“My dear, do not be hard upon me,” said poor St. John; “I acknowledge, indeed, that it was my fault.”
“It was not your fault—but I don’t blame anybody. There was illness and weakness, and some people can and some people can’t,” said Cicely, with that mercy and toleration which are always, I fear, more or less, the offspring of contempt. “Let us not go back upon that—but, oh, tell me, what is to be done now?”
Mr. St. John shook his venerable head piteously. “What do you think, Cicely?” he said.
This was all she could get from him; and, oh, how glad he was when he was permitted to go to bed, and be done with it! He could not tell what to do—anything he had ever done had been done for him (if it is not a bull to say so), and he had no more idea what independent step to take in this emergency, than one of the little boys had, to whose room he paid a half-surreptitious visit on his way to his own. Poor little souls! they were surreptitious altogether; even their father felt they had no right to be there in his daughters’ way. He went in, shading his candle with his hand, not to disturb the slumbers of Annie, the little nursemaid, and approached the two little cots on tip-toe, and looked at the two little white faces on the pillows. “Poor little things,” he said to himself. Miss Brown was well out of it; she had escaped all this trouble, and could not be called to account, either for the babies, or those debts, which thus rose up against her in judgment. A dim giddiness of despair had made Mr. St. John’s head swim while his daughter was questioning him; but now that the pressure was removed he was relieved. He sighed softly as he left the subject altogether, and said his prayers, and slept soundly enough. Neither the debts nor the babies weighed upon him—at least “no more than reason;” he was quite able to sleep and to forget.
When Mr. Mildmay came downstairs next morning, and looked in at the open door of the dining-room, he saw Cicely “laying the cloth” there, putting down the white cups and saucers, and preparing the breakfast-table with her own hands. He was so much surprised at this, that he withdrew hastily, before she perceived him, with an uneasy sense that she might not like to be caught in such an occupation, and went to the garden, where, however, he could still see her through the open windows. He was not used to anything of the kind, and it surprised him much. But when he got outside he began to reflect, why should she be ashamed of it? There was nothing in the action that was not graceful or seemly. He saw her moving about, arranging one thing after another, and the sight made somehow a revolution in his mind. He had been in the habit of thinking it rather dreadful, that a man should expose his wife—a lady—to be debased into such ignoble offices, or that any gentlewoman should have such things to do. This was the first time he had ever seen domestic business of a homely kind done by a lady, and my dilettante was utterly annoyed at himself, when he found that, instead of being hurt and wounded by the sight, he liked it! Terrible confession! He went up and down the garden walks, pretending to himself that he was enjoying the fresh air of the morning, but actually peeping, spying, at the windows, watching Miss St. John arrange the breakfast. She had not seen him, but, quite unconscious of observation, absorbed in her own thoughts, she went on with her occupation. There were more things to do than to put the table to rights, for Betsy’s work was manifold, and did not admit of very careful housemaid work. Mr. Mildmay watched her for some time, coming and going; and then he became aware of another little scene which was going on still nearer to himself. Out from a side door came the two little boys, hand in hand, with their hats tied on, and overshadowing the little pallid faces like two mushrooms. They were followed out by their little nurse, who watched their decorous exit with approval. “Now take your walk, till I come and fetch you,” said this small guardian; upon which the two little urchins, tottering, but solemn, began a serious promenade, so far along the gravel walk, so far back again, turning at each end as on an imaginary quarterdeck. The little boys tottered now and then, but recovered themselves, and went on steadily up and down, backward and forward, without a break. Mildmay was fond of children (so long as they did not bore him), and he was more amused than he could say. He made a few steps across the lawn to meet them, and held out his hands. “Come along here,” he said; “come on the grass.” The solemn babies paused and looked at him, but were not to be beguiled from their steady promenade. Their portentous gravity amazed him—even the children were mysterious in this romantic rectory. He went up to meet them on their next turn.
“Come, little ones,” he said, “let us be friends. What are your names?”
They stood and looked at him with their big blue eyes, holding fast by each other. They were unprepared for this emergency, as their father was unprepared for the bigger emergency in which he found himself. At last one small piping voice responded “Harry!” the other instinctively began to suck his thumb.
“Harry—and what else?—come, tell me,” said the new rector; “you are not both Harry.” He stood looking at them, and they stood and looked at him; and the two babies, three years old, understood as much about that quintessence of Oxford, and education and culture, as he did of them; they gazed at him with their four blue eyes exactly in a row. “Come, speak,” he said, laughing; “you have lost your tongues.” This reproach roused Charlie, who took his thumb out of his mouth and put his whole hand in, to search for the tongue which was not lost.
The sound of Mildmay’s voice roused Cicely. She came to the window, and looking out saw him there, standing in front of the children. Many schemes had been throbbing in her head all night. She had not slept tranquilly, like her father. She had been pondering plans till her brain felt like a honeycomb, each cell holding some active notion. She paused a moment, all the pulses in her beginning to throb, and looked out upon the opportunity before her. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she put down the little brush she held in her hand, threw up the window a little higher and stepped out—to try one other throw, though the game seemed played out, with Fortune and Fate!
CHAPTER XI.
CICELY’S APPEAL.
CICELY ST. John was not in the least beautiful. The chief charm she had, except her youthful freshness, was the air of life, activity, and animation which breathed about her. Dulness, idleness, weariness, langour were almost impossible to the girl—impossible, at least, except for the moment. To be doing something was a necessity of her nature, and she did that something so heartily, that there was nothing irritating in her activity. Life (but for bills and debts, and the inaction of others) was a pleasure to her. Her perpetual motion was so easy and pleasant and harmonious, that it jarred upon nobody. When she came out, suddenly stepping from the dining-room window, all the sweetness of the morning seemed to concentrate in this one figure, so bright, so living, so full of simple power; and this, after the sombre agitation and distress in which she had been enveloped on the previous night, was the most extraordinary revelation to the stranger, who did not know Cicely. He could scarcely believe it was the same, any more than a man could believe a sunshiny, brilliant summer morning to be the same as the pallid, rainy troubled dawn which preceded the sunrising. Cicely had been entirely cast down in the evening; every way of escape seemed to have closed upon her; she was in despair. But the night had brought counsel, as it so often does; and to-day she had risen full of plans and resolutions and hopes, and was herself again, as much as if there were no debts in her way, as if her father’s position was as sure and stable as they had all foolishly thought it. The moment she came into this little group in the garden its character changed. Two poor little startled babies gazing at a man who understood nothing about them, and gazed back at them with a wonder as great as their own, without any possible point on which they could come into contact: this is what the curious encounter had been. Mildmay, as thinking himself much the most advanced being, smiled at the children, and experienced a certain amusement in their bewildered, helpless looks; yet he was not a bit wiser in knowledge of them, in power to help them, in understanding of their incomplete natures, than they were in respect to him. But when Cicely stepped out, the group grew human. Whatever was going to be done, whatever was necessary to be done, or said, she was the one capable of doing or saying. Her light, firm step rang on the gravel with a meaning in it; she comprehended both the previously helpless sides of the question, and made them into a whole. Her very appearance had brightness and relief in it. The children (as was natural and proper) were swathed in black woollen frocks, trimmed with crape, and looked under their black hats like two little black mushrooms, with their heads tilted back. Cicely, too, possessed decorous mourning for poor Mrs. St. John; but at home, in the morning, Mab and she considered it sufficient in the circumstances to wear black and white prints, in which white predominated, with black ribbons; so that her very appearance agreed with the sunshine. May would have suited her perhaps better than August, but still she was like the morning, ready for whatever day might bring. Mildmay saluted her with a curious sensation of surprise and pleasure; for this was the one, he perceived at once, who had looked at him with so much hostility—and the change in her was very agreeable. Even the children were moved a little. Charley’s mouth widened over his thumb with a feeble smile, and Harry took his gaze from Mildmay to fix it upon her, and murmured “Zat’s Cicely,” getting over her name with a run, and feeling that he had achieved a triumph. Little Annie, the nursemaid, however, who was jealous of the sisters, appeared at this moment, and led her charges away.
