IN A SIDE PATH
“To sum up all, he has the worst fault-a husband can have, he's not my
choice.”
There is something doubtful in a love-making that is in more than two
pairs of hands. This is a day of syndicates. The strength that lies in
union is cultivated nowadays with much assiduity. But in matters of love
the case is not yet altered, and never will be. It is a matter for two
people to decide between themselves, and all interference is mistaken and
deplorable. It is usually, one notices, those persons who are incapable
of the feeling themselves who seek to interfere in the affairs of others.
That one of the principals should seek aid in such interference proves
without appeal that he does not know his business. Such aid as this Arthur
Agar had sought. He had, as Dora suspected, written to his mother, with
full particulars of the conversation beneath the Hurlingham trees. He had
laid before her many arguments, which, by reason of their effeminacy,
appealed to her illogical mind, proving that Dora could not do better than
marry him. The arrangement, he argued, was satisfactory from whatever
point of view it might be taken; and, finally, he begged his mother to try
and succeed where he had failed. He did not propose that Mrs. Agar should
appeal to Dora; not because such a course was repellent, but merely
because he knew a better. He suggested that Mrs. Agar should sound Mr.
Glynde upon the matter.
This suggestion was in itself a stroke of diplomacy. The astute have no
doubt found out by this time that the Reverend Thomas Glynde loved money;
and a man who loves money has not the makings of a good father within
him, whatever else he may have. Whether Arthur was aware of this it would
be hard to say. Whether he had the penetration to know that, in the
nature of things, Mr. Glynde would urge Dora to marry Arthur Agar and
Stagholme, without due regard to her own feelings in the matter, is a
question upon which no man can give a reliable opinion. Certain it is
that such a course was precisely what the Reverend Thomas had marked out
for himself.
He had an exaggerated respect for money and position--a title was a thing
to be revered. Clergymen, like artists, are dependent on patronage, and
must swallow their pride. It is therefore, perhaps, only natural that Mr.
Glynde should be quite prepared to make some sacrifice of feeling or
sentiment (especially the feeling and sentiment of another) in order to
secure a position.
Arthur Agar simply followed the spirit of the age. He could not succeed
alone, and therefore he proceeded to form a syndicate to compel Dora to
love him, or in the meantime to marry him.
“Of course,” said Sister Cecilia to Mrs. Agar, when the matter was first
under discussion, “she would soon learn to care for him. Women _always_
do.”
Which shows how much Sister Cecilia knew about it.
“And besides, I believe she cares for him already,” added Mrs. Agar, who
never did things by halves.
Sister Cecilia dropped her head on one side and looked convinced--to
order.
“Of course,” pursued Mrs. Agar vaguely, “I am very fond of Dora; no one
could be more so. But I must confess that I do not always understand
her.”
Even to Sister Cecilia it would not do to confess that she was afraid of
her.
The interview was easily brought about. Mrs. Agar wrote a note to the
Rector and asked him to luncheon. The Rector, who had not had many legal
affairs to settle during his uneventful life, was always pleased to be
consulted upon a subject of which he knew absolutely nothing. Besides,
they gave one a good luncheon at Stagholme in those days.
“I have had a letter from dear Arthur,” said Mrs. Agar, at a moment which
she deemed propitious, namely, after a third glass of the Stagholme brown
sherry.
“Ah! I hope he is well. The boy is not strong.”
“Yes, he is quite well, thank you. But of course he has had a great
shock, and one cannot expect him to get over it all at once.”
The Rector did not hold much by sentiment, so he contented himself with a
grave sip of sherry.
“And now I am afraid there is fresh trouble,” added Mrs. Agar.
“Been running into debt?” suggested Mr. Glynde.
“No, it is not that. No, it is Dora.”
“Dora! What has Dora been doing?”
Mrs. Agar was polishing the rim of a silver salt-cellar with her
forefinger.
“Of course,” she said, “I have seen it going on for a long time. My poor
boy has always--well, he has always admired Dora.”'
“Oh!”
“Yes, and of course I should like nothing better. I am sure they would be
most happy.”
The Rector looked doubtful.
“We must not forget,” he said, “that Arthur is constitutionally
delicate. That extreme repugnance to active exercise, the love of ease
and--er--indoor pursuits, show a tendency to enfeeble the organisation
which might--I don't say it will, but it might--turn to decline.”
“But the doctors say that he is quite strong. Everybody cannot be robust
and--and massive.”
She was thinking of Jem, against whom she had always borne a grudge,
because his inoffensive presence alone had the power of making Arthur
look puny.
“No; and of course with care one may hope that Arthur will live to a ripe
old age,” said the Rector, who was only coquetting with the question.
Mrs. Agar played with a biscuit. She had a rooted aversion to the query
direct.
“I should have thought,” she said, “that you or her mother would have
seen that such an attachment was likely to form itself.”
The truth was that the Reverend Thomas did not devote very much thought
to any subject which did not directly influence his own well-being. He
had at one time thought that an attachment between Jem and Dora might
conveniently result from a childhood's friendship, but Arthur had not
entered into his prognostications at all. He rather despised the youth,
as much on his own account as that he was Anna Agar's son.
“Can't say,” he replied, “that the thing ever entered my head. Of course,
if the young people have settled it all between themselves, I suppose we
must give them our blessing, and be thankful that we have been saved
further trouble.”
He thought it rather strange that Dora should have fixed her affections
on such an unlikely object as Arthur Agar; but it was part of his earthly
creed that the feelings of women are as incomprehensible as they are
unimportant. Which, by the way, serves to show how very little the Rector
of Stagholme knew of the world.
