by Joan Smith
She hoped to surprise Helver but had not expected to shock him so that he started from his chair. “But you haven’t accepted!” he said to Edith in a very loud voice.
Edith just sat looking mute and miserable, and it was for the Dame herself to enlighten him. “Yes, his offer was accepted today. We have invited him back to the Court and mean to settle the time and all details immediately.”
“You said you hadn’t made up your mind!” Helver continued, listening to the Dame but addressing himself to Edith.
“She has made up her mind now,” Dame Durden said.
“Have you, Edith?” he asked bluntly, his voice incredulous. Really, he was an astonishingly rude young man.
Edith looked at him, and at her mother, and said, “Yes, I have accepted Dorion’s offer today.”
“Why?” he asked, clearly astonished.
“What a question!” the Dame declared. “For all the usual reasons, Helver. Because he is a very respectable gentleman, from a good family, well educated and with good prospects. And because she admires and respects him.”
“But she doesn’t love him!” he said, turning to the Dame.
“Love comes later. You young people do too much prating about love and don’t even know what it is.”
“I know what it is,” Edith said in a flat little voice.
“Oh, yes, one of your great experience is bound to know all about it,” her mother said in an ironic tone. “It has nothing to do with that poetry you read, Edith. It isn’t liking a handsome face, or admiring a man’s shoulders. Faces age and shoulders sag, but character goes on being straight or crooked and that is what a woman loves if she has any sense; and if she hasn’t, then she has no right to be getting married.” She named no names, but both Helver and Edith knew to what handsome face she referred, and what crooked character.
All Helver’s plans were knocked out of his head by the announcement just made, and he found himself saying, “Can I see Eddie alone, Dame Durden?”
“That is not necessary, Helver,” was his answer.
He arose and marched angrily to the door. Both women thought he was about to leave without even saying goodbye, but he stopped just at the doorway and turned back to them, his eyes flashing and his face hard with anger. “Has he got a living yet?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” the Dame answered.
“Good.”
“The Tisbury living . . .," Mrs. Durden began, eager to get Dorion settled.
“It’s taken,” he said abruptly.
“Taken! Who have you given it to?”
“Hanley Barton.”
“That scoundrel!” Mrs. Durden scoffed. “You mustn’t think of it. He’s nothing but a horse trader, no more interested in the church than is a squirrel.”
“You forget, Dame Durden, he is my cousin and has been in holy orders for two years.” Helver had grabbed the name out of the air, or nearly so. Hanley had occurred to him only to be rejected as unsuitable. He was simply determined not to set Dorion up to marry Eddie.
“You bring that fellow into the church and you won’t have a soul in the congregation. It’s time you faced up to your duties as a Christian and as the lord of this village, Helver Trebourne. You’re old enough to cut out your pranks and your sprees.”
The Dame was accustomed to speaking to young Helver in this fashion and not yet accustomed to remembering he was now the Duke of Saymore. She was reminded forcibly of the fact at this moment, for he stared at her, not in fear and submission as the young boy used to but with an arrogant sneer on his mature face. “Old enough to know my duty, ma’am, and do it without your reminding. Old enough to give you a piece of advice as well. The living of Tisbury is in my giving, and it is no part of my duty to provide your son-in-law a job. If you wish favours of me, you will do well in future to petition through the usual channels.”
“We’re not begging favours!” she shot back angrily.
“And you’re certainly not doing me any,” he said, then went out the door without a backward glance.
“So that’s what he’s up to,” the Dame said to her daughter. “Bringing Hanley Barton to Tisbury to racket around the countryside with him, ruining horses and girls.”
“You shouldn’t have spoken so to him, Mama. He’s no longer a little boy.”
The Dame opened her mouth to give argument but closed it without speaking. She had made a tactical error to mention Dorion when Helver was so angry. She had to wonder at his anger, his very apparent shock at hearing Edith was to marry Dorion. From his expression it almost seemed he loved her. But if he wanted to marry her, why had he contrived to meet her secretly in meadows and pavilions?
No, it must be that he was angry to have his flirt snatched from him; and, if that was the game he was playing, Edith must marry Dorion without a moment’s delay. And how were they to marry without a position for Dorion? He was too proud to come and live with them—off them, for that is what it would amount to. If he didn’t get the Tisbury living, he couldn’t possibly stay in the vicinity. She had not thought to see Edith, her only child, move far away from her. For herself to leave the Court was equally impossible. She lived not only in Durden Court but for it. She was faced with a bad kettle of fish, and the only solution, much as she loathed it, was to conciliate Helver in some manner.
For two days the Dame worried over her faux pas in annoying Helver; Edith waited in dreadful suspense for Dorion to visit them again; and Helver fretted that he had been unforgivably rude to Eddie’s mother. He had needlessly turned her against him even more than usual. He went over every word of the interview a dozen times, with particular emphasis on Edith’s gestures, for she had said very little. He couldn’t believe she wanted to marry Dorion. This was a scheme of the Dame’s, and he must thwart it. But with this foolish quarrel he had made it impossible to even see Eddie. He wrote a note to Dorion offering the post of Vicar of Tisbury. He had never liked Thorne and was rapidly coming to hate him with a white-hot intensity, but he would not allow him to be the cause of a rupture between himself and the Durdens. It was expected by the whole village that he appoint Dorion to the Vicarage; and, as the Dame had said, it was time he assumed his duties.
