by F. M. Mayor
‘By this time we have earned our tea,’ said Mr Sykes. ‘I’ve asked young Baston in. I hope you won’t mind. I wanted him very much to see you; I wanted him to see a scholar.’
‘Come, he sees yourself, and happily he can, in addition, see Herbert,’ said Canon Jocelyn.
‘Oh no, my classics are entirely gone where the rest of my memory is very shortly going. I am an old man of seventy, recollect, not an infant of eighty-two like yourself. I am beginning to feel the infirmities of age. As to Herbert, I am not sure. He hails from a strange place called Peterhouse, which Trinity men know nothing about.’
‘Has Mr Baston made any more classical allusions in the pulpit?’
‘I have tried to check his ardour. It all came from exuberance of mind, induced by the reading of a miserable translation of Virgil, and another still more miserable of excerpts from the Greek tragedians; some society he belongs to had recommended them. He confused the two. Everything is the same to him, “most interesting,” as he says.’
‘Perhaps it is in his favour that his exuberance gets the better of him. One must be thankful for the very smallest mercies in these days.’
‘It’s ungrateful to cavil, but there is un peu trop de zèle. Is that correct French, Mary? You know the Baptists opened a little chapel here some years ago, and as Widow Hankey used to say to me, “Their congregations is very pore, sir, very pore indeed; there’s nothing for us to trouble about,” and nobody did trouble I believe, certainly not the preacher that they sent on Sunday evenings; but now Baston is harrying them into the fold. I caught him making a black sheep of a Baptist’s little girl, and he’s at some new Irish people that have come, when really their souls are in most respectable keeping. Father Murphy is a diligent little man, you know. In the eyes of the Creator these differences must appear so infinitely little, and to Baston they appear so infinitely great.’
‘’Myes,’ said Canon Jocelyn. ‘The Papists are wary in England, and make the differences appear small to allay suspicion. I don’t think the Church of Rome really changes. You must be glad Baston is not a ritualist. It is the weak mind engrossed in coloured scarves which she gets into her clutches.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s his danger. Anyhow, he’s not at all a bad fellow. But he’s too much of the village people; he mixes up in all their quarrels; there’s a perpetual commerce of affronts between them. They realize it perfectly well. But what can one do? Sad to say, that’s the prevailing type one gets now. Look at Yeabsley, Mansbridge, and Milverton. As the Church must have clergy, I suppose one must be very much obliged to them for taking Orders, but whenever I meet a grocer’s assistant with an earnest countenance, my heart sinks in anticipation of hearing that he is reading the Greek Testament with the intention of being ordained.’
‘One cannot see what is going to happen. I do not believe I told you, Sykes’ (Canon Jocelyn told Mr Sykes every time he met him), ‘that when the Bishop was ill the other day’ (seven years ago) ‘he sent a most objectionable individual to take the confirmation. He reminded me of a very inferior flash type of undergraduate at a small college. I looked him out in the Calendar, and you will not believe me when I tell you that he was a non-collegiate Poll-man. But what can one expect? We have a Government bent on destroying the foundations on which, not so much the greatness, but the very existence of our State depends. And there is no foresight, no quiet thinking over whither all this so-called reform is leading us. There is simply a child’s pleasure in breaking its toys.’
‘I agree with you from the bottom of my heart,’ said Mr Sykes. ‘I see no gleam of light anywhere.’ Then the two old friends felt happier, and went indoors.
Mild Mr Baston, when he had handed round the tea, threw away his chance of intercourse with scholars and talked to Dora. She welcomed him with a smile but, preferred feminine conversation. They began on choir boys, and soon Mr Baston was telling her comic anecdotes about howlers. Meanwhile the three clergymen continued the archaeological discussion. Even the excessively polite Mr Sykes and Mr Herbert had thoughts for nothing else. Mary sat by and listened; Dora tried in vain to draw her into the comic anecdotes.
Dora could hear scraps of conversation now and then. It, the learning, the jokes, the enthusiasm, the whole afternoon opened a new world to her, a dull world. And Mary really liked it. Had they been right when they used to call her that poor little odd thing?
