Dolores

by Ivy Compton-Burnett

  “Now, Vicar,” said Mr Blackwood loudly, in the tone of one proceeding to the main business, “let me introduce you to Mr Billing; who for the next three years will be amongst us as our minister; and, I hope—am sure, indeed, if he is minded as we are—as our friend. Now, one of the advantages we Wesleyans have over you Church of England people”—Mr Blackwood’s utterance of the last words implied that he did not see himself what especial significance they carried—“is that we have the services—and the friendship—of a different member of our body every three years; instead of being tied to one man all our lives, whether we like him or no. Mr Billing,—Mr Hutton, my brother-in-law—at least, I suppose he is my brother-in-law. I am not well up in these marriage relationships. At any rate our wives are sisters. I can tell you that for a certainty.”

  Mr Billing, a wholesome little man of forty, with smooth, red cheeks and twinkling little eyes, excellent both as a man and a Methodist, as his fathers had been before him, but falling short of them in not being excellent as a grocer as well, offered a tentative hand to the member of the body his host referred to with this measure of tact; and underwent increase of humility rather than the opposite process in goodwill, as the latter bent his head with entire remoteness of expression.

  “Now, this is what I like to see!” exclaimed Mr Blackwood, who was untroubled by exaggerated keenness of perception. “I like to see people of different sects mingling together, and associating in a friendly way with one another. It is my belief that that is how it was intended to be. I confess that I am a thorough Wesleyan, born and bred, myself; but that does not prevent my being able to see, and be glad of what is good in other sects. What do you say, doctor?”

  “Yes—yes, certainly,” said Dr Cassell, in a parenthetical tone, without raising his head.

  “Yes, yes, that is the attitude,” said Mr Billing, with a quick and rather indistinct utterance, which gave an idea of hurrying that its want of culture might be missed; “that is the attitude we should strive to get at. I trust—I think we are given grounds for hoping—that the day will come when it is the universal attitude. I think—it is thought, you know—that we are to judge that from the prophets.”

  “‘If a man hath all things else, and hath not charity, it profiteth him nothing,’” said Dr Cassell, with deliberate distinctness and a smile.

  Mr Billing gave the doctor a glance of some esteem, and laughed, saying, “Yes, exactly.” Mr Blackwood, who was addicted to inattentiveness, made no response: and the Reverend Cleveland followed the latter example; an effort to attain an expression of utter disregard resulting in one of the same degree of disgust.

  After a minute’s silence, during which Mr Billing fidgeted amiably, half turning to one and another as though desirous of talk but unprovided with a topic, the door opened to admit the ladies—Mrs Cassell, Mrs Blackwood, and Mrs Hutton; followed by Dolores and the three eldest children of Mr and Mrs Blackwood. Behind came Mrs Merton-Vane, the wife of the agent of the local nobleman—a comely, kindly, foolish matron, whose foremost quality was a persistence in appending her husband’s Christian name by a hyphen to his surname, and regarding his post as agent to a nobleman as establishing his own family as noble. She had chosen to sweep alone into the view of Mr Hutton, whose acceptance of dissenting hospitality was her reason for doing the same.

  Mrs Blackwood turned her attention to the introductions to Mr Billing; reserving for him the chief of her cordiality; and looking annoyed by the air assumed towards him by her eldest daughter—a dainty, naughty maiden a little younger than Dolores; who turned away after a careless bow and began to chatter with a favourite’s audacity to the Reverend Cleveland. Herbert, a quiet-mannered youth of seventeen, shook hands, and stood aside talking to Dolores and Bertram. Lettice, a stolid - looking girl with a sweet expression, remained with her eyes fixed on his face, while her mother entered into talk.

  “I did so enjoy your sermon on Sunday, Mr Billing, and so did my husband. I was so struck by parts of it, that I came straight home and made some notes of them. You know I sometimes speak myself on these subjects in my humble way; and I found your sermon was so very suggestive.”

  “Indeed, indeed, was that so?” said Mr Billing, jumping slightly in his seat, as was his wont when he was nervous or grateful. “I—I am glad, Mrs Blackwood.”

