who were all married and out in the world, with the
exception of the youngest of all, Dolly, who was a little younger than
Alice Markham, and a model of everything that a clergyman’s daughter
ought to be. Frank, the youngest son, a young barrister, who still
called the rectory home, and was generally present on all important
occasions, was the only other member of the family in whom Markham Royal
took any very great interest; and he was absent to-day, to the great
annoyance of his sister, who all the afternoon had been looking out,
shading her eyes, directly in the line of the sun, which made the
highroad one white and blazing line--looking for the carriage from the
Chase, which might, Dolly hoped, bring her the only compensation
possible for her brother’s absence. Alice was an unfailing aid in all
such emergencies, and Lady Markham’s gracious presence made everything
go well among the great people on the lawn. Also, this time at least,
there was another possibility that made Dolly’s heart beat. It had been
whispered among the girls for some time past that the birthday of Alice
being near, and Paul almost certain to come home for that family
festivity, he might, in all likelihood, be calculated upon for the
rectory too; in which case Alice and he would remain for supper
afterwards, and the day would be a white day. Not many entertainments of
a lively description came in Dolly’s way. She had to drive out solemnly
with her father now and then, and attend garden parties which were not
always very amusing, but this day had been marked out as an exception to
all others. After the school-feast, which was the laborious part of it,
and in which she was to be helped by the people she admired and loved
most in the world, there was to be the much more exquisite pleasure of
the domestic party after, talks, and songs, and strolls in the
moonlight, and a whole little romance of happiness. Frank and Alice,
whom it would be almost delight enough to pair together, to see “taking
to each other,” and Paul--Perhaps it was part of Dolly’s training as, in
a way, mother of the parish, that she should make her little plans with
extreme regularity and perfection of all the details. This anticipation
had given her strength for all the preparations of the school-feast.
There was no curate to take any share of the responsibility; everything
came upon her own small shoulders, young and delicate as they were. But
what of that! With such aid and such a recompense, Dolly did not care
what trouble she took. It was her duty in any case, but duty became a
kind of Paradise when pursued in company with Frank and Alice and Paul.
Alas! the morning’s post had brought a letter from Frank announcing
his inability to appear. Was it for a serious cause which his
sister could accept? Alas, no! only for a cricket match, which he
preferred--certainly preferred--to the rectory lawn and Alice Markham.
Frank was false, but the others must prove true. When did any one ever
know the Markhams to fail? When the four children appeared, Dolly
detached herself from Lady Westland, whom with a much disturbed
attention she had been entertaining:
“Why are they so late?” she cried.
“Oh, Dolly,” said Bell, half pleased to be of so much importance, half
sorry to convey bad news; “they are not coming at all! They have gone
off to Oxford, papa, mamma, and Alice; there is something the matter
with Paul.”
Poor little Dolly never could tell how she bore this blow. Suddenly the
whole scene became dim before her, swimming in two big tears which
flooded her eyes. She had indeed said to herself that she would not
“build upon” the coming of Paul; but Alice at least she had a right to
build upon.
“My dear child, what is the matter?” cried Lady Westland, whose eyes
were as keen as needles.
Dolly, though she was still blind with the sudden moisture, recovered
her wits more quickly than she recovered her eyesight.
“I think I shall cry,” she said. “I can’t help it. Alice is not coming;
and Alice was all my hope. There is no one such a help as she is. I
don’t know what I shall do without her.”
It was a kind of comfort to Dolly to think that Ada Westland would be
wounded by an estimate which showed how little her services were thought
of; and this, perhaps, though not at all a right feeling for a good
little clergywoman, helped her to recover herself, as it was so
necessary she should do.
The children were assembling in the paddock, all in their best clothes,
with the schoolmistress and the Sunday-school teachers, and a few
favoured villagers. There was the tea to make for them, the games to
organise, to keep everything going; and all the garden walks were
occupied by idle people who were doing nothing to help, and from whom no
help could be expected. Her old maid, who had been her nurse, and who
was Dolly’s chief support in the household, and old George the old
man-servant, who managed the male department at the rectory, were both
required to hand tea, and attend upon these fine people, who did all
they could to detain Dolly herself, stopping her as she hurried down to
the field of action, to tell her that it was a pretty scene. Dolly was
far too good a girl, and too thoroughly trained to the duties of her
position to dwell at that moment upon her disappointment. But whenever
she paused for a moment, whenever the din of the voices and teacups
experienced a lull, it came back to her. Poor little Dolly! She had
everything on her shoulders.
