II

Dora Pilkington at twenty-four had been that pitiful thing, the

victim of an ill-natured mother. Mrs. Pilkington was obsessed by

social ambitions which had been persistently thwarted; some at their

tenderest stage of growth; some more cruelly, when they held out

promise of fulfilment.

There had been a bazaar; the celebrity who was to open it failed to

arrive. The committee approached Mrs. Pilkington, the vicar's wife,

and had in fact asked her to perform the ceremony, when another

member hurrying up had announced the appearance of a certain lady,

wife of a commercial knight well established in the county. With

murmurs of "Thank you so much," and "Then we needn't trouble you

now," the anxious ladies had fluttered away, intent on higher prey,

and the vicar's wife was left with her words of acceptance bitter on

her lips.

Of the multitude of obstacles which nullified her social projects,

the most permanent and unsurmountable were her own over-zealous

opportunism, her daughter's inertia, and her husband's earnest

single-mindedness. The Reverend Edward Pilkington was a man of

limited outlook but sincere purpose. The country parish in which he

worked, not cognisant of his limitations, appreciated his sincerity,

enjoyed his ministrations, and made endless demands on his time and

sympathy.

For the most part, enjoying his work as he did and capable of

estimating its usefulness, Edward Pilkington was a happy man. His

home certainly lacked serenity, but he asked little of life, and if

he was sometimes shamed by his wife's scornful refusal of

invitations, and even more shamed by her gushing acceptances, still

she was an admirable housewife, and there was always some sick

parishioner to provide a ready means of escape from her tongue. When

she saw him adjusting his old scarf, and searching helplessly for a

pair of gloves, Mrs. Pilkington would raise her eyebrows and enquire

acidly: "What! Am I to be left again this evening?" To which Mr.

Pilkington contented himself by replying vaguely and apologetically:

"I'm afraid so my dear. You know a clergyman's time is not his own."

Dora had no means of escape. She returned at eighteen from the

rather cheap boarding school where she had spent the last four years,

with a vague idea of helping her mother, being useful to her father,

and ultimately marrying some delightful and desirable young man. In

point of fact neither parent required her assistance, and her mother

who had hoped with an almost savage intensity for a daughter pretty

and clever enough to make a place for herself in the county, was

disappointed by Dora's uncertain looks and complete lack of

initiative. Gradually Mrs. Pilkington became so embittered by her

daughter's inadequacy that a stumbling reply, any manifestation of

the gaucherie natural to unsophisticated eighteen was enough to

provoke an outburst of taunts and ridicule.

The reason for this was incomprehensible to Dora. She knew only that

she was a failure, and having tried the effect of an incipient

rebellion against her mother in the form of a muddled and

consequently fruitless appeal to her father, she sank little by

little into a state of apathy.

It was in the spring of 1900 when Dora was twenty-four, that Mrs.

Pilkington's hitherto diffused and generalised unkindness

crystallised into a passionate desire to marry her daughter with

whatever difficulty, to any man, however unsuitable. It was

intolerable to her to be the only woman for miles around with a

marriageable and unmarried daughter. Dora by this time was conscious

of but one wish; to escape as much as possible from her mother's

criticism. With this object it was her custom to absent herself for

the greater part of the day on long rambling walks. On her return

she was always sharply questioned as to where she had been and whom

she had seen, and the replies, nearly always unsatisfactory, were

greeted with derision and annoyance.

"You've just been wandering about, have you? You didn't see anyone

but old Mr. Crowther and you didn't speak to him. I wonder what good

that will do. You know, Dora, it's all very well to idle about, but

a girl with no looks and no money can't afford to pick and choose.

You're not getting any younger, are you?"

There was no answer to this type of question. Dora would mumble

something about there being no one to marry anyhow, and her mother

would take her up. "Well, there's young Mr. Lawson at the Bank. I

don't say he's anything very much, but what do you expect?"

"You know he's utterly impossible, Mother," replied Dora, her face

scarlet with indignation and embarrassment.

"Well, Dora, I don't really see why you should look for anything

better, and you may as well know that I'm tired to death of having

you always hanging round the house."

"Father doesn't feel like that anyhow," retorted Dora, with some

courage which was quelled by her mother's reply.

"Your father agrees with me that is a great pity you are never likely

to attract any young man whom we could welcome as a son-in-law."

There were many such conversations, always ending in a decisive

victory for the mother, and in the daughter's abandonment to

resentful tears.

In May when Mrs. Pilkington heard that The Hall, the only large house

in their parish, had been taken by a Mr. and Mrs. Greene with two

grown-up sons, she felt that at last her efforts must be crowned with

success. The further discovery that both sons were unmarried lashed

her to an unprecedented exhibition of vulgarity.

"That doubles your chances, Dora," she said triumphantly.

Later, when the news filtered through that the elder son was engaged

to a Miss Beckett and would be married in the autumn, she was wrought

to a pitch of nervous exacerbation that found vent in threats.

"Well, this is the end, Dora. Unless you manage to get engaged this

summer, something will have to be done about you in the autumn."

