“I am surprised,” said Mr. Reredos, as he drank his coffee beside me,
“to hear from Mr. Maurice Harley that he’s not in orders. I really felt
so sure that he must be that I did not think of asking. He’s had his
fellowship this long time, has not he? and really a clergyman’s son, and
with the excellent connections he has--I am surprised!”
“Ah, so is everybody,” said Miss Polly, significantly. Miss Polly was an
old-fashioned woman, and had little sympathy with those delicate
conscientious scruples which kept our friend Maurice out of the Church.
“My dear,” continued Miss Polly, turning aside to me, with some energy,
as Mr. Reredos, always polite, took her empty cup from her, “I could
believe in it if he were doing anything or thinking of doing anything;
but if you’ll believe me, Clare, it’s nothing but idleness--that’s what
it is. When a young man’s idle, if he doesn’t fall in love with the
first girl he meets, he falls in love with himself, which is a deal
worse. The Rector here will be trying to help Maurice out of his doubts,
I shouldn’t wonder. His doubts, indeed! If he lost his fellowship and
had to work hard for his living, I shouldn’t be afraid of his doubts,
for my part.”
“Well,” said I, “but if the loss of his fellowship dispersed poor
Maurice’s dilettante scepticism, and forced him into orders, it might be
better for himself, Miss Polly, but I doubt if it would be better for
the Church. When his conscience keeps him outside, we have no reason to
find fault, but if he came in against his conscience----”
“Conscience! stuff!” said Miss Polly, with some heat. “Child, that’s not
what I meant. I meant--for being his father’s and mother’s son I can’t
think he’s a bad boy at the bottom--I meant a little trouble and
fighting would soon put those idle vagaries out of his head. Now, Mr.
Reredos, mind you don’t go and argue with Maurice Harley. I’m an old
woman, and I’ve seen such before, many’s the time. Wait till he’s got
something to do and something to bear in this world, as he’s sure to
have, sooner or later. Ah, Life’s a wonderful teacher! When a man sits
among his books, or a woman at her needle--and there isn’t such a great
difference as you might suppose--they get mazing themselves with all
kinds of foolish questions, and think themselves very grand too for
doing it; but only wait till they find out what God means them to do and
to put up with in this world--it makes a deal of difference, Clare.”
“Miss Polly, you are a philosopher, and we never knew it!” said I, while
Mr. Reredos stood looking on, much annoyed, and in no small degree
contemptuous of the pale old woman who took upon her to direct so
perfect a person as himself--for Mr. Reredos was not unlike Maurice
Harley, though after his different fashion; he thought he could do a
great deal with his wisdom and his words.
“I am not a philosopher; but I have been alone with the dear children
since my niece Emmy left me,” said Miss Polly, “and not so able to stir
about as I once was; and you know, my dear, one can’t say out everything
in one’s mind to children at their age; so, somehow the thoughts come up
as if I had been gathering them all my life, and never had time to look
at them before.”
“I suspect that is how most of the thoughts that are worth remembering
do come,” said I. Mr. Reredos did not say anything. He stood, with a
faint smile on his lip, which he did not mean us to suspect, much less
understand--and while he bent his handsome head towards the mistress of
the house, gravely attentive, as it was his duty to be, his eyes turned
towards Maurice and Alice Harley. Did not I know well enough what was in
his mind? He thought we were a couple of old women dozing over our slow
experiences. He was still in the world where words and looks produce
unspeakable results, and where the chance of a moment determines a life.
His eyes turned to those other young people who, like himself, were
speculating upon all manner of questions--he would not laugh at us, but
a faint gleam of criticism and superiority just brightened upon his lip.
I liked him none the worse, for my own part.
“This reads like a Newdigate,” said Maurice Harley. “I suppose Sedgwick
brought the book to you, Clara, for a sugar-plum. Listen, how sweetly
pretty! These prize poets are really too delicious for anything.”
“You had better write a poem yourself, Maurice, and show what you can
do,” cried the indignant Clara; “it is so grand to be a critic, and so
easy! Nobody can write to please you, nobody can speak to please you--I
should just like to see you do something yourself, Maurice, that we
could criticise as well.”
Maurice laughed, poising in his hand the pretty new poetry-book which
Mr. Sedgwick had brought down from London to his wife. He looked so
superior and so triumphant, that even his grave brother-in-law was
provoked.