There was a line of chairs arranged under the lime-trees on the lawn for
the great people of the parish--the Trevors and the Westlands--apart
from the crowd of smaller people who came and went. Among these few
local magnates the rector meandered, and it was to them that old
George’s services were specially dedicated. They had the best of the
tea, which Dolly grudged greatly, and the best position, and the best
attendance; and considered themselves to be doing a duty which they
owed to the parish in thus countenancing the school-feast. They
considered that they were doing their duty; but at the same time, in the
absence of anything better, they liked it as Bell and Marie did,
because, such as it was, it was a party, though only a school-feast. Old
Admiral Trevor was seated in the sunniest spot--for warmth, as his
daughters explained, was everything to him. He sat there, cooking in the
heat of the August afternoon with poor Miss Trevor close by, divided
between the necessity of being close to him and the love of the grateful
shade behind. The old admiral talked a great deal, mumbling between his
toothless gums with the greatest energy, and very indignant when he was
asked a second time what he had said. Miss Trevor, though she was deaf
and used an ear-trumpet, always heard her father, and was very quick and
clever in interpreting him, so as to save what she called
“unpleasantness.” Beside the Trevors were the Westlands--the whole four
of them--father, mother, son, and daughter. They were new people, and
therefore deeply impressed with the necessity of “countenancing” the
parish in which they had bought a house and park, and which they tried
to patronise as if it belonged to them. They were very rising people,
very rich, and fond of finding themselves in good company, even at a
school-feast; for naturally such people get on much better in town,
where there are all sorts of visitors, than in the country where
everybody knows all about their pedigree and belongings. Dolly’s only
real help was Miss Matilda Trevor, the second daughter of the admiral, a
plain, good woman, but so shortsighted that she had to put her nose into
everything before she could see it. Some of the smaller lights of
Markham, Mrs. Booth, and her niece, from Rosebank, and young Mrs.
Rossiter, the doctor’s wife, might have been of a little use; but their
heads were turned by the offer the rector inadvertently made of the
chairs reserved for the Markhams on the lawn. When they had such a
chance of distinction, of making their “position” quite apparent, and
showing their equality with the county people, who could wonder that
these ladies threw over the children, and Dolly, though not without many
compunctions? Poor ladies! they did not make very much of it; they
talked to each other which they could do any day, and now and then got a
word from Miss Trevor, who poked out her trumpet for the answer,
frightening Mrs. Rossiter out of her wits.
This, however, accomplished Dolly’s discomfiture, leaving her altogether
to herself. It was a pretty scene, as everybody said. The people who
were walking about the garden dropped off as the afternoon went on, but
the great people sat it out; though they paused to say it was a pretty
scene, they were busy with their own talk, and had nothing else to do
that was of any importance. The admiral had got into an argument with
Lord Westland about the new ironclads--if argument that could be called
which consisted of vituperation on the part of the old sailor and
amiable remonstrances from the new lord.
“Ships,” the bigoted old seaman cried, the foam flying from his lips, “I
doncall’em ships.” He ran his words into each other, which made him very
difficult to understand. “Shtinking old tin-kettles, old potshanpans,
that’s what I call ’em. Set a seaman afloatin’em shlike
puttin’emdownamine. I don’ callit afloat.”
“My dear sir,” said Lord Westland, blandly, “there may be something in
what you say; but we might as well try to confine the waves of the sea,
as a certain king did, as to keep back science. Science, admiral, must
have her way.”
“Let’erhav’erway,” cried the old man, “down to the bottom if sheshamind.
One good seamansh worth more ’ana shipload o’ph’losophers.
Let’emman’erownships; let’em man their own ships. Crew o’ph’losophers
’shtead o’seamen. Bust their boilers’s often ’shtheylike and devil a
harm.”
“He says the new ships should have crews of philosophers,” said Miss
Trevor, tranquilly, putting up her hand to silence the anxious “I did
not catch your last remark,” to which Lord Westland was about to give
utterance. The peer shook his indulgent head.
“My dear admiral, philosophers, though it may please you and me, who are
old-fashioned, to rail at them, are rapidly becoming the masters of the
world.”