  “How ve-ry nice for you to hear Mr Bil-ling!” said Mrs Merton-Vane, who had a trick of pronouncing occasional words with a break in the middle, to the accompaniment of an inclination of her head. “How ve-ry nice!”

  “Yes, indeed it was,” said Mrs Blackwood, in her high - pitched, somewhat strained tones. “We all enjoyed it so very much, did we not, Lettice?”

  “Yes, indeed we did,” said Lettice. “And I am sure we shall enjoy many others from Mr Billing no less.”

  “Well, well, I hope so—with the higher help,” said Mr Billing, dropping his voice at the last words, and making, we will suppose, some transition in their application.

  “I was so much struck by the simile at the end of it,” continued Mrs Blackwood. “It is such a beautiful idea—that every good action leaves its light behind—‘a light that shall never be quenched.’ You know there is something of the same idea in Shakespeare; when Portia says that, just as the light shines from a window on the darkness of the night, ‘so shines a good deed in a wicked world.’ You know the passage, Mr Billing?”

  “Yes, I believe I have come across it,” said Mr Billing—“that is, I do not think it strikes me as—as being new to me.”

  “But I think we may accord Mr Billing the tribute of originality,” said Lettice, whom her family considered intellectual. “His idea and that of Shakespeare are quite different.”

  “Yes—I do not think they are the same,” said Mr Billing, turning slightly red, and looking down.

  “It is when Portia and her maid are returning from the trial of Antonio,” continued Mrs Blackwood; “and Portia sees the light of her own windows from the road. What a fine play it is, is it not, Mr Billing? I think it is quite one of Shakespeare’s finest.”

  “Yes—indeed—do you?” said Mr Billing. “I am not a great reader of Shakespeare myself, I am afraid.”

  “It—is—strange,” interposed Dr Cassell, “how extremely little is known of Shakespeare—as a man. I believe that almost the only authentic story about his youth is—that he was on one occasion taken up for poaching.”

  “Others abide our question. Thou art free,” quoted the Reverend Cleveland in an undertone; as if, though not caring to join in the talk, he did not grudge it a subdued note of culture.

  “That is such a sweet po-em, Mr Hutton,” said Mrs Merton-Vane. “I used to be so fond of poetry when I was a gi-rl. But that is a long while ago now.”

  “Well, my darling” said Mr Blackwood to his wife, “suppose we go in to supper, and postpone any further talk till our guests have had some refreshment.”

  “Or are having some,” put in Dr Cassell, with a smile.

  “Yes, let us, mother,” said Elsa, who enjoyed saying things to draw attention. “You can sit by Mr Billing, and indulge in physical and spiritual sustenance at the same time.”

  “What, de-ar?” said Mrs Merton-Vane, with amiable perplexity.

  Mrs Blackwood gave her daughter a glance of disapproval, as she led the way into the dining-room. Elsa had been indulged in childhood by parents exulting in her looks and her spirit; but of late had evinced some unfilial independence, and partiality for worldly things; in contrast to Lettice, who had already been converted, and had even given. an account of this process in herself as testimony at a meeting.

  “Well, now, Mr Billing” said Mr Blackwood, in one of his pauses in carving; which tended to occur rather frequently; his attention not being easily detained by unevangelistic duties; “I hope that you are of the same mind as my wife and myself upon the Drink question. You will never find wine or spirits upon our table. I hope that you and I are agreed on that subject, at any rate.”

  “Yes,
indeed, Mr Blackwood,” said Mr Billing; “yes, indeed. It has been a matter of great thankfulness to me, to find how much good work has been done in that direction in this neighbourhood—and done by your agency, if I understand aright. It is my opinion that there would be very little wrong with our old country, if we could get rid of the drink.”

  “Hear, hear!” said Mr Blackwood, laying down the carving knife and fork. “That is the sort of thing that it does one good to listen to.”

  “Dear Herbert,” said Mrs Blackwood, “do think of what you are doing, and attend to the wants of our guests. Mr Billing has not anything yet.”

  “Oh—no—not at all—no; thank you, thank you, Mr Blackwood,” said Mr Billing; jumping in reception of his plate.

  “I hope we shall hear you speak on Temperance soon, Mr Billing,” said Lettice.