“Funny little souls!” Mildmay said, looking after them; then fearing he might have offended his hostess, and run the risk of driving her back into her former hostility, he said something hastily about the garden, which, of course, was the safest thing to do.
“Yes, it is a nice garden,” said Cicely; “at least, you will be able to make it very nice. We have never taken enough trouble with it, or spent enough money upon it, which means the same thing. You are very fond of the country, Mr. Mildmay?”
“Am I?” he said. “I really did not know.”
“Of country amusements, then—riding, and that sort of thing? We are quite near the race-ground, and this, I believe, is a very good hunting country.”
“But these are not clerical amusements, are they?” he said, laughing; “not the things one would choose a parish for?”
“No; certainly papa takes no interest in them: but then he is old; he does not care for amusement at all.”
“And why should you think amusement is my great object? Do I look so utterly frivolous?” said Mildmay, piqued.
“Nay,” said Cicely, “I don’t know you well enough to tell how you look. I only thought perhaps you had some reason for choosing Brentburn out of all the world; perhaps love of the country, as I said; or love for—something. It could not be croquet—which is the chief thing in summer—for that you could have anywhere,” she added, with a nervous little laugh.
“I hope, Miss St. John, there are other motives——”
“Oh yes, many others. You might be going to be married, which people say is a very common reason; but indeed you must not think I am prying. It was only—curiosity. If you had not some object,” said Cicely, looking at him with a wistful glance, “you would never leave Oxford, where there is society and books and everything any one can desire, to come here.”
“You think that is everything any one could desire?” he said smiling, with a flattered sense of his superiority—having found all these desirable things too little to content him—over this inexperienced creature. “But, Miss St. John, you forget the only motive worth discussing. There is a great deal that is very pleasant in Oxford—society, as you say, and books, and art, and much besides; but I am of no use to any one there. All the other people are just as well educated, as well off, as good, or better than I am. I live only to enjoy myself. Now, one wants more than that. Work, something to exercise one’s highest faculties. I want to do something for my fellow-creatures; to be of a little use. There must be much to do, much to improve, much to amend in a parish like this——”
A rapid flush of colour came to Cicely’s face. “To improve and amend!” she said quickly. “Ah! you speak at your ease, Mr. Mildmay—in a parish where papa has been working for twenty years!”
Mildmay gave her a startled, wondering look. To be thus interrupted while you are riding, full tilt, your favourite hobby, is very confusing. He scarcely took in the meaning of the words “working for twenty years.”
“Twenty years—all my lifetime and more; and you think you can mend it all at once like an old shoe!” cried Cicely, her cheeks flaming. Then she said, subduing herself, “I beg your pardon. What you say is quite right, I know.”
But by this time her words began to take their proper meaning to his mind. “Has Mr. St. John been here so long?” he said. “I hope you don’t think I undervalue his work. I am sure it must have been better than anything I with my inexperience can do; but yet——”
“Ah! you will learn; you are young; and we always think we can do better than the old people. I do myself often,” said Cicely, under her breath.
“I did not mean anything so presumptuous,” he said; “indeed, I did not know. I thought of myself, as one does so often without being aware—I hope you will not form a bad opinion of me, Miss St. John. I accepted the living for the sake of the work, not for any smaller motive. Books and society are not life. It seemed to me that to instruct one’s fellow-creatures so far as one can, to help them as far as one can, to bring a higher ideal into their existence——”
Cicely was bewildered by this manner of speech. She did not quite understand it. No one had ever spoken to her of a high ideal; a great deal had been said to her one time and another about doing her duty, but nothing of this. She was dazzled, and yet half contemptuous, as ignorance so often is. “A high ideal for the poor folk in the village, and Wilkins the grocer, and old Mrs. Joel with her pigs?” she cried mocking; yet while she said it, she blushed for herself.
Mildmay blushed too. He was young enough to be very sensitive to ridicule, and to know that high ideals should not be rashly spoken of except to sympathetic souls. “Why not,” he said, “for them as well as for others?” then stopped between disappointment and offence.
“Ah!” said Cicely, “you don’t know the village people. If you spoke to them of high ideals, they would only open their mouths and stare. If it was something to make a little money by, poor souls! or to get new boots for their children, or even to fatten the pigs. Now you are disgusted, Mr. Mildmay; but you don’t know how poor the people are, and how little time they have for anything but just what is indispensable for living.” As she said this, Cicely’s eyes grew wistful, and filled with moisture. The young man thought it was an angelical pity for the poverty and sufferings of others; but I fear the girl was at that moment thinking of what lay before herself.
“Miss St. John,” he said, “when you feel for them so deeply, you must sympathize with me too. The harder life is, has it not the more need of some clear perception of all the higher meanings in it? If it is worth while to be a clergyman at all, this is the use, it seems to me, to which we should put ourselves; and for that reason——”
“You are coming to Brentburn!” cried Cicely. The tears disappeared from her eyes, dried by the flush of girlish impatience and indignation that followed. “As if they were all heathens; as if no one else had ever taught them—and spent his time and strength for them! Out of your Latin and Greek, and your philosophy, and your art, and all those fine things, you are coming to set a high ideal before poor Sally Gillows, whose husband beats her, and the Hodges, with their hundreds of children, and the hard farmers and the hard shopkeepers that grind the others to the ground. Well!” she said, coming rapidly down from this indignant height to a half disdainful calm, “I hope you will find it answer, Mr. Mildmay. Perhaps it will do better than papa’s system. He has only told them to try and do their best, poor souls! to put up with their troubles as well as they could, and to hope that some time or other God would send them something better either in this world or another. I don’t think papa’s way has been very successful, after all,” said Cicely, with a faint laugh; “perhaps yours may be the best.”
“I think you do me injustice,” said Mildmay, feeling the attack so unprovoked that he could afford to be magnanimous. “I have never thought of setting up my way in opposition to Mr. St. John’s way. Pray do not think so. Indeed, I did not know, and could not think——”
“Of papa at all!” cried Cicely, interrupting him as usual. “Why should you? No, no, it was not you who ought to have thought of him. You never heard his name before, I suppose. No one could expect it of you.”
“And if I have entered into this question,” he continued, “it was to show you that I had not at least mere petty personal motives.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Mildmay. I had no right to inquire into your motives at all.”
Mildmay was not vain; but he was a young man, and this was a young woman by his side, and it was she who had begun a conversation much too personal for so slight an acquaintance. When he thought of it, it was scarcely possible to avoid a touch of amiable complacency in the evident interest he had excited. “Nay,” he said, with that smile of gratified vanity which is always irritating to a woman, “your interest in them can be nothing but flattering to me—though perhaps I may have a difficulty in understanding—”
“Why, I am so much interested! Mr. Mildmay!” cried Cicely, with her eyes flashing, “don’t you think if any one came to you to take your place, to turn you out of your home, to banish you from everything you have ever known or cared for, and send you desolate into the world—don’t you think you would be interested too? Don’t you think you would wonder over him, and try to find out what he meant, and why this thing was going to be done, and why—oh, what am I saying?” cried Cicely, stopping short suddenly, and casting a terrified look at him. “I must be going out of my senses. It is not that, it is not that I mean!”