Part of Dora's brain registered quite accurately the baselessness of

these threats; she knew there was nothing that could be done about

her, she knew that her father cared for her, but something in her

cringed at the scope that would be added to Mrs. Pilkington's insults

after a summer during which she would certainly be thrown into

continual companionship with the younger Greene boy.

Shortly after the Greenes' arrival at the end of June, Mrs.

Pilkington, unaccompanied by Dora, went up to call at The Hall in

order to review the position. She found it eminently satisfactory.

Mrs. Greene was unmistakably a gentlewoman, and both sons, who

appeared at tea, were good-looking and well-mannered. Edwin, the

younger, was charmingly diffident, but his face lit up ingenuously

when Mrs. Pilkington replied to a remark of his as to the scarcity of

young people in the neighbourhood:

"Why, that's what my young daughter is always complaining about. You

must meet and have a good grumble together."

"It's selfish of you to complain, Edwin," Mrs. Greene interposed

briskly. "You know we've come here in the hope of your father being

able to get a little peace to finish his book."

"Is Mr. Greene an author then?" asked Mrs. Pilkington, delighted to

find that he belonged to a profession so distinguished, and still

more delighted when she elicited the fact that he was the Geoffrey

Greene whose literary public consisted of a small but solid body of

good opinion, ready to welcome anything from his pen.

"Of course my husband writes mostly essays and articles," said Mrs.

Greene explanatorily, "but at present he's engaged on something more

ambitious, and he felt it would be a help to get out of town away

from people and things."

"Of course," agreed Mrs. Pilkington, "I quite understand his point of

view. You'll find this quite a nice quiet neighbourhood, but we must

try and provide a little amusement for your sons."

She smiled at Edwin as she spoke. Everything seemed very hopeful to

her. It was obvious that Edwin was a little bored and restless. His

work at the Bar was as yet negligible, and the prospect of three

months' idling in the country was considerably brightened by the

thought of the Pilkington girl who apparently felt as bored as he did.

He accepted eagerly Mrs. Pilkington's invitation to tennis and supper

at the Vicarage a few days hence, but the elder boy, Rodney, refused.

He was only spending a few days at The Hall and was then obliged to

return to the engineering works where he was a very junior partner

with his uncle.

That evening Dora wandered out into the garden face to face with a

clear-cut issue. Her mother's injunctions were perfectly definite;

every effort was to be made to attract Edwin Greene and if Dora could

not succeed in eliciting a proposal she must at least entrap him into

some unwary declaration which could be taken advantage of.

The sordid meanness of the project was evident, but Dora Pilkington

after six years of endurance, decided that she was willing to fall in

with any scheme that would lead to freedom from the incessant taunts

and nagging to which she was subject.

As she looked at the moon she thought vaguely and sentimentally that

perhaps he would fall in love with her, and it would turn out all

right; as she thought of her awkwardness and badly made clothes, this

faint hope died, and was succeeded by a resolution to capture by hook

or crook the one eligible man within reach.

The afternoon when Edwin came to tennis was a success. Dora played

passably, and the only other woman was the doctor's young wife,

absorbed in herself and her husband. Edwin stayed on to supper, an

unusually pleasant meal at which Mr. Pilkington expanded

conversationally, and Dora and her mother formed a smiling and

apparently harmonious background.

It was a lovely night.

"Would you two young people like to walk down to the river?" asked

Mrs. Pilkington.

"May we? That would be more than charming," answered Edwin, and in a

few moments Dora found herself strolling through the murmurous summer

fields, with a young man saying to her ardently:

"Do let's have a lot of tennis and walks and picnics, Miss

Pilkington; there are so few people round here that you really must

put up with me a good deal this summer."

She felt a strange movement in her blood. It was going to be all

right then; no need to plot and plan; she, Dora Pilkington, was

embarking on a genuine romance. Her heart beat unevenly, and as she

looked at Edwin's young face, clear and dark in the yellow moonlight,

she thought suddenly: I love him; I'll do anything for him.

The days that followed were busy and happy, but July merged into

August and August into September, and the harvest was stacked in the

fields among the shorn poppies.

"Is nothing ever going to happen, Dora?" asked Mrs. Pilkington, and

Dora asked herself the same question, still more bitterly.

Apparently nothing was going to happen. Edwin Greene enjoyed and

sought her company, but by no word had he ever suggested that his

feelings for her were stronger than affection and gratitude towards

an acquaintance who was making a dull summer less dull.

One Saturday after a particularly trying lunch alone with her Mother,

Dora walked by herself towards the river where she and Edwin had gone

on that first most hopeful night. Edwin, lying in a canoe tethered

to an overhanging tree, saw her white frock coming along the bank

above him. He felt comfortably lazy and disinclined to make any move

to greet her, but the disconsolate swing of the hat which she was

carrying in her hand, touched him. He knew by this time that the

relations between Dora and her mother were not of the happiest, and

he guessed at the trouble that had marred the drowsy afternoon.

When she drew near to the tree under which he was lying, he called

softly. Startled, she looked around in every direction but the right

one, until guided by his laughter she parted the branches and leaned

through, looking down into the cool gloomy green cavern.