“Mashters-o-fiddlshticks,” said the old sailor. “Put’emdown the d----d
ratholes, shee how theylikeit’emshelves. Old coalmines under water, call
that a ship! None o’ God’s air, noneoGod’s light--all machines
an’gasburnersh. Smash ’erownconsortsh--run every thin’ down--’chept
enemish!” he sputtered forth triumphantly, with a laugh of angry
triumph in his own argument.
“He says they run everything down, except the enemy,” said Miss Trevor.
“I should like myself to know why there are so many collisions nowadays.
My father says it is all science and boilers. Why is it, Lord Westland?”
And she put up that ear-trumpet, of which everybody was afraid, for her
noble neighbour’s use.
“Did you hear that last piece of news about the Markhams?” said Lady
Westland. “All off at a moment’s notice, the very day they were expected
here. They really ought to have waited and showed themselves, and not
given colour to all the stories that are about.”
“Are there stories about? I have not heard any. Markham only came home
two days ago. Do you mean about the ministry? Is it supposed to be
insecure?”
“Oh no,” cried Lady Westland, with an ineffable smile. “The
ministry!--oh no, Mr. Stainforth; that is much too well secured with the
best and most influential support. The opposition need not trouble
themselves about that.”
Lady Westland looked at her husband with honest admiration. He was a
consistent supporter of government--and standing, as he did, with his
legs wide apart and his shoulders squared, anticipating with dread the
necessity of speaking into the trumpet and preparing himself for the
effort, he looked a very substantial prop.
“Ah, to be sure,” said the rector. “I forgot for the moment we take
different sides.”
“My dear rector, how you, a dignified clergyman and a man of family, can
take the Liberal side!” said Lady Westland. “It seems more than one can
believe. But, oh no--oh dear no! of course I would not for the world say
a word to weaken old ties or change convictions. An opinion that has
stood the test of years is a sacred thing. But I did not mean anything
political. Don’t you know, dear Mr. Stainforth, the very sad stories
that are told everywhere about Paul?”
“What has Paul been doing?” said the old rector. He did not himself very
much approve of Paul. Staying up to read was a new sort of idea which
had not been thought of in his day. He did not much believe in young
fellows reading when a set of them got together. “Much more likely they
are staying up for some mischief,” he had said when he heard of it, and
in consequence he was not disinclined or unprepared to hear that there
were stories about Paul.
“Did not you hear what he did? He brought some frightful Radical
agitator, some public-house politician--so they say--to the Chase, and
made poor Lady Markham take him in, and gave her all sorts of trouble. I
believe Sir William has scarcely spoken to him since for being so silly.
But we all know what a devoted mother Lady Markham is. For my part, I
think one’s husband has the first claim. And now they say he is
inveigled into some engagement, and is going to be sent off to the
Colonies and got rid of in that way.”
“I think there must be some mistake,” said the rector. “Men don’t send
their heirs to the Colonies, nor get rid of them, except for very
serious causes.”
“Oh, I am so glad you stand up for Paul! I will never believe it,” said
Ada Westland. “Paul inveigled into any engagement! How could you believe
it, Mr. Stainforth? He is as proud as Lucifer. He thinks none of us fit
to pick up his handkerchief. Oh, I know, we are all supposed to be on
our promotion, waiting till he may be pleased to look at us. I--and
Dolly too---- but he never did condescend to look at us. If he were to
marry, after that, a girl off the streets----”
“Ada, my love, for Heaven’s sake, take care how you talk!”
“Oh, there is nobody but the rector, mamma, and he knows we girls are
not such fools as we are made to look. If Paul Markham were to marry
that sort of person, I should laugh. It would be our revenge--Dolly’s
and mine--whom he never would condescend to look at. It would be nuts to
me.”
“Did you ever hear anything so vulgar?” said Mrs. Booth to Mrs.
Rossiter. “I never could abide that girl. They have all thrown her and
themselves at Paul Markham’s head. New people as they are, and shoddy
people, they would give their eyes to have her married into such an old
county family.”
“But it is not true about Dolly,” said the doctor’s wife. “Dolly has not
such a notion in her head. Her mind is full of the parish, and her
father, and Frank. I don’t believe such an idea as getting married ever
crossed her mind at all.”
“Hem!” said Mrs. Booth, with a doubtful little cough, “I should not
like to swear to that. What did you say, Lady Westland--haven’t I heard
it? Well, I have heard something about strange visitors. It appears
there have been several people at Markham lately whom nobody has been
asked to meet.”