Poor Mildmay looked at her aghast. The flash of her eyes, the energy of her words, the sudden change to paleness and horror when she saw how far she had gone, made every syllable she uttered so real, that to pass it over as a mere ebullition of girlish temper or feeling was impossible; and there was something in this sudden torrent of reproach—which, bitter as it was, implied nothing like personal, intentional wrong on his part—which softened as well as appalled him. The very denunciation was an appeal. He stood thunderstruck, looking at her, but not with any resentment in his eyes. “Miss St. John,” he said, almost tremulously, “I don’t understand. This is all strange—all new to me.”
“Forget it,” she said hastily. “Forgive me, Mr. Mildmay, when I ask your pardon! I did not think what I was saying. Oh, don’t think of it any more!”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said; “but you will tell me more? Indeed I am not angry—how could I be angry?—but most anxious to know.”
“Cicely,” said the curate’s gentle voice from the window, “it is time for prayers, and we are all waiting for you. Come in, my dear.” Mr. St. John stood looking out with a large prayer-book in his hand. His tall figure, with a slight wavering of constitutional feebleness and age in it, filled up one side of the window, and at his feet stood the two babies, side by side as usual, their hats taken off, and little white pinafores put on over their black frocks, looking out with round blue eyes. There was no agitation about that placid group. The little boys were almost too passive to wonder, and it had not occurred to Mr. St. John as possible that anything calculated to ruffle the countenance or the mind could have been talked of between his daughter and his guest. He went in when he had called them, and took his seat at his usual table. Betsy and Annie stood by the great sideboard waiting for the family devotions, which Betsy, at least, having much to do, was somewhat impatient of; and Mab was making the tea, in order that it might be “drawn” by the time that prayers were over. The aspect of everything was so absolutely peaceful, that when Mr. Mildmay stepped into the room he could not but look at Cicely with a question in his eyes. She, her face flushed and her mouth quivering, avoided his eye, and stole away to her place at the breakfast-table behind. Mildmay, I am afraid, got little benefit by Mr. St. John’s prayer. He could not even hear it for thinking. Was this true? and if it was true, what must he do? A perfect tempest raged in the new rector’s bosom, while the old curate read so calmly, unmoved by anything but the mild every-day devotion which was habitual to him. Secular things did not interfere with sacred in the old man’s gentle soul, though they might well have done so, Heaven knows, had human necessities anything to do with human character. And when they rose from their knees, and took their places round the breakfast-table, Mildmay’s sensations became more uncomfortable still. The girl who had denounced him as about to drive her from her home, made tea for him, and asked him if he took cream and sugar. The old man whom he was about to supplant placed a chair for him, and bade him take his place with genial kindness. Mr. Mildmay had been in the habit for the greater part of his life of thinking rather well of himself; and it is inconceivable how unpleasant it is when a man accustomed to this view of the subject, feels himself suddenly as small and pitiful as he did now. Mr. St. John had some letters, which he read slowly as he ate his egg, and Mabel also had one, which occupied her. Only Cicely and the stranger, the two who were not at ease with each other, were free to talk, and I don’t know what either of them could have found to say.
The curate looked up from his letter with a faint sigh, and pushed away the second egg which he had taken upon his plate unconsciously. “Cicely,” he said, “this is a startling letter, though perhaps I might have been prepared for something of the kind. Mr. Chester’s relations, my dear, write to say that they wish to sell off the furniture.” Mr. St. John gave a glance round, and for a moment his heart failed him. “It is sudden; but it is best, I suppose, that we should be prepared.”
“It was to be expected,” said Cicely, with a little gasp. She grew paler, but exerted all her power to keep all signs of emotion out of her face.
“Sell the furniture?” said Mab, with a laugh. “Poor old things! But who will they find to buy them?” Mab did not think at all of the inevitable departure which must take place before Mr. Chester’s mahogany could be carried away.
“You will think it very weak,” said poor Mr. St. John, “but I have been here so long that even the dispersion of the furniture will be something in the shape of a trial. It has seen so much. Of course, such a grievance is merely sentimental—but it affects one more than many greater things.”
“I did not know that you had been here so long,” said Mildmay.
“A long time—twenty years. That is a great slice out of one’s life,” said Mr. St. John. (He here thought better of a too hasty determination, and took back his egg.) “Almost all that has happened to me has happened here. Here I brought your mother home, my dears. Cicely is very like what her mother was; and here you were born, and here——”
“Oh, papa, don’t go on like that odious Jessica and her lover, ‘On such a night!’” said Cicely, with a forced laugh.
“I did not mean to go on, my dear,” said the curate, half aggrieved, half submissive; and he finished his egg with a sigh.
“But I wonder very much,” said Mildmay, “if you will pardon me for saying so, why, when you have been here so long, you did not take some steps to secure the living. You must like the place, or you would not have stayed; and nobody would have been appointed over your head; it is impossible, if the circumstances had been known.”
“My dear sir,” said the curate, with his kind smile, “you don’t think I mean to imply any grudge against you? That would shut my mouth effectually. No, there are a great many reasons why I could not do anything. First, I did not know till a few days ago that the rector was dead; he should have sent me word. Then I have grown out of acquaintance with all my friends. I have not budged out of Brentburn, except now and then to town for a day, these twenty years; and, besides all this,” he said, raising his head with simple grandeur, “I have never asked anything from anybody, and I hope I shall end my life so. A beggar for place or living I could never be.”
Cicely, with her eyes fixed upon him with the most curious mixture of pride, wonder, humiliation, satisfaction, and shame, raised her head too, sharing this little lyrical outburst of the humble old man’s self-consequence.
But Mab burst lightly in from the midst of her letter. “Don’t boast of that, papa, please,” she said. “I wish you had asked something and got it. I am sure it would have been much better for Cicely and me.”
“My dear!” said Mr. St. John, with a half smile, shaking his head. It was all the reply he made to this light interruption. Then he resumed the former subject. “Take the letter, Cicely, and read it, and tell me what you think. It is grievous to think of a sale here, disturbing old associations. We must consult afterwards what is best to do.”
“Papa,” said Cicely, in a low voice full of agitation, “the best thing of all would be to settle now, while Mr. Mildmay is here; to find out when he wishes to come; and then there need be no more to put up with than is absolutely necessary. It is better to know exactly when we must go.”
The curate turned his mild eyes to the young man’s face. There was a look of pain and reluctance in them, but of submission; and then he smiled to save the stranger’s feelings. “It is hard upon Mr. Mildmay,” he said, “to be asked this, as if we were putting a pistol to his head; but you will understand that we wish you every good, though we may be grieved to leave our old home.”
Mildmay had been making a pretence at eating, feeling as if every morsel choked him. Now he looked up flushed and nervous. “I am afraid I have inadvertently said more than I meant,” he said. “I don’t think I have made up my mind beyond the possibility of change. It is not settled, as you think.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. St. John, concerned, “I am very sorry; I hope it is not anything you have heard here that has turned you against Brentburn? It is not a model parish, but it is no worse than other places. Cicely has been telling you about my troubles with those cottages; but, indeed, there is no parish in England where you will not have troubles of some kind—unwholesome cottages or other things.”
