THE RECTOR COMMITS HIMSELF.
Arthur was not far wrong when he averred that his sister Rhoda was the
last girl in the world to make a successful _début_ in London society.
Shyness--being entirely uncomprehended and believed in--is too often
there mistaken for stupidity, or, at best, for a disinclination to be
pleased and to be “jolly.” Looking beneath the surface is too long a
process for the superficial observers of the present day; summary
condemnation takes little time, and lynch-law, in the shape of something
very like ostracism, is speedily pronounced. So Rhoda Vavasour--whose
mother had been guilty of that terrible social blunder, namely, the
non-keeping up of her connections--found herself, although rather pretty
and decidedly “nice,” quite thrown away in the West-end world. Under
these circumstances, and feeling--gentle though she was, and
humble-minded--a little mortified and _délaissée_, Rhoda’s heart
naturally turned again towards the man who, being but a country rector,
looked up to, loved, and appreciated her. For her--almost partnerless,
and left, whether at ball, opera, or party, a good deal to her own
resources and reflections--the memory of George Wallingford, together
with her pleasant country duties and avocations, was as a gleam of
summer sunshine, a green oasis in the peopled desert of her uncongenial
life. When, before her departure from Gillingham, the rector, meeting
her by chance as she was leaving the door of a poor dependent on her
kindness, stopped his horse, and by a few meaning words, and looks more
suggestive still, conveyed to her the knowledge that neither time nor
absence would erase her image from his heart, he of course committed
this disloyal act with eyes wide open to its impropriety. He knew, ay
better than did Arthur Vavasour, that he was, in thus secretly tampering
with a young girl’s affections, committing a sin against his neighbour.
That sin might not, viewed abstractedly, be so heinous as that which
Rhoda’s brother was, with equal audacity, committing; but in reality the
one man’s guilt was little inferior to the other; both yielded to such
temptation as was within their reach, and the consequence in either case
was the punishment that had been so deservedly incurred.
Lady Millicent, whose motives for passing the season in London could
scarcely be called motherly ones, troubled herself little about her
elder daughter’s pallid cheeks and languid movements.
“Rhoda was always _pasty_,” was her answer to Lady Guernsey, when that
kind friend endeavoured to draw her attention to the small amount of
interest taken by the _débutante_ in the amusements that were offered to
her; “Rhoda never had more colour than a boiled fowl. And in London I
don’t see how she is to get rosier; unless, indeed,” correcting herself
a little spitefully, “she were to employ the same tricks that other
girls do; and _that_, I need not tell you, is not in Rhoda’s line.”
“I cannot help fancying,” Lady Guernsey said after a pause, during which
she was wondering a little nervously how her hint would be taken,--“I
cannot help fancying that Rhoda may have taken a fancy, may have seen
someone who--”
Lady Millicent drew herself up indignantly. “I should have imagined,”
she said, “that you had seen enough of Rhoda, enough too of my mode of
bringing up, to render such a surmise--ahem--impossible. My daughter has
never left my roof but once; and that, my dear Lady Guernsey, was when
you kindly invited her to Gawthorpe. I should be distressed to think
that while with you, and under Lord Guernsey’s protection, she should
have met with anyone who, I mean--pray allow me to proceed--anyone who
had clandestinely gained her affections, and thus put a bar--for I could
not tolerate anything underhand--to my receiving him as a son-in-law.”
Lady Guernsey could not restrain a smile at this indignant outburst
against one who was in point of fact a myth. Preparing to rise from the
sofa, on which the two chaperones had taken refuge from the crowd and
heat of a “delightful” ball, she said courteously:
“You must forgive me for my guess, and believe that nothing but our deep
interest in dear Rhoda could have called it forth. As to her having seen
anyone in the shape of a lover at Gawthorpe, that, I can assure you, was
out of the question. Anything more dull than we were last Christmas, you
would hardly believe. The death of poor Guernsey’s sister made gaiety
out of the question; but the children, all things considered, seemed to
enjoy themselves; and I am only grieved to see your girl looking so dull
and altered.”
She put out her hand to her country neighbour as she spoke, and Lady
Millicent, whose thoughts had already wandered away to law-courts,
will-cases, and appeals, returned her goodnight with apparent
cordiality.
Meanwhile--for absence, as is universally acknowledged, is apt to
increase _les grandes passions_, while it has a directly contrary effect
upon minor ones--meanwhile the rector of Switcham, in that pretty but
dull study of his, sat ruminating, sometimes by the hour together, on
the perfections of Rhoda Vavasour; on their mutual attachment (for
George Wallingford felt as assured of the young girl’s love as if she
had told him the sweet truth in words), and on the maddening possibility
that in London, in the midst of the gay and exciting scenes of which he
had heard and read so much, some man less faint of heart or more
attractive than himself, might step between him and his love, and thus
deprive him of all that made life dear and valuable. The idea that such
_might_, by some terrible contingency, be the case, was, as I have just
said, very distracting to the rector; so distracting, that his usually
well-balanced mind tottered a little on its throne, and the judgments
and resolves--so calm habitually, and prudent--of sensible George
Wallingford, gave token of the emotion that was going on within his
breast.
That it would be an act little short of insanity to request of Lady
Millicent Vavasour the hand of her daughter in marriage, Rhoda’s
clerical lover would, no later than three days before, have been quite
willing to acknowledge; but, whether it is true that _quos Deus vult
perdere prius dementat_, or that the _man_ as well as “the woman who
deliberates is lost,” it is needless to inquire, the fact remaining the
same--namely, that poor George Wallingford, believing his position could
not be worse, and might by some strange freak of Fortune be bettered by
his desperate act, arrived at the somewhat rash resolution of proposing
himself to Lady Millicent Vavasour as the future husband of her
daughter.
The determination was no sooner arrived at than it was acted upon. Alone
with his own thoughts, his own fears, and the hopes which the last
tender smile which he had seen on Rhoda’s quivering lip had raised
within his heart, the unfortunate young rector, unable to endure
suspense, rushed madly to his fate. Alas for him, poor fellow!--where
was at that crisis of his life the outspoken, sensible, hard-headed
college friend, who with a strong grip--painful, perhaps, but
salutary--would have plucked him from the edge of the abyss, and with a
“Don’t make a fool of yourself, old fellow!” would have given wholesome
counsel, and have staved off much of the unhappiness soon to be
recorded?
The letter on which--as he touchingly explained to the _sympathising_
Lady Millicent--the happiness of his future life depended was written
just four days after the departure of the Castle family for London.
Under what circumstances it was received, how Lady Millicent behaved on
its perusal, and the consequences resulting from its perpetration, will
form subject-matter for another chapter.