Foreseeing a prolonged stay at the Court, Dorion had taken a few days to assemble his gear, and the note from Helver arrived before he left. One of the first to hear of Thorne’s arrival at Tisbury was Helver, for he sent a note over to the Hall the minute he arrived asking permission to call and express his thanks in person for the great honour, et cetera. It was not without some apprehension that the Duke decided to use Thorne’s appointment as an excuse to call again at the Court. They could hardly refuse entrance when he came as a benefactor, and he was eager for any pretext to see Eddie. Frequent rides through the meadow had shown him she was not inclined, or perhaps not allowed, to go there.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon when Helver tethered his bay to the fence post and walked up the cobblestone walk to the studded oak door of the Court. He found Doctor Thorne, Edith and the Dame having tea in the parlour. There was a tension between the group, a wondering on both sides as to how much offence had been given, and, on Helver’s, how much forgiveness had been bought with the position of Vicar for Thorne.
The smiles that greeted him relieved him of the fear of not being welcome. The Dame and the Doctor were both in spirits, but he noticed at a glance that Eddie wasn’t smiling. He was made welcome by Dame Durden, but Thorne did not consider her welcome sufficient and undertook to add his own.
“You had my note, Your Grace,” he went on.
“Yes, and decided to drop by to save you the trip, as I was in the vicinity. I am happy you have accepted the post offered.”
“It is I who am happy—delighted, I might say, at your generosity, and coming so opportunely, too,” he added, smiling at Edith.
“I’m afraid it’s not the sort of post a man with your qualifications merits. Tisbury is a small congregation; the vicarage only
a four-bedroom cottage and the salary, as I mentioned, three hundred a year.”
“The cottage is charming. Very charming, and Edith will smarten it up. I have often been to visit the late Vicar there and thought the house had definite possibilities.”
“It is a pleasant little place—large enough for newlyweds. The garden is quite large, which will perhaps help to cover the expense of food.”
“As a clergyman, Your Grace, material advantages are not my first consideration. The salary is high for such a small congregation. Very generous, indeed. I have some familiarity with the people hereabouts, for my own home is only twelve miles away, and I have often preached a sermon here in the past. Edith, of course, is known to them all and will be a helpmeet to me.”
Helver was forced to swallow his bile at these constant references to Edith as the Vicar’s wife. While they talked, Edith poured the Duke a cup of tea and added milk and two teaspoons of sugar, knowing his preference from the past. He observed her out of the corner of his eye and looked to see if Thorne had noticed. It was a small detail but the sort of thing that would have infuriated him if his bride had done it for another man.
“You have a good memory, Eddie,” he said, tasting it. “You remembered exactly how I take my tea.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” she said, and Thorne smiled with satisfaction.
“A good memory is a great advantage in a vicar’s wife,” was his comment. “I hope you will often take tea with us at the cottage, Your Grace.”
“I hope I am often invited,” he answered calmly.
“You must feel free to come whenever you wish,” Thorne followed it up immediately. “As Vicar of your village, I consider myself as something of a moral mentor to yourself. You do not have a domestic chaplain, I believe?”
“No, I have not felt the need of one.”
“I shall undertake to hold myself at your disposal in any matters you wish to discuss with me.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” Helver said, becoming angrier by the moment at the man’s condescension.
There was some discussion as to when Thorne would assume his duties. The coming Sunday was chosen, as Thorne was eager and the villagers most anxious, to get services regularized.
It was clear there would be no private conversation with Edith, and Helver soon arose to take his leave. He was scarcely out the door till Thorne arose and rubbed his hands together. “I like him excessively,” he said to the Dame and her daughter. “It was very civil in him to call. Quite a mark of respect.”
“He can be civil when he wishes,” Dame Durden replied. “I wonder what made him change his mind about giving the post to Hanley Barton.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if we have Edith to thank for that,” Thorne said, with an appreciative smile at his bride. “It is quite clear he likes you. That was clever, remembering how he takes his tea. That is the very sort of thing that makes him aware of his own importance, you know. These noble fellows like to be considered a little above the general run of mankind. It does no harm to pander to their vanities in such matters.”
“He’s always been close to Edith,” Dame Durden agreed, for Edith was sitting silently, with a mutinous lift to her chin. The Dame decided Helver had given Dorion the post because of Edith, because of their past friendship. He had seemed very angry at the marriage, but his better nature had won out and he decided to help her. She was greatly relieved to have it all settled so satisfactorily.
In her corner, Edith looked at Dorion and wondered how she had ever thought she could marry him. Though he had come to the Court as a would-be bridegroom, there was nothing of the lover in his manner. It discommoded neither himself nor Edith that the Dame was usually with them, and, in fact, Edith was extremely sorry when her mama arose and left the room. Dorion continued discussing Helver in the same vein as before.