“I said nothing about the cottages,” said Cicely, with downcast looks. “I hope Mr. Mildmay does not mind anything I said. I say many things without thinking. It is very foolish, but it would be more foolish to pay any attention. I am sure you have often said so, papa.”
“I?” said the curate, looking at her disturbed countenance with some surprise. “No, I do not think you are one of the foolish talkers, my dear. It is a long story about these cottages; and, perhaps, I let myself be more worried than I ought. I will tell you all about it on the way to the Heath, for I think you ought to call on the Ascotts, if you will permit me to advise. They are the chief people about here. If you are ready, perhaps we should start soon; and you will come back and have some of our early dinner before you go?”
“I am ashamed to give so much trouble, to—receive so much kindness,” said Mildmay, confused. He rose when Mr. St. John did, but he kept his eyes fixed upon Cicely, who kept her seat, and would not look at him. The curate had various things to do before he was ready to start. He had his scattered memoranda to collect, and to get his note-book from his study, and yesterday’s newspaper to carry to an old man in the village, and a book for a sick child, and I don’t know how many trifles besides. “Papa’s things are always all over the house,” Mab cried, running from one room to another in search of them. Cicely generally knew exactly where to find all these properties which Mr. St. John searched for habitually with unfounded yet unalterable confidence in the large pockets of his long clerical coat. But Cicely still kept her seat, and left her duties to her sister, her mind being full of other things.
“What is the matter with Cicely?” said Mab, running back with her hands full. “I have found them, but I don’t know which of your pockets they belong to. This is the one for the note-book, and this is the one for the newspaper; but what does Cicely mean, sitting there like a log, and leaving everything to me?”
“Miss St. John,” said Mildmay, in this interval, “may I come back as your father says? May we finish the conversation we began this morning? or is the very sight of me disagreeable to you? There are so many things I want to know.”
Cicely got up suddenly, half impatient, half sad. “We are always glad to see any one whom papa asks,” she said; “you must call it luncheon, Mr. Mildmay, but to us it is dinner; that makes the difference between rector and curate,” she added, with a laugh.
CHAPTER XII.
THE PARSON’S ROUND.
HOW brilliant was that August morning when the two men went out! the sky so blue and warm and full of sunshine, bending with friendly tenderness toward the luxuriant earth which it embraced, lost everywhere in soft distances, limits that were of the eye and not of the infinite melting space—showing through the foliage, opening out sweet and full over the breezy purpled common. The red cottage roofs, with all their lichens, shone and basked in the light; the apples reddened moment by moment, the yellow corn rustled and waved in every breath of air, conscious of the coming sickle. Everything was at its fullest blaze of colour; the trees more deeply green than usual, the sky of more profound and dazzling blue, the heather purple-royal, showing in its moorland flush against the russet-golden fields burning in the sun which gave them their last perfection of ripeness; and even the flowers in the gardens blazing their brightest to hide the fact from all men that the sweetness and hope of the year were almost lost in that harvest and climax which touches upon decay, as everything does which is perfect. The sun was too fierce for anything but red burning geraniums, and gaudy hollyhocks and rank dahlias. But the red old cottages at Brentburn were of themselves like growths of nature, with all their stains of moss, red and grey and yellow, relieved and thrown up by the waving greyness of the willows, that marked every spot of special dampness, and by the wealthy green woods that rolled away into the distance, into the sky. Everything is musical in such a morning; the very cackle of the ducks in that brown pond—how cool it looks to the dusty wayfarer!—takes a tone from the golden air; the slow roll of the leisurely cart along the country road; the voices from the cottages calling in full Berkshire drawl to Jyain or Jeo outside. A harmonious world it seemed, with nothing in it to jar or wound; the very air caressing every mother’s son it met, blowing about the rags as if it loved them, conveying never a chill to the most poorly clad. How different was that broad outdoor satisfaction and fulness to the complainings and troubles enclosed by every set of four walls in the parish! Mildmay, as was natural, knew nothing about these nor suspected them; his spirits rose when he came out into the summer air—to walk along the cool side of the road in the shade, and watch the triumphant sunshine blazing over everything, leaving not an inch even of the common high road unglorified, brought a swell of pleasure to his heart he could not tell why.
“You must not come to a country parish with the idea that it is Arcadia,” said Mr. St. John; “such ideas lead to a great deal of disappointment; but you must not let yourself be discouraged either. I don’t think that Cicely knows all the outs and ins of the story about the cottages.”
“Miss St. John said nothing about the cottages.”
“Ah! I thought she had put you out of spirits; that would be foolish,” said the curate kindly. “You see, Mr. Mildmay, everybody here thinks a great deal of a little money; it is so, I believe, in every small place; they have little, very little, Heaven knows; and somehow, when one is very poor, that gets to look of more importance than anything else. I don’t say so from personal experience, though I have always been poor enough. My way, I am afraid, is to think too little of the money, not too much—which is, perhaps, as great a mistake the other way; but it is much easier, you know, to condemn those faults we have no mind to,” Mr. St. John added with a smile. The visit of an intelligent stranger had quite brightened the good man up, though it ought to have depressed him, according to all principles of good sense. The curate forgot how much he himself must suffer from the change that was coming. Mildmay pleased him; he was deferential to his own grey hairs and long experience; he was willing to hear and apparently to take, his predecessor’s opinion, and Mr. St. John liked the novelty, the new companion, the attentive listener. He walked on quite briskly, with the easy steps of a man to whom the way is so familiar that he does not need to pause to look where he is going. Now and then he would stop to point out a view, a glimpse of the distant forest, a slope opening down upon the lower level of the common, or even a pretty cottage; and one of them, a most picturesque refuge of misery, with tiny little casement windows bulging anyhow from the ruddy old wall, and a high roof of the most indescribable and beautiful mixture of tints, set him easily afloat again upon the subject of which his mind was full.
“Look at it!” he said; “it is a picture. If one could only clear them out and shut them up—or rather throw them open, that the winds of heaven might enter, but not our fellow-creatures, Mr. Mildmay! As I was saying, they are all poor here. The people think you do them an injury when you speak of anything that has to be paid for. Because I have tried to get the cottages put into good repair, the arrangements made a little more decent, and the places fit to live in, more than two or three of the people have left the parish church. Yes, that is quite true—I thought Cicely must have told you—well-to-do people, who might have spared a few pounds well enough. It was a trial; but what of that? I have outlived it, and perhaps done a little good.”
“The cottagers, at least, must have been grateful to you,” said Mildmay; but the curate shook his head.
“The cottagers thought I was only trying to get them turned out,” he said. “They almost mobbed me once. I told them they should not take lodgers and lodgers till every room was crowded. They are as bad as the landlords; but, poor souls! it was easy to forgive them, for the shilling or two they gained was such an object to them. I thought it best to tell you; but there was really nothing in it, nothing to be annoyed about. It was soon over. You, a young man, need not be discouraged by any such episode as that.”
“Mr. St. John, there is something which discourages me much more,” said Mildmay. “When I came yesterday to see Brentburn, I did not know you at all. I had heard your name; that was all. I thought you were most likely a man of my own standing, or younger——”
“As a curate ought to be,” said Mr. St. John, once more shaking his head. “Yes; I was saying to Cicely, it is almost a stigma upon a man to be a curate at my age; but so it is, and I cannot help it. Perhaps if I had not settled down so completely when I was young, if I had been more energetic; I feel that now—but what good does it do? it is too late now to change my nature. The children are the worst,” he said, with a sigh, “for they must come upon the girls.” Then recovering himself with a faint smile, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Mildmay, for going off with my own thoughts. You said it discouraged you. Do you mean my example? You must take it as a lesson and a warning, not as an example. I am very sensible it is my own fault.”