“That is very significant; I call it very significant. When one’s own
friends cease to introduce their friends to us, it is a token that all
is not well. Don’t you think so?” said Lady Westland, softly smiling on
the doctor’s wife.
Mrs. Rossiter’s sympathies were all with the victims who were being
assailed. But the Westlands were very fine people, much more “difficult
to know” than the Markhams, and the doctor had not yet got a very
distinct footing at the Towers. His young wife thought of her husband’s
position, and acquiesced with a sigh.
“But it is not like them,” she said. “The Markhams are so hospitable;
they are such nice people; they are always kind.”
“Yes, they ask all sorts of people. It is extraordinary the people one
meets there,” Lady Westland said; which made Mrs. Rossiter’s cheek
flame, and was a very just recompense to her for her infidelity. And
then there was a pause, and the boom of Admiral Trevor’s bass, and the
titillation of his sh’s came in like the chorus. He was still holding
forth on the subject of the _Devastation_.
“I don’t wish ’em any harm,” said the old sailor; “I wish-e-may all go
down in port like that one t’other day. Wish-em wher-er shure to be
looked after. No, blesh us all--no harm!”
Meanwhile the games were going on merrily enough in the paddock. Dolly
flew about for three people. She set the little ones afloat in one game,
and the big ones in another. The Markhams were still her best allies,
Bell throwing herself into the rounds and dances of the infants with
characteristic vigour; but Harry and Roland stood apart and whispered to
each other, with their hands in their pockets. They would have taken the
boys off to play cricket, had that been in the programme.
“No, I will not have it,” Dolly said. “For once in a way they shall be
together. It’s bad enough when they grow up, when all the boys troop off
for their own pleasure, and never think what the girls are doing. It’s
time enough to break up a party and make sects when they’re grown up,”
Dolly said. The boys stared, and did not understand her. But it was
natural enough that she should be angry. Frank’s cricket match was
rankling in his sister’s mind. And Dolly thought that “for once in a
way” Paul Markham might have thought of old friends. It was sure to be
his fault that even Alice had failed her; Dolly had no idea how it could
be his fault, but she was sure of it. Her heart was full of fury as she
flew about from one group of children to another, struggling against
their tendency to fall into detached parties, and let the amusements
flag. “It is far more their parish than it is mine; they will always
have it,” she said to herself. When it began to be time for the children
to disperse, and the conclusion of her labours approached, she was so
far carried away by her feelings as to forget that the Miss Trevor who
had helped her with the tea, but had been standing helplessly about
since, always in the way, was the shortsighted one, and not the deaf
one. “Oh, I wonder why all these people don’t go away?” she cried.
“Haven’t they got dinners waiting at home? Why do they stay so long? I
am sure I don’t want to have to go and entertain them after the children
go away.” And then poor Dolly recollected with horror that Mrs. Booth
and Mrs. Rossiter were to stay for a high tea, and that the doctor was
to come in to join them. “Oh,” she cried, in her vexation, “I shall not
get rid of them to-night.”
“Of whom are you speaking, my dear?” said Miss Trevor, astonished--which
brought Dolly to herself; and, fortunately, Miss Trevor could not see
that it was her own party, and the rest of the people on the lawn, whom
Dolly meant. “I am afraid we must be going very soon,” she added, with
regret. “I am sorry not to stay and help you to the end. But dear papa
must not be exposed to the night dews.”
Dolly had to marshal the children for a march round, leading them in
front of the company on the lawn, and conducting the chorale (as the
schoolmistress called it) which they sang before they broke up. This was
what the fine people had remained for, and all the parish would have
been disappointed had they not stayed. But, notwithstanding, it was hard
upon her, tired as she was, to have to stand and receive their
compliments, and to be told that it had been “such a pretty scene.”
“I enjoyed it very much,” said Lady Westland, “I assure you; I only
came to do a duty and countenance you, my dear Dolly; but I quite
enjoyed it.”
“We came to scoff, and we remained to play,” said Ada; while Lord
Westland squared his shoulders, and threw out his chest, and repeated
his wife’s observation about the pretty scene.
“And I hope you will always calculate on me to give my countenance
whenever it is wanted,” he said.