“But,” protested Mrs. Agar, “they have _not_ settled it between
themselves. That is just it.”
“Just what?”
“Just the difficulty.”
Immediately Mr. Glynde's face fell to its usual degree of set depression.
“What do they want me to do?” he inquired, with that air of resignation
which is in reality no resignation at all.
“Well,” said Mrs. Agar volubly, “it appears that Arthur spoke to Dora at
Hurlingham, and for some reason she said No. I can't understand it at
all. I am sure she has always appeared to like him very much. It may have
been some passing fancy or something, you know. When she is told that it
would please us all, perhaps she will change her mind. Poor Arthur is
terribly cut up about it. Of course a man in his position does not quite
expect to be treated cavalierly like that.”
Mr. Glynde smiled. Behind the parson there was somewhat even better;
there was a just and honest English gentleman, which, in the way of human
species, is very hard to beat.
“I am afraid Arthur will have to manage such affairs for himself. When a
girl is settling a question involving her whole life she does not usually
pause to consider the position of the man who asks her to be his wife. He
would have no business to ask her had he no position, and the rest is
merely a matter of degrees.”
“Then you don't care about the match?” said Mrs. Agar, to whose mind the
earliest rudiments of logic were incomprehensible.
“I do not say that,” replied the Rector, with the patience of a man who
has had dealings with women all his life; “but I should like it to be
understood that Dora is quite free to choose for herself. I am willing to
tell her that the match would be satisfactory to me. Arthur is a
gentleman, which is saying a good deal in these days. He is affectionate,
and, so far as I know, a dutiful son. I have little doubt he would make a
good husband.”
Mrs. Agar wiped away an obvious tear, which ran off Mr. Glynde's mental
epidermis like water off the back of the proverbial fowl. This also he
had learnt in the course of his dealings with the world.
“He has been a good son to me,” sniffed the fond and foolish mother.
Neither of these persons was capable of understanding that “goodness” is
not all we want in husband or wife. These good husbands--heaven help
their wives!--break as many hearts as those who are labelled by the world
with the black ticket.
“Then I may tell Arthur that you will help him?” said Mrs. Agar, with a
sudden access of practical energy.
“You may tell him that he has my good wishes, and that I will point out
to Dora the advantages of--acceding to his desire. There are, of course,
advantages on both sides, we know that.”
As usual, Mrs. Agar overdid things. The airiness of her indifference
might have deceived a child of eight, provided that its intellect was not
_de première force._
“Ye-es,” she murmured, “I suppose Dora would bring her
little--eh--subscription towards the household expenses. Sister Cecilia
gave me to understand that there was a little something coming to her
under her mother's marriage settlement.”
Mrs. Agar was not clever enough to see that she had made a mistake. The
mention of Sister Cecilia's name acted on the Rector like a mental
douche. He was just beginning to give way to expansiveness--probably
under the suave influence of the brown sherry--and the name of Sister
Cecilia pulled him together with a jerk. The jerk extended to his
features; but Mrs. Agar was one of those cunning women whom no man need
fear. She was so cunning that she deceived herself into seeing that which
she wished to see, and nothing else.
“All that,” said the Rector gravely, “can be discussed when Arthur has
persuaded Dora to say Yes.”
He was in the position of an unfortunate person who, having come into
controversy with the police, is warned that every word he says may be
used in evidence against him. He had been reminded that every detail of
the present conversation would be repeated to Sister Cecilia, with
embellishments or subtractions as might please the narrator's fancy or
suit her purpose.
“A dangerous woman” he called Sister Cecilia in his most gloomy voice,
and a parson must perforce fear dangerous women. That is one of the
trials of the ministry.
Mrs. Agar laughed in a forced manner.
“Of course,” she said--she had a habit of beginning her remarks with
these two words--“of course, we need not think of such questions yet. I
am sure all _I_ want is the happiness of the dear children.”
“Umph!” ejaculated Mr. Glynde, who was not always a model of politeness.
“That, I am sure,” continued Mrs. Agar, with a dabbing
pocket-handkerchief, “is the dearest wish of us all.”
“When does the boy come home?” inquired the Rector.
“Oh, in a week. I am so longing for him to come. He has to go to town to
get some clothes, which will delay his return by one night.”
“Is he doing any good this term?”
Mrs. Agar looked slightly hurt.
“Well, he always works very hard, I am only afraid that he should overdo
it. You know, I suppose, that he did not get through his examination this
term. Of course it is no good _my_ saying anything, but I am quite
convinced that they are not dealing fairly by him. I have seen some of
those examination papers, and some of the questions are simply spiteful.
They do it on purpose, I know. And Sister Cecilia tells me that that
_does_ happen sometimes. For some reason or other--because they have been
snubbed, or something like that--the masters, the examiners, or whatever
they are called, make a dead set at some men, and simply keep them back.
They don't give them the marks that they ought to have. Why should Arthur
always fail? Of course the thing is unfair.”
This theory was not quite new to the Rector. He had given up arguing
about it, and usually took refuge in flight. He did so on this occasion.
But as he walked home across the park, smoking a cigarette, he reflected
that to the owner of Stagholme such a small matter as a college career
was, after all, of no importance. These broad acres, the stately forests,
the grand old house, raised Arthur Agar above such considerations, indeed
above most considerations. And Mr. Glynde made up his mind to put it very
strongly to Dora.