“I came to supplant you, to take your place, to turn you out of your home,” said Mildmay, finding it a kind of relief to his feelings to employ Cicely’s words, “and you received me like a friend, took me into your house, made me sit at your table——”
The curate was startled by his vehemence. He laughed, then looked at him half alarmed. “What should I have done else?” he said. “I hope you are a friend. Supplant me! I have been here a great deal longer than I had any right to expect. Of course, we all knew a new rector would come. The girls, indeed, had vague notions about something that might be done—they did not know what, poor things! how should they? But of course from the first I was aware what must happen. No, no; you must not let that trouble you. I am glad, on the contrary, very glad, that the people are going to fall into hands like yours.”
“Poor hands,” said Mildmay. “Mr. St. John, you may think it strange that I should say this; but it is you who ought to be the rector, not me. You ought to stay here; I feel it. If I come after all, I shall be doing a wrong to the people and to you, and even to the Church, where such things should not be.”
Once more Mr. St. John slowly shook his head; a smile came over his face; he held out his hand. “It is pleasant to hear you say it; somehow it is pleasant to hear you say it. I felt sure Cicely had been saying something to you this morning. But no, no; they would never have given me the living, and I should never have asked for it. As for a wrong, nobody will feel it a wrong; not myself, nor the Church, and the people here last of all.”
“They must look upon you as their father,” said Mildmay warmly. “Nothing else is possible. To them it is the greatest wrong of all.”
“You speak like a—boy,” said the curate. “Yes; you speak like a kind, warm-hearted boy. The girls say the same kind of things. You are all young, and think of what ought to be, not of what is. The people! The Church does not give them any voice in the matter, and it is just as well. Mr. Mildmay, I’ve been a long time among them. I’ve tried to do what I could for them. Some of them like me well enough; but the people have never forgotten that I was only curate—not rector. They have remembered it all these twenty years, when sometimes I was half tempted to forget it myself.”
“Oh, sir, do not think so badly of human nature!” said Mildmay, almost with a recoil from so hard a judgment.
“Do I think badly of human nature? I don’t feel that I do; and why should this be thinking badly? Which is best for them to have, a man who is well off, who is a real authority in the parish, whom the farmers and masters will stand in awe of, and who will be able to help them in trouble—or a poor man who has to struggle for himself, who has nothing to spare, and no great influence with any one? I shall feel it, perhaps, a little,” said Mr. St. John, with a smile; “but it will be quite unreasonable to feel it. In a month you will be twice as popular in the parish as I am after twenty years.”
“It is not possible!” said the young man.
“Ah, my dear Mr. Mildmay, a great many things are possible! The girls think like you. I suppose it is natural; but when you come to take everything into account—the only thing to have been desired was that I should have died before Mr. Chester; or, let us say that he should have outlived me, which sounds more cheerful. Come,” said the curate with an effort, “don’t let us think of this. I hope you are a friend, Mr. Mildmay, as I said; but, as you say yourself, you are only a friend of yesterday, so why you should take my burden on your shoulders I don’t know. I think we may venture to call on the Ascotts now. He is a little rough, or rather bluff, but a good man; and she is a little—fanciful,” said the curate, searching for a pleasant word, “but a kind woman. If you take to them, and they to you——”
“On what pretence should I go to see them, unsettled as I am about my future?” said Mildmay, hesitating.
The curate looked at him with a smile. He rang the bell, then opened the door, which, like most innocent country doors, opened from the outside. Then he fixed his mild eyes upon the young man. He had some gentle insight in his way by right of his years and experience of life, simple-minded as he was. “You go as the new rector—the best of introductions,” he said, and led the way smiling. It was not difficult, perhaps, to see through the struggle in Mildmay’s mind between his own wish and determination, and his sympathetic sense of the hardship involved to others. I think the curate was quite right in believing that it was the personal inclination which would gain the day, and not the generous impulse; as, indeed, Mr. St. John fully recognized it ought to be.
Mr. Ascott was in his library, reading the newspaper, but with such an array of papers about him, as made that indulgence look momentary and accidental. He was not the squire of the parish, but he had a considerable landed property in the neighbourhood, and liked to be considered as holding that position. He received Mr. Mildmay, boldly introduced by the curate as the new rector, with the greatest cordiality. “I had not seen the appointment,” he said, “but I am most happy to welcome you to the parish. I hope you like what you have seen of it? This is quite an agreeable surprise.”
Mildmay found it very difficult to reply, for was not every word of congratulation addressed to him an injury to his companion, whose star must set as his rose? The curate, however, showed no such feeling. His amour propre was quite satisfied by being the first to know and to present to the parish its new rector. “Yes, I thought you would be pleased to hear at once,” he said, with gentle complacency. “I would not let him pass your door.”
“Poor Chester! This reminds me of him,” said Mr. Ascott. “He came to Brentburn in my father’s time, when I was a young fellow at home fresh from the university. He was a very accomplished man. It was a pity he had such bad health. A parish gets out of order when it is without the proper authorities. Even a good deputy—and St. John, I am sure, has been the best of deputies—is never like the man himself.”
“That is just what I have been saying,” said Mr. St. John; but though he took it with great equanimity, it was less pleasant to him to hear this, than to say it himself. “I think I will leave you now,” he added. “I have a great deal to do this morning. Mr. Ascott will tell you many things that will be really valuable, and at two o’clock or sooner we will expect you at the rectory.”
“It is a pity to trouble you and your girls, St. John. He can have some luncheon here. Mrs. Ascott will be delighted to see him.”
“I shall be at the rectory without fail,” said Mildmay, with a sense of partial offence. He belonged to the rectory, not to this complacent secular person. A certain esprit de corps was within him. If the rest of the world neglected the poor curate, he at least would show that to him the old priest was the first person in the parish. “Or,” he added, hesitating, “I will go with you now.”
Mr. St. John did not wish this. He felt that he would be less at his ease with his poor people if conscious of this new man fresh from Oxford at his elbow. There might be, for anything he knew to the contrary, newfangled ways even of visiting the sick. To talk to them cheerily, kindly, as he had always done, might not fall in with the ideas of duty held by “high” schools of doctrine, of whatever kind. He went away plodding along the high road in the sultry noon, with a smile still upon his face, which faded, however, when the stimulus of Mildmay’s company, and the gratification of presenting the stranger to the great people of the parish, had subsided. These circumstances were less exhilarating when the curate was alone, and had to remember Wilkins and all the outstanding bills, and the fact that the furniture in the rectory was to be sold, and that Cicely that very night would ask him once more what he had made up his mind to do. What could he make up his mind to do? The very question, when he put it to himself merely, and when it was not backed up by an eager young face, and a pair of eyes blazing into him, was bewildering enough; it made the curate’s head go round and round. Even when he came to Brentburn twenty years ago it was not his own doing. Friends had found the appointment for him, and arranged all the preliminaries. Nothing had been left for him but to accept it, and he had accepted. And at that time he had Hester to fall back upon. But now to “look out for something,” to apply for another curacy, to advertise and answer advertisements, describing himself and his capabilities—how was he to do it? He was quite ready to consent to anything, to let Cicely manage for him if she would; but to take the initiative himself! The very thought of this produced a nervous confusion in his mind which seemed to make an end of all his powers.
