The Rector's Daughter

by F. M. Mayor

  ‘Thursday, what am I doing Thursday? Oh, I was going to Cayley.’

  ‘Would Friday suit, or Saturday?’ said Mary.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m rather full up. Which day is it we go to town, Lesbia?’

  ‘I must have you up both Friday and Saturday,’ said Lesbia. ‘We shan’t nearly get things done if you don’t.’

  ‘Oh, well, that looks rather hopeless,’ said Kathy. ‘Sorry, Miss Jocelyn. I’m afraid I’m not a good hand at tea-fights. Stand still, Taffy! There are no hounds in that field, you ass. Goodbye. The beast won’t stand. Lesbia, you know this bit isn’t really better; he’s pulling my arms out of their sockets.’

  They rode on. Mary could not observe a liking for her or a warm heart.

  ‘Fancy invitations to tea-parties from the daughters of the clergy,’ said Lesbia. ‘How truly tragic. I pity you.’ ’

  ‘Remember I’m a wife of the clergy,’ said Kathy. ‘I’ve definitely joined the middle-classes.’

  ‘I know you have, poor dear.’

  ‘You needn’t always be pouring in consolation; thanks awfully.’

  ‘Needn’t I? Well, of course you know best. I thought last night –’

  ‘Yes, I do know best. Miss Jocelyn’s quite decent. Crab likes her.’

  ‘Oh, Crab. Do you know, Kathy,’ said Lesbia pensively, ‘she’s just the sort of type Crab should have married really.’

  ‘Don’t wriggle, you devil,’ said Kathy, giving a vicious cut at Taffy, who jumped.

  ‘Did I smack old Taff then?’ she said apologetically. But no animal minded rough treatment from Kathy; they understood her good-will to them perfectly.

  ‘Let’s have a canter. I agree with Taffy; it’s a shame to waste the grass.’ She soon stopped Lesbia’s tongue.

  After Kathy’s obvious snub it had been difficult to take further steps, and just then Cook fell ill. Mary was much occupied nursing her, so that for two or three weeks she heard nothing of Lanchester.

  The Herberts had what Kathy called ‘one of our usual’ on the night before she started. In the course of it she exclaimed, ‘I think marriage is an utter wash-out.’ He said, ‘Do you mean that?’ and she answered, ‘Of course I do, and if I had fifty thousand tongues I should say it fifty thousand times.’

  He did not know she had it in her to speak so violently. She expressed something of what he felt himself; he was none the less indignant with her.

  In the morning there was no time, or neither would make time, for a reconciliation. There was the usual disagreeable scramble. Mr Herbert felt any attempt would be useless; he would write later.

  ‘I want two minutes with Crab before the train goes,’ said Kathy to Lesbia. ‘So mind you clear out.’

  The drive to the station had been merely hilarious. When they arrived Lesbia walked off to get a paper. ‘Let me do that,’ said Mr Herbert. ‘I haven’t a night journey in front of me.’

  ‘My dear man,’ said Lesbia, ‘do realize that I have a few grains of tact about me. I must leave you two devoted people to your farewells.’

  This speech successfully froze up any tender words from either. ‘Say goodbye to the village for me. My best love to the whole crowd, my bestest to Mrs Prior, and ask her to think of “Every time a little bit more” whenever she says her prayers. Do go and hurry Lesbia. She always misses trains when she can, and where’s Mansfield and my dressing-case? She’s much more precious than Lesbia.’

  He was not sure afterwards; he fancied she had wanted to give him a caress at the last moment. He had rejected it.

  The train started; he turned to leave the station. He looked back; he saw Kathy watching him. She was saying to herself, ‘He never once said he was sorry I was going.’ She did not know how the words showed on her face. He was dismayed. He took a step forward; he cried ‘Kathy.’ Some one looked round at him. She was already out of sight.

  ‘Well, here we are on the razzle-dazzle,’ she shouted uproariously to Lesbia.

  ‘Yes, I know. Now, where on earth has Mansfield put my flask? She’s so outrageously careless; you know that flask Crab filled last night. I’m absolutely dished if I don’t have it for the crossing. You really ought to speak to that girl.’

  ‘Turn her down yourself if you’re so outraged. She’s only two carriages down. I’ve not the slightest doubt it’s in your bag. We always have these stunts, and they’re always all for nothing.’ She took The Tatler and held it glued to her face.

  ‘But, Kath –’

  ‘Oh, let a fellow read in peace.’

  So the razzle-dazzle began.

  Mr Herbert determined to write the letter of reconciliation at once. But it was difficult to find the words. It was not written. Post cards came from Kathy – several picture post cards; they were cool and hurried. He did not feel his own letter satisfactory. At the end of three weeks Kathy wrote that they were having much too good a time to think of coming back yet. He was angry and relieved. The return to solitude was sometimes pleasantly familiar, he even imagined sufficing. But his thoughts wandered constantly not to Kathy, but to Mary. Lately he had not seen her, but he knew that he had decided not once, but many times, that in missing her he had missed the happiness of his life. When he realized it, he made up his mind to go to no place where he might meet her; he must not call on her father. It was on those calls that they had had talks with one another which the only sensible thing now was to forget. Soon after his wife’s decision to prolong her absence he met Mary again.

