“Duty makes us do things well,
But Love makes us do them beautifully.”
PHILIPPS BROOKES.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Fordington, “you will do what you like, my dear.
You always have done and I shall never interfere. The Bible-Class tea
must be put off, but when one has to deal with unmethodical people one
must expect changes. Fortunately, Dorket is always nice about orders for
food, she will hold it over until you come back.” Mrs. Fordington
paused, and in the pause Daphne vaguely pictured the stout lady of the
village in her kindly attitude of “holding over” the food. “Before you
go,” her aunt continued, “I hope you will spare time to put some autumn
leaves into my bonnet. I thought of cherries, but cherries look better
in June. Don’t you think so, Daphne?”
“I think they look better in the orchard,” said Daphne absent-mindedly.
“I am not referring to trees,” said her aunt rather sharply. “I wish you
would listen, Daphne, I was talking about hats.”
“Oh! _hats!_” said Daphne, with a cheerful smile.
“If you are in town,” her aunt went on, “you might have a look at the
autumn fashions. I want something that will look smart without being
worldly; do you know what I mean, Daphne?”
“Dear me, yes,” exclaimed her niece now, thoroughly roused. “At about
five guineas—with frills.” And she looked out of the window for her
uncle.
“Well, don’t buy anything out-and-out, but look around you, and let me
know,” said her aunt; “and I want a new penny reading-book as well,
something brighter than a tract but with a deep meaning.”
“Amusing without being immoral?” Daphne suggested.
“My dear Daphne! immoral!” cried her aunt, “of course not, it’s for the
‘Mothers.’”
“It would certainly be easier to find something immoral without being
funny,” said Daphne, “for the daughters!” Fortunately her aunt was not
listening.
“Here is your uncle,” she said, “walking across the wet grass, and mark
my words, he will try to come in without wiping his feet.” It was only
too true, and his wife’s agonized shriek of “Wilfred, your boots,” only
brought him to his senses just in time. “You had better change them,”
said his wife, “and your socks.” Daphne went into his study and awaited
his return.
When he came down she handed him Vera’s invitation. She hoped that he
would tell her not to go. She wanted to go, just enough to feel that it
would be a pleasant sacrifice not to, and she would have immensely liked
to make a sacrifice. Her uncle handed her back the note.
“I think you had better go, dear,” he said; “you need a change, and
besides, it is only kind not to refuse her request.”
“I don’t see how I can leave my work,” Daphne began.
“Then I am quite sure it is time for you to go,” said her uncle,
smiling, “and don’t come back till you wonder how you can return to it.”
“Are we always to distrust our feelings then?” she asked.
“No, certainly not,” said the Vicar, “but we mustn’t act on them unless
we have something else to back them. They are good company but blind
guides, you know, and as you have such a large stock of them, Daphne,
some of them must conflict. It would do you no harm to make a few
reductions.”
“I shall have to face temptation!” she said.
“It is in this study,” said her uncle.
“Ah! I have not told you everything!” Daphne confessed.
“Tell no one _everything_, my child!” said her uncle, “and do not tell
many people anything. I have always noticed that young people are
dangerously fond of the verb ‘to tell.’ When you reach my age you will
have learned to put a negative before many of these vigorous intentions.
Confidences make secrets, and secrets make mischief.”
“Oh! but one must trust people!” cried Daphne.
“By all means,” said her uncle, “_have_ as much confidence as you like
in people, but don’t _make_ confidences _to_ people, that is quite a
different thing.”
“Then you wish me to go?” she protested. His eyes twinkled at her
feminine leap.
“I shall miss you very much, dear child,” he said quietly.
Daphne went over to him, and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh,” she said,
“I don’t want to leave you!”
“Then it seems as if we were both doing right,” said her uncle.
Mrs. Fordington had hoped the Vicar would come down to her; she felt
vaguely aggrieved about her husband. “Wilfred,” she often told people,
“was as close as a fish about some things.” She was quite willing for
Daphne to go, only she would have liked to talk over the objections. She
never let anything happen without talking over the objections; it was
what she called “having a thing out,” and the study door was shut. Mrs.
Fordington had learned soon after her marriage what that meant, though
the Vicar’s courteous “What may I do for you, dear?” was as far as from
turning her out as possible, yet that was what it had effected. She
remembered that in their early married days she had felt it her duty to
sound his faith, and walking boldly into his study, had poured forth her
views to him on Hell and everlasting punishment; when she had finished,
he had said to her very gently that she might believe exactly what she
chose, he would never interfere with it, he would not even contradict
her as to her statement about the Andersons, but she must never, under
any circumstances, teach these doctrines in his parish.
“What, Wilfred,” she had cried, “don’t you even believe that those
backbiting Dissenters _must_ go to Hell?”
“I feel quite sure,” her husband had replied, “that there will be no
backbiting nor dissent in Heaven; but I very much hope the Andersons
will be there, with their generosity and their kind hearts.” His wife
had got up in despair.
“Wilfred,” she had said, “this is terrible! We have nothing in common
about Hell.” The Vicar had bowed his head and she had left him.
Suddenly she saw the gardener sitting, actually sitting with clasped
hands upon his wheelbarrow; she went out into the garden and drew his
attention with severe emphasis to some neglected weeds. In doing this
she scolded both her husband and Daphne, and could go and make the tea
with unruffled feelings. Mrs. Fordington did not believe in sending
scapegoats out into the wilderness, she liked them within easy reach.
Two days after Daphne travelled to Lady Middleton’s, missing, by a post,
a letter from Katherine about Arthur Field.