‘You’re rather tired, I’m afraid, Mary,’ said Dora that evening.
‘Oh, no, not a bit, thank you,’ said Mary. But she was surprised at herself. She had not been wholly absorbed in the Augustinians. She had been disappointed because Mr Herbert, who had often seemed to want to talk to her, had shown clearly that he preferred archaeology.
Next afternoon the Jocelyns gave a tea-party in Dora’s honour. By twelve o’clock the household (excepting Canon Jocelyn and the gardener) began to prepare for it. Mary was already agitated and her agitation spread to the servants. The pie-crust was burnt at lunch, and they had no spoons. ‘I am very sorry,’ said Mary, ‘but do you mind our managing without? They are so busy.’
Canon Jocelyn did his share of distraction. He said three times at lunch, ‘I cannot remember what friends it is you are expecting. The Venns are away, I think you told me. Will Mr Sykes be coming?’
Mary, with forced calm, enumerated the company in slow, clear tones.
‘The Archdeacon and Mrs and Miss Waters are coming, you say. Then they will want to put up their horse and carriage here. We must tell gardener. Is there a stall ready for use?’
‘They have given up the pony, you know, Father. They will come on their bicycles.’
The conversation moved away from arrangements, but soon Canon Jocelyn was back at ‘The boy should be told to leave the gate open if people are coming this afternoon. Will you see that he is told?’
‘He does know already; Cook told him.’
‘But I wonder if he quite understands. I think,’ with a sigh, ‘it will be better for me to see about it myself.’
‘I wonder, do the roses look better here or here?’ said Mary about three o’clock. ‘I wonder. Which do you think, Dora?’
‘Very nice indeed in both places.’
There was nothing to choose between the two.
‘I’ll put them there, then,’ said Mary, and five minutes after they were back in the first place.
This distraction was the legacy left Mary from the care of Ruth and anxiety for Will. She struggled against it, but she was like the reed before the wind.
The party consisted of two clerical spinsters, a curate or two, a stray girl, Mr Herbert, Mr Sykes, and an old squire. He was a relic of the cultivated aristocracy of the eighteenth century, lasting on in complete mental solitude – ‘absolutely mad’ his compeers called him. His delight was to cap quotations from Horace with Canon Jocelyn on the rare occasions when they met.
There were the Archdeacon and his wife and spoilt daughter with painted lips, impressed at her goodness in coming. Canon Jocelyn thought the bustling Archdeacon all a clergyman should not be. But the Archdeacon was a successful preacher; his Church of England’s Men’s Society and his Retreats were highly popular. The Archdeacon disliked Canon Jocelyn’s superiority; as a member of many more committees, and still in the vigorous years of life, he felt the old man should have looked up to him. In spite of mutual enmity, occasionally each entertained the other.
Dr and Mrs King were also of the party. Canon Jocelyn was against their coming. ‘No doubt Dr King is very attentive in the discharge of his duties,’ said he. ‘Most kind, but whether one wishes to encourage an intimacy – it would be hardly worth while to have them constantly visiting here.’ One day Dr King, in delight at her father’s good health, had remarked to Mary in Canon Jocelyn’s hearing, ‘The Canon is full of beans today.’ This familiarity confirmed Canon Jocelyn’s views on doctors – people to be treated with the greatest courtesy, even friendliness, in their own sphere. Their sphere was never dinner at a house lik
e the Rectory, and rarely tea.
On the arrival of his guests all Canon Jocelyn’s agitation vanished. One would never have imagined his composure had been ruffled by the Archdeacon’s party and the front gate. Mary remained flushed, but she made a charming hostess. It may be because shy people have suffered so much from being left out that they, above all others, make their guests feel at home. Canon Jocelyn’s courtesy froze the circle round him, but if not enjoyed at the time, his guests felt afterwards they had been in distinguished society.