  16

  The opening weeks of the razzle-dazzle were more successful than had seemed possible from the journey out. Kathy and Lesbia found several of their old set already arrived, and every day there were new smart rich accretions. Kathy enjoyed the sports and gaieties with which the days were crammed. She was popular, particularly now that noise is so much appreciated; her good looks and clothes helped too. She liked the flattery and petting. They were not the breath of life to her, but she had been without them for some time; now she basked in them. She had many admirers; she was not so inhuman as to get no pleasure from admiration. She put her husband out of her mind as much as she could. There seemed several husbands and wives on the Riviera getting on comfortably, even uproariously, whose partners had lost all feeling for them. If so, why should not she? She did. She wrote sincerely when she said she was enjoying herself too much to come back. But after the first month her interest flagged. She longed for Crab, however beastly he might be. She wanted also – it would have been impossible to make Lesbia understand, though some other gay Riviera sparks were wanting the same thing – to be back at her regular duties – feeding the fowls, ordering the dinner, teaching the village boys woodwork. But it was clear from his letters Mr Herbert was not longing for her. She was too proud to go home when she was not wanted. In a clumsy attempt to stir up his jealousy and make herself desired she wrote the following:

  ‘It’s topping now; the hotels are packed. Nobody has any brains, which is a bit of a relief. Some of the women are awfully good-looking, and there are one or two really smart men. It’s rather a blessing to see a person who goes to a decent tailor again. Here are some snaps of Captain Stokes and me. We’ve done a lot of golf and tennis together. He’s riding in the Steeplechase this week. He’s first-class; so he is at golf and tennis. He’s just my sort. Of course we see a lot of one another.’

  She had meant to dilate on Captain Stokes’s admiration – he was the principal aspirant at the moment – but when it came to the point her pen refused to say anything more. She was perfectly aware of her beauty, but she had never set much value on admiration, and scorned any one who paraded it.

  The snapshots had trodden roughshod on Kathy’s beauty. She came out with a huge, triangular, Daily Mirror smile, but Captain Stokes’s perfections of figure, face, and attire were preserved almost intact. He looked worthless, but what did that matter?

  Mr Herbert had been disturbed in his supercilious childhood by compliments on his beauty. He had decided that he grew
up extremely ugly, and had never thought further on the matter. He found himself wishing for his good looks back to compete with Captain Stokes. He was ashamed, but that sentence about the tailor rankled. Of course he would have been the same to Kathy if he had dressed in tatters. What sentiment she had for Captain Stokes depended on his faultless appearance. Mr Herbert imagined he had ceased to love Kathy, but his feelings were all raw about her, everything wounded him.

  A letter from Lesbia by the same post did not mend matters. It was written in a spirit of aimless petty malice.

  ‘I really feel I have undertaken a rather heavy job in chaperoning your gay and giddy wife. My hands are quite full with her affairs, not to mention my own, and we are quite the sensation this season. Seriously, I rather wish she would not go the pace quite so much. The present one and only is not exactly your sort. I’ve spoken once or twice, but without much effect. Still, no doubt, it will turn out all right in the end, and there’s safety in numbers.’

  Mr Herbert knew Lesbia’s faculty for making capital out of what was harmless. He had no real distrust of Kathy. It would have been impossible for him to spy on her or accuse her causelessly, but he made up his mind that it would be well for him to go out to Monte Carlo. At present it was impossible, for he had had an accident and injured his knee, which meant weeks of inaction. He would pay no attention to Lesbia’s letter, but he read Kathy’s again and again. What should he answer? How had he dared to take upon himself the happiness of a young girl brought up like Kathy? Her natural affinities were with the Captain Stokes of this world. He could provide her with nothing she wanted. He was a wet blanket in what, no doubt, were legitimate pleasures if one had a mind that way. An unclerical desire to beat Captain Stokes in a steeplechase flashed through him. Why, why had he married her? He felt a shiver of shy distaste at the prospect of meeting her in Monte Carlo.

  On the same morning that Mr Herbert received Kathy’s and Lesbia’s letters Canon Jocelyn suggested that Mary should go to Lanchester.

  ‘I wanted to ask Herbert what his reading of that passage in Tertullian is. I wonder if you could copy it down for me. I rather thought he would have been calling here. It seems a long time since we saw him.’

  ‘Of course he hasn’t so much time now there’s a Mrs Herbert,’ said Mary.

  She felt compunction that she had done so little to keep her promise to Lady Meryton; she was glad of a definite reason for going to Lanchester.

  The parlourmaid said Mrs Herbert was away, but Mr Herbert was in the study. She entered. He did not look pleased to see her. She missed the warmth which used to welcome her.

  He said, ‘My wife is away; the servant should have told you.’ He spoke almost rudely.

  She uttered a few commonplaces, which he answered briefly.

