THE NEW RECTOR--AUNT MARIA TRIES TO FIND HIM A WIFE--MY FATHER HAS A
SIMILAR CARE FOR ME
The stone that marks the burying-place of the Andrewes family taught
me the secret of the special love the Rector bore me. It recorded the
deaths of his wife Margaret, and of his son Reginald. The child was
born in the same year as myself.
Mr. Jonathan Andrewes came to Dacrefield on business connected with
his brother's affairs, and he accepted my father's hospitality at the
Hall. We seldom met afterwards, and were never intimate; but, slight
as it was, our tie was that of friendship rather than acquaintance.
The next presentation to the Rectory of Dacrefield was in my father's
gift. He held it alternately with the Bishop, to whom he owed Mr.
Andrewes. He gave it to my old tutor.
Mr. Clerke's appointment had the rare merit of pleasing everybody.
After he had been settled with us for some weeks, my father said,
"Mr. Clerke is good enough to be grateful to me for presenting him to
the living, but I do not know how to be grateful enough to him for
accepting it. I really cannot think how I should have endured to see
Andrewes' place filled by some new broom sweeping away every trace of
our dear friend and his ways. Clerke's good taste in the matter is
most delicate, most admirable, and very pleasant to my feelings."
The truth is there was not a truer mourner for the old Rector than the
new one. "I so little thought I should never see him again," he cried
to me. "I have often felt I did not half avail myself of the privilege
of knowing such a man, when I was here. I have notes of more than a
score of matters, on which I purposed to ask his good counsel, when we
should meet again. And now it will never be."
"I feel so unworthy to fill his place," he would say. "My only comfort
is in trying to carry out all his plans, and, so far as I can, tread
in his steps."
In this spirit the new Rector followed the old one, even to becoming
an expert gardener. He bought the old furniture of the Rectory.
Altogether, we were spared those rude evidences of change which are
not the least painful parts of such a loss as ours.
With the parishioners, I am convinced, that Mr. Clerke was more
popular than Mr. Andrewes had been. They liked him at first for his
reverence for the memory of a pastor they had loved well. I think he
persuaded them, too, that there never could be another Rector equal to
Mr. Andrewes. But in reality I believe he was himself more acceptable.
He was much less able, but also less eccentric and reserved. He was
nearer to the mental calibre of his flock, and not above entering into
parish gossip after a discreet fashion. He was not less zealous than
his predecessor.
When Aunt Maria came to visit us she gladly renewed acquaintance with
Mr. Clerke, who was a great favourite of hers. I think she imagined
that he was presented to Dacrefield on the strength of her approval.
She used to say to me, "You know Reginald, I always told your father
that Mr. Clerke was a most spiritual preacher." But after seeing him
as Rector of Dacrefield, she added, "He's getting much too 'high.'
Quite like that extraordinary creature you had here before. But it's
always the way with young men."
Uncle Ascott did not publicly undertake Mr. Clerke's defence, but he
told me:
"I don't pretend to understand these matters as Maria does, but I can
tell you I never liked any of our London parsons as I like Clerke.
There's something I respect beyond anything in the feeling he has for
your late Rector. And between ourselves, my dear boy, I rather like a
nicely-conducted service."
So Uncle Ascott and Mr. Clerke were the very best of friends, and my
uncle would go to the Rectory for a quiet smoke, and was always
hospitably received. (Neither my aunt nor my father liked the smell of
tobacco.) Aunt Maria's favour was a little withdrawn. She tried a
delicate remonstrance, but though he was most courteous, it was not to
be mistaken that the Rector of Dacrefield meant to go his own way:
"the way of a better man than I shall ever be," he said. Failing to
change his principles, or guide his practice, my aunt next became
anxious to find him a wife. "Medical men and country parsons ought to
be married," said she, "and it will settle him."