“You must come upstairs and see my wife,” said Mr. Ascott. “She will be delighted to make your acquaintance. She has been a great deal in society, and I don’t doubt you and she will find many people to talk about. As for me, I am but a country fellow, I don’t go much into the world. When your interests are all in the country, why, stick to the country is my maxim; but my wife is fond of fine people. You and she will find a hundred mutual acquaintances in half-an-hour, you will see.”
“But I am not fond of fine people—nor have I so many acquaintances.”
“Oh, you Oxford dons know everybody. They all pass through your hands. Come along, it will be quite a pleasure for my wife to see you. Adelaide, I am bringing you some one who will be a surprise to you as well as a pleasure. Mr. Mildmay, our new rector, my dear.”
“Our new rector!” Mrs. Ascott said, with a subdued outcry of surprise. She was seated in a corner of a large light room with three or four large windows looking out upon a charming lawn and garden, beyond which appeared the tufted undulations of the common, and the smooth green turf and white posts of the race-ground. With a house like this, looking out upon so interesting a spot, no one need be surprised that Mrs. Ascott’s fine friends “kept her up,” and that for at least one week in the year she was as popular and sought after as any queen. Though it was only one week in the year, it had a certain influence upon her manners. She lived all the year through in a state of reflected glory from this brief but ever-recurring climax of existence. The air of conferring a favour, the look of gracious politeness, yet preoccupation, which suited a woman over-balanced by the claims of many candidates for her hospitality, never departed from her. She gave that little cry of surprise just as she would have done had her husband brought a stranger to her to see if she could give him a bed for the race week. “I am delighted to make Mr. Mildmay’s acquaintance,” she said; “but, my dear, I thought there was going to be an effort made for poor Mr. St. John?” This was in a lower tone, as she might have said, “But there is only one spare room, and that I have promised to Mr. St. John.” Her husband laughed.
“I told you, my dear, that was nonsense. What do ladies know of such matters? They talked of some foolish petition or other to the Lord Chancellor, as if the Lord Chancellor had anything to do with it! You may be very thankful you had me behind you, my dear, to keep you from such a foolish mistake. No; Mr. Mildmay has it, and I am very glad. The dons have done themselves credit by their choice, and we are in great luck. I hope you will not be like your predecessor, Mr. Mildmay, and take a dislike to the parish. We must do our best, Adelaide, to prevent that.”
“Indeed, I hope so,” said the lady. “I am sure I am delighted. I think I have met some relations of yours, Mr. Mildmay—the Hamptons of Thornbury? Yes; I felt sure I had heard them mention you. You recollect, Henry, they lunched with us here the year before last, on the cup day? They came with Lady Teddington—charming people. And you know all the Teddingtons, of course? What a nice family they are! We see a great deal of Lord Charles, who is often in this neighbourhood. His dear mother is often rather anxious about him. I fear—I fear he is just a little disposed to be what you gentlemen call fast.”
“We gentlemen don’t mince our words,” said her husband; “rowdy young scamp, that is what I call him; bad lot.”
“You are very severe, Henry—very severe—except when it is a favourite of your own. How glad I am we are getting some one we know to the rectory. When do you take possession, Mr. Mildmay? We shall be quite near neighbours, and will see a great deal of you, I hope.”
“I do not feel quite sure, since I have been here, whether I will come to the rectory at all,” said Mildmay. “Mr. St. John was so hasty in his announcement, that I feel myself a swindler coming here under false pretences. I have not made up my mind whether I will accept the living or not.”
“Since you have been here? Then you don’t like the place,” said Mr. Ascott. “I must say I am surprised. I think you are hasty, as well as St. John. Poor Chester, to be sure, did not like it, but that was because he thought it did not agree with him. The greatest nonsense! it is as healthy a place as any in England; it has a hundred advantages. Perhaps this sort of thing mayn’t suit you as a clergyman,” he said, waving his hand towards the distant race-course; “but it gives a great deal of life to the place.”
“And so near town,” said Mrs. Ascott; “and such nice people in the neighbourhood! Indeed, Mr. Mildmay, you must let us persuade you; you must really stay.”
“Come, now,” cried her husband, “let’s talk it over. What’s your objection? Depend upon it, Adelaide, it is those pets of yours, the St. John’s who have been putting nonsense into his head.”
“Poor things, what do they know!” said Mrs. Ascott, with a sigh. “But indeed, Mr. Mildmay, now that we have seen you, and have a chance of some one we can like, with such nice connections, we cannot let you go.”
This was all very flattering and pleasant. “You are extremely kind,” said Mildmay. “I must put it to the credit of my relations, for I have no right to so much kindness. No, it is not any objection to the place. It is a still stronger objection. I heard Mrs. Ascott herself speak of some effort to be made for Mr. St. John——”
“I—what did I say?” cried the lady. “Mr. St. John? Yes, I was sorry, of course; very sorry.”
“It was all nonsense,” said the husband. “I told her so. She never meant it; only what could she say to the girls when they appealed to her? She is a soft-hearted goose—eh, Adelaide? One prefers women to be so. But as for old St. John, it is sheer nonsense. Poor old fellow! yes, I am sorry for him. But whose fault is it? He knew Chester’s life was not worth that; yet he has hung on, taking no trouble, doing nothing for himself. It is not your part or our part to bother our minds for a man who does nothing for himself.”
“That is true enough,” said Mildmay; “but his long services to the parish, his age, his devotion to his work—it does not seem right. I don’t say for you or for me, but in the abstract——”
“Devotion?” said Mr. Ascott. “Oh yes; he has done his work well enough, I suppose. That’s what is called devotion when a man dies or goes away. Yes, oh yes, we may allow him the credit of that, the poor old fogey, but—yes, oh yes, a good old fellow enough. When you have said that, there’s no more to say. Perhaps in the abstract it was a shame that Chester should have the lion’s share of the income, and St. John all the work; but that’s all over; and as for any hesitation of yours on his account——”
“It may be foolish,” said the young man, “but I do hesitate—I cannot help feeling that there is a great wrong involved—to Mr. St. John, of course, in the first place—but without even thinking of any individual, it is a sort of thing that must injure the Church; and I don’t like to be the instrument of injuring the Church.”
“Tut—tut—tut!” said Mr. Ascott; “your conscience is too tender by far.”
“Mr. Mildmay,” said the lady sweetly, “you must not expect me to follow such deep reasoning. I leave that to superior minds; but you ought to think what a great thing it is for a parish to have some one to look up to—some one the poor people can feel to be really their superior.”
“Not a poor beggar of a curate,” cried her husband. “There, Adelaide! you have hit the right nail on the head. That’s the true way to look at the subject. Poor old St. John! I don’t say he’s been well treated by destiny. He has had a deal of hard work, and he has stuck to it; but, bless you! how is a man like that to be distinguished from a Dissenting preacher, for instance? Of course, he’s a clergyman, in orders and all that, as good as the Archbishop of Canterbury; but he has no position—no means—nothing to make him the centre of the parish, as the clergyman ought to be. Why, the poorest labourer in the parish looks down upon the curate. ‘Parson’s just as poor as we is,’ they say. I’ve heard them. He has got to run up bills in the little shops, and all that, just as they have. He has no money to relieve them with when they’re out of work. The farmers look down upon him. They think nothing of a man that’s poor; and as for the gentry——”
“Stop, Henry,” said Mrs. Ascott; “the gentry have always been very kind to the St. Johns. We were always sorry for the girls. Poor things! their mother was really quite a lady, though I never heard that she had anything. We were all grieved about this last sad affair, when he married the governess; and I should always have made a point of being kind to the girls. That is a very different thing, however, Mr. Mildmay,” she added, with a sweet smile, “from having a clergyman whom one can really look up to, and who will be a friend and neighbour as well as a clergyman. You will stay to luncheon? I think I hear the bell.”