  “Oh, there will not be any need, Mr Billing,” said Elsa. “Father and mother will take all that off your hands. They get quite jealous of anybody else’s speaking on Temperance.

  “Elsa, how can you say such things?” said Mrs Blackwood. “Your father and I do our best for the cause we have so much at heart; but if the work should be taken from us by abler hands than ours, we could do nothing but rejoice.”

  “Yes, that is it, my darling,” said Mr Blackwood. “You are right, as you always are—as I have found you on every occasion for twenty years.”

  “How pret-ty it is to hear him!” said Mrs Merton-Vane, looking round the company.

  “Herbert, do not be so absurd, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood.

  “Do you—are you—you are a teetotaler too, I suppose, Mr Hutton?” said Mr Billing, nervously, to the Reverend Cleveland; whom, dissenter on principle though he was, he could not but regard as a weighty personality, and a fit object for affable address, and whose open smile at Elsa’s words he had not perceived.

  “No,” said the Reverend Cleveland without elaboration.

  “We cant all feel the same about ev-er-y-thing,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, inclining her head.

  “Ah, well, Mr Billing, we hope to convince the Vicar in time,” said Mr Blackwood.

  “We—are told,” interposed Dr Cassell, “to ‘take a little wine for our health’s sake, and for our often infirmities.’”

  “Oh, but, doctor,” said Mrs Blackwood, with eager shrillness, “it is definitely proved that the wine in those days had practically no intoxicating power. We cannot accept such different conditions as parallel. I was reading such an admirable little treatise on the question the other day. It put the different arguments so very powerfully. You would be most interested in it, I am sure, doctor. Would he not, Lettice?”

  “Yes, he could not fail to be,” said Lettice. “There was so much interesting information in it, besides the treatment of the main question; and that, of course, was exceedingly able.”

  “I believe,” said Dr Cassell, “that there are many different views upon the subject.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mrs Blackwood, gesticulating slightly with her hand; “but all those were discussed and most convincingly refuted. Nothing was glossed over, or passed by without perfectly fair treatment. I really must find the booklet for you, Dr Cassell. Do not forget to remind me, Lettice, dear.”

  “Oh, I would not read it, Dr Cassell,” said Elsa. “It is only one of mother’s tracts.”

  “Oh, you fun-ny child!” said Mrs Merton-Vane, looking at Mr Hutton.

  “But surely,” interposed Mrs Cassell in very gentle tones, breaking off her dialogue with Mrs Hutton, to fulfil the duty of seconding her husband; “it is not for us to put our own interpretation on the words. Surely they should be enough for us as they stand.”

  “No, I don’t agree with you there, Mrs Cassell,” said Mr Blackwood loudly; “I don’t agree with you. I remain a staunch upholder of Temperance myself. We Wesleyans don’t shrink from showing our colours for a cause we honestly have at heart; and I shall never shrink from showing mine for Temperance. Ah, yes; there are Wesleyans in every part of the world, showing their colours for what they believe in their hearts to be right.”

  “Of course the Wesleyans are the largest religious body in existence,” said Mrs Blackwood, with detached appreciation of her native sect.

  “The largest dissenting body,” supplied the Reverend Cleveland in a casual tone, suggesting an opinion that it was not worth while to adopt a decisive attitude in his present environment.

  “Ye-es,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, inclining her head in rather shocked repudiation of the other view.

  “The largest dissenting body, dear,” said Mrs Hutton, repeating her husband’s correction to her sister with more distinctness.

  “No, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood, her voice becoming a little higher pitched; “it is generally known that no other religious sect can compare with the Wesleyans in point of numbers.”

  “Or in point of anything else,” said Mr Blackwood—“in point of anything else, my darling.”

  “My dear Caroline, it stands to reason that one of the dissenting sects could not be larger than the whole of the Established Church,” said Mrs Hutton with a little laugh, as though it were hardly needful to state a truth so obvious.

  “My dear, it is not a question of its standing to reason,” said Mrs Blackwood. “It is a question of what is definitely known and proved. It is an established fact that the Wesleyan body is twenty times as large as any other body.”