Edwin sat up suddenly with a quick intake of breath as he looked at

her face framed by leaves and twigs that caught at her tumbled fair

hair. Dora had been crying, she was flushed and tremulous, but as

she looked at Edwin her eyes brightened and she smiled. In her

dishevelment she achieved an unusual warm prettiness, heightened by

the contrast between smiling mouth and tear-stained eyes.

"You look simply stunning, Dora," he said eagerly; "but I can see

that something is wrong: you must let me help you, you really must.

Wait a minute till I come up beside you."

This unprecedented offer of help combined with Edwin's flattering

words and look, broke down completely Dora's already shaken

self-control. She felt, as on their first walk together, that

strange surging in her veins, and her response to it was one of

courage and sincerity; virtues as a rule quite alien to her

unreliable and compromising nature.

"You can't help me," she said desperately turning to him with tears

streaming unheeded down her cheeks. "You mustn't even try; you of

all people must keep clear of me; you don't understand at all; Mother

is determined that you should marry me."

Dora was sobbing loudly and her words were only spasmodically audible.

"You don't know how dreadful Mother is," she gasped between sobs.

"She's always going on at me about you. You mustn't come and see us

any more; it isn't safe for you; I don't know what she mayn't do;

she's quite set on it."

Emotions and ideas were crowding in on Edwin: surprise, amounting to

amazement, genuine sympathy with the helplessly sobbing girl, pride

at the thought that he and he alone could turn her misery to bliss,

and at the same time, against these, the urgings of common-sense.

He recognised clearly that he was not in love with Dora Pilkington;

he visualised the family difficulties that must inevitably present

themselves if he adopted the heroic attitude to which he was drawn.

He had shown no inkling of anything beyond the most casual affection

for Dora; in conversation he had referred to her as a nice girl and a

good companion, but he knew that his mother would certainly perceive

an engagement between him and Dora to be the result of some

transitory passion which had led to a declaration.

He hesitated, automatically patting Dora's shoulder with murmurs of

sympathetic encouragement.

Suddenly she caught his hand, and held it to her hot wet cheek.

"You've been wonderful to me," she said, "nobody has ever been so

kind before, but this is the end now."

This, however, proved not to be true. At the unsolicited tribute

Edwin's young breast swelled with the desire to make a heroic

gesture. He thought of the duty that the strong owe to the weak;

visions of gallant men and kneeling beggar-maids floated cloudily in

his brain; he drew himself up, and strove for his most resonant

chest-notes as he said gravely:

"Please don't say anything more, Dora. You will make me very happy

if you will consent to be my wife."

It was a magnificent gesture and it had its instant reward.

"No, no," cried Dora through her tears, "I couldn't take advantage of

your kindness; you don't mean it; it's only that you're so good."

This protest, these doubts hazarded as to his resolution, only served

to intensify it, the more so as the sound of his own voice making its

formal proposal had struck chill upon Edwin's heart.

"You wrong me," he protested. "Indeed I mean it; it will make me

very happy if your answer is yes."

Dora had lived her moment; she had flung away weapons and armour and

renounced her hopes. It had been an impulse and she was incapable of

carrying it to a conclusion of sustained unselfishness. She knew

that Edwin did not love her and that the whole situation was false

and garish, but the chance was too good to be let slip.

"Oh, Edwin," she gasped, "indeed it is yes," and then relapsed into

further sobbing.

Edwin too had had his moment, but his was no isolated detachable

fragment of his life. The results of it had closed on him like a

trap; all that he could do was to follow up the line of conduct

imposed on him by his own act. He put his arm round Dora, and kissed

her gently.

"My dear," he urged, "don't cry any more. Please try not to; it does

upset me to see you, and surely everything will be all right now.

Let's sit down on the bank and discuss things.

"I'm only crying because I'm so happy," said Dora attempting to dry

her tears. "It's all so wonderful. Mother and Father will be so

pleased."

Edwin was conscious of a tremor of disgust at the thought of Mrs.

Pilkington, but Dora seemed to have forgotten the prelude of

frankness which had led to his proposal.

"Will Mr. and Mrs. Greene mind your getting engaged to me?" she asked

tentatively, and Edwin's doubts were lulled by pleasure in her

humility and dependence, and in his own protectiveness.

"They won't interfere," he assured her stoutly. "Mother will say I'm

too young and we must wait a little and are we sure we know our own

minds and so on, but Father won't take any part. He never does; he

says everyone must buy their own experience."

At his own careless words, Edwin again felt chilled and dismayed; he

was buying his so dear, at the cost perhaps of all his future

happiness.

Suddenly in a fever of impatience to make it irrevocable and be quit

of doubts and tremors, he dragged Dora to her feet.

"Let's go home at once," he said, "and tell them we're engaged; let's

get all the fuss over and be married as soon as we can; I'm not

earning any money yet, but I shall soon, and Father gives me a decent

allowance."

As they walked back to the Vicarage through the warm afternoon, Dora

thought vaguely of how crossing these fields an hour ago, she had

been disconsolate, futureless, forlorn.

The miseries of her immediate past were already dimming; her facile

and slovenly character found in her present triumph enough

satisfaction to obscure the legitimate rancour of six sordid years.