Dolly, though so tired, had to stand and smile, and look gratified by
all their compliments. And what was worse, when they had all at last
been got away, there rose up from behind the chairs on which Mrs. Booth
and Mrs. Rossiter, waiting with the ease of _habitués_ till all was
over, had seated themselves again after their leave-takings, a tall and
gawky figure, dark in the fading light.
“Mr. Westland is going to stay, Dolly, to share our evening meal, though
I have told him it will be a homely one,” the rector said, not without a
tone of apology in his voice. Another voice, high up in the air,
muttered something about the greatest pleasure. But Dolly took no
notice. This was the worst infliction of all. She let herself drop into
the wicker-work chair with the cushions, which Lady Westland had
declared to be so comfortable.
“I thought they were never going away,” she said with angry candour. “I
am so tired. I so wanted a little peace.”
The rector and young Westland both knew the meaning of this speech, but
neither ventured to reply.
Mrs. Booth, however, stretched out her hand and gave the girl a friendly
pinch. “They are the most important people in the county, Dolly.”
“No, indeed, that they are _not_” the girl cried loud out. She was not
one to desert her friends, even though they might not be so good to her
as she had hoped. But as Mrs. Booth’s remark had been made in a whisper,
no one knew exactly to what this prompt contradiction referred.
At supper Mr. Westland was of course placed at Dolly’s right hand. If he
was not the most important young man in the neighbourhood, he was
nominally of the highest rank, and would no doubt have taken precedence
anywhere of Paul Markham. He was very tall, and very lean, an overgrown,
lanky boy, with big projecting eyes, which were full of meaning when he
looked at Dolly--or at least of something which he intended for meaning.
He did not talk very much, but he gazed at her constantly, which was
very irritating to Dolly. Mr. Rossiter was a much more lively person. He
came in in a state of high good-humour, which none of the party already
assembled shared. Both the ladies who were Dolly’s guests had
grievances. They had sat on uncomfortable chairs all the afternoon by
way of showing their identity with the best families, but the Westlands
and the Trevors had taken very little notice of them. The doctor’s wife
for one felt that she had not been of that service to Dolly which Dolly
had a right to expect, and yet that she had not asserted her husband’s
position in anything like a satisfactory way by this failure in
friendship. The supper-table was not as lively as a supper-table ought
to be after a bright afternoon out of doors.
“I hope it all went off well,” the doctor said as he looked round the
languid party, and saw how little response there was in their faces to
his cheery address and simple jokes.
“Oh, beautifully!” said young Westland, finding his voice with an
effort; “like everything Miss Stainforth has to do with.”
There was no murmur of response; and Dolly gave her champion a glance
which drove him back trembling upon himself. Then Mrs. Booth said,
stopping her knife and fork, “I think we missed Lady Markham.” She said
this as if it were a conclusion she had arrived at by a long process of
reasoning; and then she returned to her cold chicken with renewed zest.
“That was it,” cried Mrs. Rossiter, glad to hit upon something which
relieved her own sense of guilt. “It was Lady Markham we wanted. She
makes everything go smooth. She makes you feel that she takes an
interest in you, and wants you to be comfortable.”
“It is a pity,” said the rector, “that such a pleasant type of character
should so seldom be sincere.”
“Papa,” said Dolly, “I can bear a great deal--but if any one says any
harm of the Markhams I will not put up with it. If they had been here I
should not have had everything to do myself. If they had been here those
tiresome people would have gone away at the right time, and everything
would have gone right. Sincere! Do you think it is sincere to say nasty
things, and get out of temper when one is tired--like me?”
And poor Dolly nearly cried; till the doctor threatened her with a
mixture to be taken three times a day; when she made a great effort, and
shook off her evil disposition. Besides she had fired her shots right
and left, wounding two bosoms at least, and there was an ease to the
mind in that which could not be gainsaid.
“But I hear there are unpleasant stories afloat about the Markhams,” the
rector said at his end of the table. “I hope my old friend, Sir William,
has not been remiss in his duties. A father should never give up his
authority, even to his wife. I fear among them,” he added, shaking his
white head, “they have done everything they could to spoil Paul.”
“So I hear,” said Mrs. Booth, shaking hers. But nobody knew what was the
real charge against the Markhams, or what it was that Paul had done. And
after Dolly’s profession of faith in them, which was something like an
accusation against the others, these others might shake their wise
heads, and communicate between themselves their adverse opinions. But
before Dolly there was not another word to say.