“Maurice is not so foolish,” said Mr. Sedgwick, “as long as he doesn’t
_do_ anything he may be a Shakespeare for anything we know. You girls
may worship him as such now, if you please--there he sits quite ready to
receive your homage; but if he really ventured into print, Maurice would
be only Maurice Harley--just himself, like the rest of us--might even
find a critic in his turn, as such is the fate of mortals. No, no, you
may be sure Maurice won’t commit himself; he’s a great deal too wise for
that.”
Maurice laughed a somewhat constrained laugh, and coloured slightly.
Perhaps a touch of conscience made Mr. Sedgwick’s sarcasm tell--he threw
down the book with a little petulance.
“Far be it from me to object to Clara’s tastes. Thanks to my sisters, I
know pretty well what young ladies like in the shape of poetry,” said
Maurice; “they all admire the Newdigates. There was a time when I found
Alice in tears over one of these distinguished poems--and that not so
very many years ago.”
“Oh! don’t be so dreadfully satirical!” said Miss Reredos, who was
beginning to tire of Johnnie and his stereoscope. “I am sure that year
that mamma and I went to Commemoration with Clement there was the
sweetest thing imaginable--and so charmingly read too--and I have a copy
of it now; but, oh! I know why Mr. Harley does not like the Newdigate,”
cried the Rector’s sister, clasping her soft hands, “he’s a Cambridge
man!”
“Exactly,” said Maurice, recovering himself at once, for he was quite
disposed to take Miss Reredos for his antagonist; “you know the jealousy
which exists between us. Your brother and I preserve an outside
appearance of civility, out of respect to Mrs. Crofton and the presence
of the ladies, but nobody can doubt for a moment how we hate each other
in our hearts.”
“I say, do you though?” cried the small voice, down at Maurice Harley’s
elbow, of my son Derwie, who was, unluckily, at that moment advancing
with the rest of the little troop to say good-night. “Do you hate the
Rector, Maurice?--he’s the clergyman, you know--he can’t do anything
wrong; so _he_ can’t hate _you_--why do you hate him?--is he cleverer
than you are? Stand up a moment, please--I don’t think he’s quite as
tall.”
This interruption Derwent made with the most perfect sincerity and
earnestness, unconsciously guessing at the only reasons which could make
a person so accomplished as Maurice Harley hate anybody. Everybody
laughed except the individual questioned, who shot a glance of wrath at
my boy, and eyed Mr. Reredos with a sort of contemptuous inquiry. Could
any one, even a child, imagine the new rector to be cleverer than the
ineffable Maurice? He sank down again in the chair from which Derwie had
dragged him, laughing with a very bad grace. Then all the broken
currents of talk going on in the room, suffered a little ebb and pause.
Little rosy faces clustered close about Clara Sedgwick, about Alice and
myself, and old Miss Polly, holding up rose-lips full of kisses. Mr.
Crofton shook hands with Derwie, and turned him off with an affectionate
grasp upon his shoulders, declaring, with a fondness beyond caresses,
that he was too old to be kissed. Then we all paused, looking after them
as they trooped out of the room. Miss Reredos, full of something clever
to say in the way of an attack upon Maurice--Maurice himself too
self-conscious to be diverted by that pretty procession, and Johnnie,
who was hanging over his stereoscope, and following the Rector’s sister
with his eyes, were the only persons in the room who did not watch with
a smile and an increased warmth at heart these beautiful children
disappearing, one by one, from the door. Mr. Reredos’s face shone, and
he cast sidelong glances at Alice. He was young, in his first romance of
love, not yet spoken. His heart was moved in him with an unconscious
blessing to the children; visions of a house of his own, musical with
such voices, stole into the Rector’s soul--I could see it in his face.
And was it to be so? There was no side glance from the eyes of Alice,
reciprocating those of Mr. Reredos--no consciousness, as she stood by
the table watching the children, of any future such as that which
sparkled in the young Rector’s eyes. She stood calmly watching them,
nodding and smiling to Derwent, and her little niece Clary, who, hand in
hand, were the last to leave the room--the maiden aunt, only a little
more independent of the children than their mother--almost as much
beloved by them--the young, unmarried woman, gravely cogitating the
necessities of her class of age, and feeling much superior to the
vanities of love-making, without a single palpitation in her of the
future bride, the possible mother. So, at least, it seemed.