The friendly words that the visitors exchanged with the servants who handed the cakes; the servants’ old-fashioned desire that the visitors should enjoy their tea, and pleasure when it was manifest they did; the lovely china, the general shabbiness, the dignified silhouettes of the clergy in their long coats; the tacit acknowledgement that the old people, the squire, Canon Jocelyn, and Mr Sykes, were the most important members of the circle – all these things made up another scene from the past Dora remembered. The Archdeacon’s powdered daughter with the screeching voice should not have been there; she spoilt the effect.
Dora was not handicapped by a desire to be preferred, or troubled by the smallest touch of shyness. Since Will had gone to Canada, she had put away the world and its pleasures as resolutely as a nun. She looked on parties benevolently, rather as an aunt might be glad to see her young nephews and nieces enjoying themselves. Mr Sykes liked parties much more youthfully. The talk ran on herbaceous borders, hens, and parochial treats, the roads, the rain. There were shakes of the head over the bad manners of the young people, the deterioration of the servants, the sad state of England. And the old and young people smiled on one another and spent a pleasant afternoon in spite of all; the formidable young people pleased at the friendliness of the old, the formidable old people flattered and grateful at the notice of the young. The unformidable middle-aged people pleased, flattered, and grateful at the notice of either.
When Mary had poured out the second cups of tea she had time to look about her. She had introduced Mr Herbert to Dora and to the rouged daughter of the Archdeacon. He noticed their good looks with indifferent pleasure, particularly Miss Waters’s pretty complexion; he thought it her own.
‘I feel I ought to be helping Miss Jocelyn instead of being idle,’ said he, and crossed over to Mary.
To sit half an hour by an elderly lady getting deaf, another half an hour by some awkward spectacled girl, a third half hour by the shyest curate, such was generally Mary’s fate at the parties of the neighbourhood. When it was over she had accomplished a duty; for pleasure she preferred reading under the chestnut-tree. Today the one of all others she most wanted to talk to most wanted to talk to her, and there was no archaeology to spoil her happiness.
‘I’ve brought over that new fellow’s poetry,’ said Mr Herbert. ‘I thought one or two of his things would please your father.’
They talked of the poetry; it was a peg on which they hung thoughts of one another.
He mentioned Kathy.
‘Have you seen the beautiful and charming Miss Hollings?’
‘Yes,’ said Mary, ‘she is so beautiful I could not think of anything to say to her.’
‘I understand she’s going tomorrow, so I’ve missed my chance. But I’m sure I should have disliked her. These astoundingly charming people are generally sharks. Don’t you agree?’
Mary laughed and felt a pleasant dart of satisfaction.
They continued happily discussing. It seemed like two minutes, but Dora said to Mary afterwards, ‘What engrossing conversation you and that Mr Herbert were having. I couldn’t make you hear. What a pleasant party, Mary; I had such a nice talk with Miss Jackson about sweetpeas.’
In the evening Canon Jocelyn was not in the least tired. Mary had a headache, but she played backgammon with him on the supposition that he would not be up to reading aloud.
‘Mary,’ said Dora later. ‘Why did you play backgammon when you had a headache?’
‘I shouldn’t like him to miss his backgammon,’ said Mary.
‘I know, only old people do get selfish, and we oughtn’t to allow it. It really isn’t right to them, and in a way they’re like children, aren’t they; I think all men are; they never grow up really.’
It made Mary wince to have Dora’s cruel, penetrating, motherly good sense turned on her father. But her words may have had an effect.
A conversation took place between Canon Jocelyn and Mary next morning.
‘I suppose,’ said Mary, ‘it will be about time to write the invitations for the Book Club. It is our turn this month.’
But Canon Jocelyn, for no reason but inertia, did not want to write the invitations. He answered therefore, ‘Ye-es, I daresay we shall not have the meeting here; they might go to Mansbridge.’
‘But, Father, you know how they like coming here.’
‘Perhaps, but it is not always very convenient.’
‘But we always have it here.’
‘From time to time we have had it here, certainly, but it is better that it should not be a precedent; every one should take their turn.’
‘But, Father, we have had it regularly every year since the very beginning.’
‘I don’t care about that. I think it is a very good thing to make a change now and then, and besides I am rather specially busy with work just now.’
‘But it would be only just one afternoon.’