“Your being on such a footing with the Duke of Saymore is an excellent circumstance,” he said.
“I doubt many gentlemen would say that to their brides, Dorion,” she countered. “He has quite a reputation with the ladies, you must know.”
“I know it well, and it is not only the low-born village girls he runs after, either. He had the infernal impudence to pester Lady De Courcy with his advances. We may count on his discretion to treat a vicar’s wife with propriety, however. And even if his character is not what one could wish of a duke, that is nothing to us. As a friend, a patron, he will be very useful.”
Edith’s back was already up to hear that Helver should respect her for marrying Thorne, whom he hated; and, when the cold-blooded word “useful” was added she could not control her response. “Helver has always treated me with respect, and as to his being useful, I trust we have not imposed on his friendship. Mama would not have suggested his giving you the job if you were not so eminently suited for it.”
“As to that, suitability would mean nothing to him. You may be sure getting a suitable candidate had no part in his decision. No, he did it to oblige you, and I find his mention of the salary being low interesting. You might drop him a hint we could do with another hundred.”
“You told him the salary was high for a small parish. I can’t ask him for more.”
“Not ask in so many words. A little subtlety will be required. A hint that you will be purse-pinched, a small complaint dropped here and there as to the things you will have to do without; and see if he doesn’t come up with an increase, without your even suggesting it.”
“But we won’t be purse-pinched. We’ll have the house and the garden, the three hundred salary and my dowry.”
“Oh, as to your dowry, Edith,” he said with a tone of disparagement, “I think the Dame might have done better than ten thousand pounds. The only child . . ."
This from a man without a single penny of his own to his name! “You must drop her a hint you will be purse-pinched, Dorion. You stand quite as high in that quarter as I do with Saymore."
He had the hide of an elephant and, rather than taking offense, sat considering her suggestion a moment. “With another hundred per annum we might set up a carriage,” was his reply.
“I hadn’t thought you to be so interested in worldly goods,” she said, highly vexed. His talk had always been of moral matters. This quest for wealth was new.
“A man likes to treat his wife as well as he can. For myself, I shouldn’t care if I ever had a carriage, but you are accustomed to one.”
This mollified her somewhat, but she was quick to point out that the carriage was a matter of indifference to her.
“Still, I think you should at least drop him a hint,” he persisted. “There can be no harm in that. And another thing; Evans is getting on in years. When he is put to pasture, I think I could handle St. Michael’s as well as my own congregation.”
“Dorion, the two parishes are fifteen miles apart. You know both churches have made do with a service every second Sunday since our Vicar died. One man can’t handle two churches.”
“A young man could. Evans is nudging seventy. I shouldn’t mind running them both. St. Michael’s brings in two hundred and fifty a year.”
“Well, I should mind having you work so hard. To be running back and forth, having one service too early at one church and the other too late. It is nonsense.”
“Still, he might do it for you.”
“What about the people? How could you tend to the spiritual needs of two congregations? And with livings short, someone else ought to be given a chance. This is carrying greediness too far.”
He was immediately on his high ropes. “You have misunderstood me, Edith. With two salaries, we would be in a better position to perform charitable works.”
“Yes, like setting ourselves up with a carriage!” she replied angrily.
“I don’t see why ministers of the church should go on foot, while every merchant and journeyman in the county is setting himself up with a carriage or gig. It gives the people a poor idea of our dignity. How is a man to gain
the respect of his people if he goes about in rags and on foot?”
“How are the people to think you are interested in spiritual matters if you set about aping the ways of rich merchants? I never thought you were so vain."
“It has nothing to do with vanity. You don’t see a dean or a bishop going anywhere on foot. But my first thought now must always be of you. I don’t want to see my wife walking along the dusty roads to visit the poor."
“I think I have made it quite clear I have no objection to walking,” she said firmly and glared at him. There was a defiance in her manner entirely new to her. She hoped to bring the engagement to a termination: She acknowledged it honestly to herself, and Dorion was clever enough to suspect it.
Breaking with Edith when she had just proved such a prime favourite with the Duke of Saymore was the farthest thing from Thorne’s mind, and he began to speak of other things. He discussed a theological conference he had lately attended and impressed her with his show of learning. For the remainder of the day he said not a word about St. Michael’s.
The next day he drove uninvited over to the Hall to thank His Grace in person once more for the honour bestowed and to assure him in all humility that he meant to do all within his powers to bring grace and peace on his parishioners.
Helver heard him out with impatience and wondered that Eddie should marry such a humbug. “I’m sorry the salary isn’t higher,” the Duke said as he walked the Vicar to the door. Somehow the matter had arisen, ever so subtly, between them.
“The financial rewards are nothing to me,” the Vicar assured him, “though I shall, of course, be sorry I can’t set up a carriage for my wife.”
“Eddie will have to get used to walking,” Helver replied with a smile and a certain knowledge of what that sly dig meant.
“Yes, and doing without new gowns and bonnets,” Dorion continued, looking closely to note the response to this tack.
“It might be best to put off the nuptials till you are better situated,” Helver mentioned with a lessening of his smile.