CHAPTER XIII.
WHAT THE GIRLS COULD DO.
MILDMAY left the house of the Ascotts hurriedly at this intimation. He thought them pleasant people enough—for who does not think those people pleasant who flatter and praise him?—but he would not allow himself to be persuaded out of his determination to return to the rectory. I must add however that his mind was in a more confused state than ever as he skirted the common by the way the curate had taken him on the previous night. There were two sides to every question; that could not be gainsaid. To leave Brentburn after passing twenty years here in arduous discharge of all the rector’s duties, but with the rank and remuneration only of the curate, was an injury too hard to contemplate to Mr. St. John; but then it was not Mildmay’s fault that he should interfere at his own cost to set it right. It was not even the fault of the parish. It was nobody’s fault but his own, foolish as he was, neglecting all chances of “bettering himself.” If a man would do nothing for himself, how could it be the duty of others, of people no way connected with him, scarcely knowing him, to do it for him? This argument was unanswerable; nothing could be more reasonable, more certain; and yet—Mildmay felt that he himself was young, that the rectory of Brentburn was not much to him one way or the other. He had wanted it as the means of living a more real life than that which was possible to him in his college rooms; but he had no stronger reason, no special choice of the place, no conviction that he could do absolute good here; and why should he then take so lightly what it would cost him nothing to reject, but which was everything to the curate? Then, on the other hand, there was the parish to consider. What if—extraordinary as that seemed—it did not want Mr. St. John? What if really his very poverty, his very gentleness, made him unsuitable for it? The argument seemed a miserable one, so far as the money went; but it might be true. The Ascotts, for instance, were the curate’s friends; but this was their opinion. Altogether Mr. Mildmay was very much perplexed on the subject. He wished he had not come to see for himself, just as an artist has sometimes been sorry for having consulted that very troublesome reality, Nature, who will not lend herself to any theory. If he had come without any previous inspection of the place, without any knowledge of the circumstances, how much better it would have been! Whereas now he was weighed down by the consideration of things with which he had really nothing to do. As he went along, full of these thoughts, he met the old woman whom he had first spoken to by the duck-pond on the day before, and who had invited him to sit down in her cottage. To his surprise—for he did not at first recollect who she was—she made him a curtsy, and stopped short to speak to him. As it was in the full blaze of the midday sunshine, Mildmay would very gladly have escaped—not to say that he was anxious to get back to the rectory, and to finish, as he persuaded himself was quite necessary, his conversation with Cicely. Old Mrs. Joel, however, stood her ground. She had an old-fashioned large straw bonnet on her head, which protected her from the sun; and besides, was more tolerant of the sunshine, and more used to exposure than he was.
“Sir,” she said, “I hear as you’re the new gentleman as is coming to our parish. I am a poor woman, sir, the widow o’ Job Joel, as was about Brentburn church, man and boy, for more than forty year. He began in the choir, he did, and played the fiddle in the old times; and then, when that was done away with, my husband he was promoted to be clerk, and died in it. They could not ezackly make me clerk, seeing as I’m nothing but a woman; but Dick Williams, as is the sexton, ain’t married, and I’ve got the cleaning of the church, and the pew-opening, if you please, sir; and I hope, sir, as you won’t think it’s nothing but justice to an old servant, to let me stay?”
“What do you think of Mr. St. John going away?” asked Mildmay abruptly.
The old woman stared, half alarmed, and made him another curtsy, to occupy the time till she could think how to answer. “Mr. St. John, sir? He’s a dear good gentleman, sir; as innocent as a baby. When he’s gone, sir, they will find the miss of him,” she said, examining his face keenly to see how he meant her to answer, which is one of the highest arts of the poor.
“If he goes away, after being here so long, why shouldn’t you be sent away, too?” said Mildmay. He felt how absurd was this questioning, as of an oracle, which came from the confused state of his own mind, not from any expectation of an answer; and then he could not but smile to himself at the idea of thus offering up a victim to the curate’s manes.
Mrs. Joel was much startled. “Lord bless us!” she said, making a step backwards. Then commanding herself, “It weren’t Mr. St. John, sir, as gave me my place; but the rector hisself. Mr. St. John is as good as gold, but he ain’t not to say my master. Besides, there’s a many as can do the parson’s work, but there ain’t many, not in this parish, as could do mine. Mr. St. John would be a loss—but me, sir——”
Here she made another curtsy, and Mildmay laughed in spite of himself. “You—would be a greater loss?” he said. “Well, perhaps so; but if there are any good reasons why he should leave, there must be the same for you.”
“I don’t see it, sir,” said Mrs. Joel promptly. “The parson’s old, and he’s a bit past his work; but I defy any one in the parish to say as the church ain’t as neat as a new pin. Mr. St. John’s getting a bit feeble in the legs; he can’t go long walks now like once he could. Me! I may be old, but as for my mop and my duster, I ain’t behind nobody. Lord bless you! it’s a very different thing with Mr. St. John from what it is with me. He’s got those girls of his to think upon, and those little children. What’s he got to do with little children at his age? But I’ve nobody but myself to go troubling my brains about. I thinks o’ my work, and nought else. You won’t get another woman in the parish as will do it as cheap and as comfortable as me.”
“But don’t you think,” said Mildmay—whose conduct I cannot excuse, and whose only apology is that his mind was entirely occupied with one subject—“don’t you think it is very hard upon Mr. St. John at his age, to go away?”
Mrs. Joel found herself in a dilemma. She had no desire to speak ill of the curate, but if she spoke too well of him, might not that annoy the new rector, and endanger her own cause? She eyed him very keenly, never taking her eyes off his face, to be guided by its changes. “Between gentlefolks and poor folks,” she said at last, philosophically, “there’s a great gulf fixed, as is said in the Bible. They can’t judge for us, nor us for them. He’s a deal abler to speak up for hisself, and settle for hisself, than the likes o’ me; and I reckon as he could stay on if he’d a mind to; but me, sir, it’s your pleasure as I’ve got to look to,” said the old woman, with another curtsy. This oracle, it was clear, had no response or guidance to give.
“Well,” he said, carelessly, “I will speak to Miss St. John—for I don’t know about the parish; and if she approves——”
A gleam of intelligence came into the keen old eyes which regarded him so closely; the old face lighted up with a twinkle of mingled pleasure, and malice, and kindness. “If that’s so, the Lord be praised!” she cried; “and I hope, sir, it’s Miss Cicely; for if ever there was a good wife, it’s her dear mother as is dead and gone; and Miss Cicely’s her very breathing image. Good morning to you, and God bless you, sir, and I hope as I haven’t made too bold.”
What does the old woman mean? Mildmay said to himself bewildered. He repeated the question over and over again as he pursued his way to the rectory. What was it to him that Cicely St. John was like her mother? The curate, too, had insisted upon this fact as if it was of some importance. What interest do they suppose me to take in the late Mrs. St. John? he said, with great surprise and confusion to himself.
Meanwhile, the girls in the rectory had been fully occupied. When their father went out, they held a council of war together, at which indeed Mab did not do much more than question and assent, for her mind was not inventive or full of resource as Cicely’s was. It was she, however, who opened the consultation. “What were you saying to Mr. Mildmay in the garden?” said Mab. “You told him something. He did not look the same to-day as he did last night.”