  “Oh, my darling, come, come,” said Mr Blackwood. “We all know that the Wesleyans are the largest and the most important body; but twenty times as large as any other is putting it rather strong.”

  “My dear Herbert, I do not know why you should contradict me,” said Mrs Blackwood. “I should not speak if I had not my information on dependable authority.”

  “Oh, well, if you have it on dependable authority, my love, then that is all right,” said Mr Blackwood, with tenderness.

  “What do you think about it, Miss Hutton? I suppose you know all the arguments on both sides by heart,” said Mrs Cassell, with no misgiving on her words as a compliment to Dolores’ studious tastes.

  “No; it is a branch of statistics in which I am quite unversed,” said Dolores, smiling.

  “Why, de-ar, I thought you knew ever-ything,” said Mrs Merton-Vane.

  “Are any of you Wesleyans aware,” said Dr Cassell, his tone not indicating any great respect for the sect he mentioned, “that you owe your existence—your existence as a religious body—to a mere accident?”

  “No, doctor; let us hear the story,” said Mr Blackwood, with an easy frankness of falling in with the doctor’s plans.

  “When John Wesley was six years old,” said Dr Cassell, “the rectory where his family lived—Wesley senior was a clergyman, you know—was burned to, the ground. Every one in the house had—as it was supposed—been rescued; and the family were watching the gradual—devastation of their abode; when it was discovered that John was missing. He was asleep in an upper room and had been forgotten. After many vain suggestions—of methods of rescue—he was saved by a man’s standing on the shoulders of another, and lifting him from the window. Hardly was the rescue accomplished, when the roof fell in. A moment later the founder of the Wesleyans would have been lying crushed beneath a heap of burning chaos.”

  “Well, doctor, I never heard that before—I never heard that,” said Mr Blackwood loudly.

  “No-o,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, inclining her head with full corroboration of the novelty.

  “I think, doctor,” said Mrs Blackwood, “that we should say that we owe the existence of our sect to a special intervention of a higher power than ours, rather than to ‘a mere accident.’”

  “Yes, yes, I think so, indeed,” said Mr Billing, slightly shaking his head, and looking at the floor.

  “The father of the Wesleys,” continued Dr Cassell, “is said to have viewed the—conflagration of his home with perfect calm; observing: ‘God has given me all my eight children; I am rich enough.’”

  “Ah, inde
ed!” said Mr Billing.

  “Just fancy, if he had been burnt there wouldn’t have been any Wesleyans,” said Elsa, laughing.

  “Elsa, if you must talk so foolishly, you had better not talk at all,” said Mrs Blackwood.

  “But, mother, it is so amusing to think of you and father without the chance of being Wesleyans,” said Elsa, with further laughter, and a knowledge of the direction of Bertram’s eyes.

  “This escape in childhood made a deep impression upon John Wesley,” said Dr Cassell; continuing as if no break had occurred, though with no bitterness to Elsa; and at once attracting Mrs Cassell’s gaze. “He always regarded it as a proof of his being destined—for some especial religious mission. Later in life he inscribed under a portrait of himself the following words—‘Is not this a brand plucked from the burning?’”

  “Oh, I wish my hus-band was here,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, showing appreciation.

  “Did he indeed—indeed?” said Mr Billing.

  “Well, Mr Billing, you have a sample of the doctor’s powers of instruction” said Mr Blackwood. “I can tell you he is one by himself on that matter. There’s not a subject under the sun, which he can’t talk about, and give you any amount of information about, at a moment’s notice. Anecdotes, facts, bits of science—it all comes as grist to his mill; I can tell you that it does.”

  “You—er—you have been a great reader?” said Mr Billing, fidgeting slightly as he addressed the doctor.

  “Yes—well—yes, I think I may say I have been a reader,” said Dr Cassell, making a frank effort against a smile. “From my boyhood my tastes have tended in the direction of books rather than of anything else. I am interested in a great many subjects. I do not think there is one that engrosses me to the exclusion of others; though of course medical matters have absorbed me a great deal. I think I may say that I am not like the man who was so lost in mathematics, that he forgot his own name and the date of his birth.”

  “I am su-re you are not,” said Mrs Merton-Vane.