‘I know, but there are a good many other matters to be taken into consideration. The days are drawing in now, and the weather is becoming very uncertain.’
These excuses were delivered in such a stately manner that Mary could hardly believe she was correct when she answered:
‘But we have always had it the third week in September.’
‘My dear Mary,’ with disagreeable blandness, ‘would it be possible for you to moderate the tone of your voice a little?’
‘I beg your pardon. I am very sorry, but do have the meeting here. You know Mr Sykes said he felt it was such an opportunity for the younger men to get to know you.’
‘I do not think there is any need for us to discuss the question further. Have you decided where you will take Miss Redland this afternoon?’
‘Father, I do think you ought to have it. It’s wrong not to make the effort. You oughtn’t to get into a shell like that.’
‘Indeed. Since when have you felt yourself called to take my actions under your charge?’
‘Oh, Father, you know I –’
‘Perhaps you would not mind leaving me now, as there is some work I want to get done.’
Mary came out from the study, keeping back her tears with difficulty.
After lunch Canon Jocelyn said to Mary, ‘I think you were talking of going to the Mill this afternoon. If so, perhaps you could leave these invitations on your way.’
Canon Jocelyn did not seem out of countenance with his volte-face. He came with particular affability to tell them about the weather when the phaeton was brought round, and referred openly to the Book Club. ‘It is not worth while your leaving an invitation at Yeabsley. Sykes tells me Hartnell is confined to the house with rheumatism, but he has given Sykes his list of suggestions for new books.’
Canon Jocelyn could own he was in the wrong with full-hearted grace, which made the critic feel that it was himself who was guilty.
10
The two friends talked every night. Not for many years had the spare room walls heard such animation. Mary had received many confidences; it was part of her business in life. To impart, to confide herself was an unfamiliar delight.
Dora was very sympathetic within her narrow range. Outside it she was often astray, and did not follow Mary.
Mary told Dora of her writings.
‘How interesting!’ cried Dora. ‘Gertrude’s sister-in–law writes things when she’s wanting money for her Babies’ Home. They’re simply fascinating, those infants. Oh, you must get yours published, Mary.’
‘I am not sure if Father –’ bega
n Mary.
‘Yes,’ said Dora. ‘The dear old man. I know everything new worries them a little. I always like to explain any new scheme of Ella’s quietly by myself to Mother. Ella talks too loud, and then Mother gets puzzled, and she does love to know all we’re doing.’ There seemed no resemblance to Canon Jocelyn here. ‘We’ll ask Ella; I think she knows some one who writes.’
The sisters criticized one another at times. ‘What Dora does is all very well in a way, but it’s rather frittering and dabbling – the kind of play philanthropy people were so busy about in the nineties,’ said Ella; while Dora’s return criticism was, ‘Ella bores us so about her work, I’m afraid it all seems rather faddy to us.’
But Mary’s writings united them. The Redlands had the doing of good deeds in their blood. Mrs Redland’s forebears had been clergy for three generations.
‘They are not exactly stories,’ said Dora, ‘but I am sure they are very good, and I am not at all surprised really, though it seems funny our little Mary writing books.’
‘I am so glad,’ said Ella warmly. ‘I was afraid you were sinking into one of those many women who do nothing. I know a very clever girl who is in with a number of literary people. They were so alive, that set I met in town, and I am sure she will get them taken for you. And now, Mary, I wanted to ask you, will you get Mr Herbert to have a meeting for me at Lanchester? I want to work Lanchester up, and if you could tackle Mr Herbert I think we could get the schools.’
‘I!’ said Mary. ‘I’m sure I shouldn’t persuade him to anything.’
‘Oh yes, you could, Mary. He told somebody who was saying how wonderful your father was, “Oh, and Miss Jocelyn, too”, so I felt you would be the person to get at him.’
Mary lay awake some happy hours that night, going over the words, ‘Oh, and Miss Jocelyn.’ He looked on her as a friend. She had hoped, now she was sure. It was a delightful thought. It filled the space which had been so empty when she came back from Broadstairs; it filled it fuller than she knew.