“I told him nothing,” said Cicely. “I was so foolish as to let him see that we felt it very much. No, I must not say foolish. How could we help but feel it? It is injustice, if it was the Queen herself who did it. But perhaps papa is right—if he does not come, some one else would come. And he has a heart. I do not hate him so much as I did last night.”
“Hate him! I do not hate him at all. He knows how to draw, and said some things that were sense—really sense—and so few people do that,” said Mab, thinking of her sketch. “I must have those mites again when the light is about the same as last time, and finish it. Cicely, what are you thinking of now?”
“So many things,” said the girl, with a sigh, “Oh, what a change, what a change, since we came! How foolish we have been, thinking we were to stay here always! Now, in six weeks or so, we must go—I don’t know where; and we must pay our debts—I don’t know how; and we must live without anything to live on. Mab, help me! Papa won’t do anything; we must settle it all, you and I.”
“You need not say you and I, Cicely. I never was clever at plans. It must be all yourself. What a good thing you are like mamma! Don’t you think we might go to Aunt Jane?”
“Aunt Jane kept us at school for three years,” said Cicely. “She has not very much herself. How can I ask her for more? If it were not so dreadful to lose you, I should say, Go, Mab—she would be glad to have you—and work at your drawing, and learn all you can, while I stay with papa here.”
Cicely’s eyes filled with tears, and her steady voice faltered. Mab threw her arms round her sister’s neck. “I will never leave you. I will never go away from you. What is drawing or anything if we must be parted?—we never were parted all our lives.”
“That is very true,” said Cicely, drying her eyes. “But we can’t do as we like now. I suppose people never can do what they like in this world. We used to think it was only till we grew up. Mab, listen—now is the time when we must settle what to do. Papa is no good. I don’t mean to blame him; but he has been spoiled; he has always had things done for him. I saw that last night. To ask him only makes him unhappy; I have been thinking and thinking, and I see what to do.”
Mab raised her head from her sister’s shoulder, and looked at Cicely with great tender believing eyes. The two forlorn young creatures had nobody to help them; but the one trusted in the other, which was a safeguard for the weaker soul; and she who had nobody to trust in except God, felt that inspiration of the burden which was laid upon her, which sometimes is the strongest of all supports to the strong. Her voice still faltered a little, and her eyes glistened, but she put what was worse first, as a brave soul naturally does.
“Mab, you must go—it is the best—you are always happy with your work, and Aunt Jane will be very kind to you; and the sooner you can make money, don’t you see? It would not do to go back to school, even if Miss Blandy would have us, for all we could do there was to keep ourselves. Mab, you are so clever, you will soon now be able to help; and you know, even if papa gets something, there will always be the little boys.”
“Yes, I know,” said Mab, subdued. “O Cicely, don’t be vexed! I should like it—I know I should like it—but for leaving you.”
Cicely’s bosom heaved with a suppressed sob. “You must not mind me. I shall have so much to do, I shall have no time to think; and so long as one can keep one’s self from thinking!—There now, that is settled. I wanted to say it, and I dared not. After that—Mab, don’t ask me my plans! I am going round this very day,” cried Cicely, springing to her feet, “to all those people we owe money to.” This sudden movement was half the impulse of her vivacious nature, which could not continue in one tone, whatever happened, and, half an artifice to conceal the emotion which was too deep for her sister to share. Cicely felt the idea of the separation much more than Mab did, though it was Mab who was crying over it; and the elder sister dared not dwell upon the thought. “I must go round to them all,” said Cicely, taking the opportunity to get rid of her tears, “and ask them to have a little patience. There will be another half-year’s income before we leave, and they shall have all, all I can give them. I hope they will be reasonable. Mab, I ought to go now.”
“Oh, what will you say to them? Oh, how have you the courage to do it? O Cicely! when it is not your fault. It is papa who ought to do it!” cried Mab.
“It does not matter so much who ought to do it,” said Cicely, with composure. “Some one must do it, and I don’t know who will but me. Then I think there ought to be an advertisement written for the Guardian.”
“Cicely, you said you were to stay with papa!”
“It is not for me; it is for papa himself. Poor papa! Oh, what a shame, what a shame, at his age! And a young man, that young man, with nothing to recommend him, coming in to everything, and turning us out! I can’t talk about it,” cried Cicely. “The best thing for us is to go and do something. I can make up the advertisement on the way.”
And in the heat of this, she put on her hat and went out, leaving Mab half stupefied by the suddenness of all those settlements. Mab had not the courage to offer to go to Wilkins and the rest with her sister. She cried over all that Cicely had to do; but she knew very well that she had not the strength to do it. She went and arranged her easel, and set to work very diligently. That was always something; and to make money, would not that be best of all, as well as the pleasantest? Mab did not care for tiring herself, nor did she think of her own enjoyment. That she should be the brother working for both, and Cicely the sister keeping her house, had always been the girl’s ideal, which was far from a selfish one. But she could not do what Cicely was doing. She could not steer the poor little ship of the family fortunes or misfortunes through this dangerous passage. Though she was, she hoped, to take the man’s part of breadwinner, for the moment she shrank into that woman’s part which women too often are not permitted to hold. To keep quiet at home, wondering and working in obscurity—wondering how the brave adventurer was faring who had to fight for bare life outside in the world.
I dare not follow Cicely through her morning’s work; it would take up so much time; and it would not be pleasant for us any more than it was for her. “Don’t you make yourself unhappy, Miss,” said the butcher, “I know as you mean well by every one. A few pounds ain’t much to me, the Lord be praised! and I’ll wait, and welcome, for I know as you mean well.” Cicely, poor child! being only nineteen, cried when these kind words were said to her, and was taken into the hot and greasy parlour, where the butcher’s wife was sitting, and petted and comforted. “Bless you, things will turn out a deal better than you think,” Mrs. Butcher said; “they always does. Wait till we see the handsome young gentleman as is coming through the woods for you, Miss Cicely dear: and a good wife he’ll have, like your dear mother,” this kind woman added, smiling, yet wiping her eyes. But Wilkins the grocer was much more difficult to manage, and to him Cicely set her fair young face like a flint, biting her lips to keep them steady, and keeping all vestige of tears from her eyes. “Whatever you do,” she said with those firm pale lips, “we cannot pay you now; but you shall be paid if you will have patience;” and at last, notwithstanding the insults which wrung Cicely’s heart, this savage, too, was overcome. She went home all throbbing and aching from this last conflict, her heart full of bitterness and those sharp stings of poverty which are so hard to bear. It was not her fault; no extravagance of hers had swelled those bills; and how many people threw away every day much more than would have saved all that torture of heart and mind to this helpless and guiltless girl! Mildmay himself had paid for a Palissy dish, hideous with crawling reptiles, a great deal more than would have satisfied Wilkins and relieved poor Cicely’s delicate shoulders of this humiliating burden; but what of that? The young man whom she saw in the distance approaching the rectory from the other side could at that moment have paid every one of those terrible debts that were crushing Cicely, and never felt it; but I repeat, what of that? Under no pretence could he have done it; nothing in the world would have induced the proud, delicate girl to betray the pangs which cut her soul. Thus the poor and the rich walk together shoulder by shoulder every day as if they were equal, and one has to go on in hopeless labour like Sisyphus, heaving up the burden which the other could toss into space with the lifting of a finger. So it is, and so it must be, I suppose, till time and civilization come to an end.