She selected a young lady of the neighbourhood, the daughter of a
medical man. "Most suitable," said my aunt (by which she meant not
_quite_ up to the standard she would have exacted for a son of her
own), "and with a little money." She patronised this young lady, and
even took her with us one day to lunch at the Rectory; but when she
said something to Mr. Clerke on the subject, she found him utterly
obdurate. "What does he expect, I wonder?" cried my aunt, rather
unfairly, for the Rector had not given utterance to any matrimonial
hopes. She always said, "She never could feel that Mr. Clerke had
behaved well to poor Letitia Ramsay," which used to make downright
Polly very indignant. "He didn't behave badly to her. It was mamma who
always took her everywhere where he was; and how she could stand it, I
don't know! He never flirted with her, Regie."
The next few years of my life seemed to whirl by. They were very happy
ones. My dear father lived, and our mutual affection only grew
stronger as time went on.
Then, when I was a man, it gradually dawned upon me, through many
hints, that my father had the same anxiety for me that Aunt Maria had
had for the Rector. He wished me to marry. At one time or another my
fancy had been taken by pretty girls, some of whom were unsuitable in
every respect but prettiness, and some of whom failed to return my
admiration. My dear father would not have dreamed of urging on me a
marriage against my inclinations, but he would have preferred a lady
with some fortune as his daughter-in-law.
"Our family is an old one, my dear boy," he said, "but the estate is
much smaller than it was in my great-grandfather's time. Don't suppose
that I would have you marry for money alone; but if the lady should be
well portioned, sir, so much the better--so much the better."
At last he seemed to set his heart upon my having one of Aunt Maria's
daughters. People who live years and years on their own country
estates without going much from home are apt sometimes to fancy that
there is nothing like their own family circle. My father had a great
objection, too, to what he called "modern young ladies." I think he
thought that, as there was no girl left in the world like my poor
mother, I should be safer and happier with one of my cousins. They
were unexceptionably brought up, and would all have considerable
fortunes.
But though I was very fond of my cousins, I had no wish to choose a
wife from them. They had been more like sisters to me than cousins
from our childhood. At one time, it is true, I was rather sentimental
about Helen. She was the only one of the sisters who was positively
pretty, and her resolute character and unusual tastes roused a
romantic interest in me for a while. When she was twelve years old,
she was found one day by Aunt Maria in the bedroom of a servant who
had fallen ill, and to whom she was attending with the utmost
dexterity. She had a genius for the duties of a sick room, which
developed as she grew up. There were no lady-doctors then, but Helen
was determined to be a hospital nurse. Strongly did Aunt Maria object,
and Helen never defied her wishes in the matter. But she had all Mrs.
Ascott's determination, with more patience. She waited long, but she
followed her vocation at last.
None of the other girls had any special tastes. The laborious and
expensive education of their childhood did not lead to anything worth
the name of a pursuit, much less a hobby, with any one of them. Of the
happiness of learning, of the exciting interest of an intellectual
hobby, they knew nothing. With much pains and labour they had been
drilled in arts and sciences, in languages and "the usual branches of
an English education." But, apart from social duties and amusements,
the chief occupation of their lives was needlework. I have known many
people who never received proper instruction in music or drawing, who
yet, from what they picked up of either art by their own industry and
intelligence, nearly doubled the happiness of their daily lives. But
in vain had "the first masters" made my cousins glib in chromatic
passages, and dexterous with tricks of effects in colours and crayons.
They played duets after dinner, and Aunt Maria sometimes showed off
the water-colour copies of their school-room days, which, indeed, they
now and then recopied for bazaars; but for their own pleasure they
never touched a note or a pencil. Perhaps real enjoyment only comes
with what one has, to a great extent, taught oneself. Helen had been
her own mistress in the art of nursing, and it was an all-absorbing
interest to her.
They were very nice girls, and I do not think were entirely to blame
for the small use to which they put their "advantages." They were tall
and lady-like, aquiline-nosed and pleasant-looking, without actual
beauty. It took a wonderful quantity of tarlatan to get them ready for
a ball, a large carriage to hold them, and a small amount of fun to
make them talkative and happy.
Except Maria, they all inherited my aunt's firmness and decision of
character. Maria, the oldest and largest, was the most yielding. She
had more of Uncle Ascott about her.