  She told her errand at once. The absurdity of such good friends having nothing but a hurried business interview simply because he was married made her delay a little, and endeavour to renew their old cordiality. She made a small joke; he let it drop. There was not a trace of his former playfulness. He did not seem to be listening to her; it was useless to stay.

  She had risen and put out her hand in farewell when he said suddenly, ‘Miss Jocelyn, sometimes one makes great mistakes in life. She made one, and I have made one.’

  He had not meant to utter a word of his trouble, but the sudden longing came. He told himself Mary in her wisdom might help him and Kathy.

  She trembled; she could hardly answer him. She said, ‘Do not what are mistakes at first often turn out right in the end?’

  ‘Do they?’ he answered bitterly.

  She looked at him. Some people can be unhappily married and injure their knee and have severe sciatica into the bargain, and remain stout and hearty. Mr Herbert looked white and starved. Indeed without Kathy’s care his meals had been turning more and more into a bit of bread and cheese in the study. ‘I’ll ring for it when I want it’; and his eyes, which were naturally sad, looked almost tragic in their distress.

  Mary wanted to support him, but that glance at him broke her down. She cried out, ‘Oh, I cannot bear it if you’re unhappy,’ and burst into tears.

  He put his hand on her shoulder, and said, ‘Don’t, Mary, don’t cry.’ Their eyes met. Before they knew what was happening he kissed her.

  A thrill of indescribable happiness passed through her. He held her in his arms, repeating, ‘Mary, Mary, Mary.’

  She wanted to say something; for a few seconds she simply could not speak. She did not know what she wanted to say. She began, ‘Oh –’ She got no further. She had no idea what rapture she put into the one word. She came to herself; she walked to the door, and said, ‘I must go.’

  He turned away from her and made no answer.

  She went out of the house. Neither he nor she noticed, in spite of a violent wind, the rain was pouring down. She ran as hard as she could. She was never a graceful runner, now agitation made her clumsier. Mr Herbert, watching her from the study window with his eye gleaming, thought her the most exquisite spectacle. As she ran home the scene was already in a haze. She could hardly remember what had taken place. She could only feel that poets, far from exaggerating, had never done justice to love. He, being what he was, cared for her. She was exalted into an ecstasy, but as an excellent clergyman’s daughter, with duty paramount, her ecstasy took the form of good resolutions. The thought of him should make her do her ordinary work better.

  ‘It shall,’ she said to herself again and again.

  In the evening a letter for her came from Mr Herbert with the passage of Tertullian for her father. She had forgotten the object of her visit.

  Friday, Feb. 4th. – I cannot tell you how I reproach myself for this afternoon. I had avoided meeting you. You must know. [This he wrote and scratched out. Such a fall from his customary perfection of neatness marked the intensity of his agitation.] I had no intention, but at the moment I was overmastered. Your father in his note asks to see me. You will judge whether I had better come. There is only one thing to be done: the thought of you must make me face life with a better heart. With that remembrance I should be less fretful and complaining, and not so contemptibly inconsiderate for her. – Your

  G.R.H.

  This letter, the one love-letter of her life, could not be read often enough. There was one word she paused over each time with an exquisite thrill, ‘Your’ G.R.H. He had intended that the letter should end with the plain signature, but that word ‘your’ crept in. There was a mad delight that for that one moment in his life he could feel he belonged to her, not all his resolution made him scratch it out. She wrote an answer. ‘Never, never regret what you did. It is the whole world to me. – Your own MARY.’ She burnt it. It must be all or nothing; she could not trust herself. What she sent was, ‘DEAR MR HERBERT – I hope you will come now and then and see my father. Thursday is the day that will suit us best. – Yours sincerely, M. N. JOCELYN.’ On Thursdays she visited at the Cayley Infirmary.

  She had determined never to see him if she could help it; never write to him or speak to him. In that case, might she not indulge herself by meeting him in thought? She brooded over the letter she did not send him. She composed many poems about him. Night after night she thought of him, imagining, with the terror of love, every sort of disaster and of death for him. She dreamt of him also, waking up in an uncontrollable torrent of tears because he was dead in some foreign country.

  At first her meditations were a kind of gazing on his portrait. After a while she built castles. She described them to herself as concerning some one else, but she knew from her excited joy she was thinking of pleasure she was ashamed to own. She would picture Kathy’s death. After a while she went further and pictured her going away with another man, Mr Herbert’s freedom, and their marriage. If she had been told a month ago she would have desired the death, still more the sin of another woman, she would not have believed it. Such desires would have been impossible to her mother. The spirit of the times was making itself felt in
her. She wished she had spoken to him when he kissed her. She had accepted all and risked nothing. She recoiled from herself, but she continued her day-dreams. She had often acted suddenly on wrong impulses. She had never deliberately pursued a course contrary to her sense of right, but some bonds seemed to have snapped within her. She longed for help; she felt incapable of standing up against herself.

  Lady Meryton’s words often occurred to her. ‘Little Kathy has been so lonely. I cannot tell you the comfort it is to have her in the keeping of a good man, who loves her as Mr Herbert does, and whom she herself loves with her whole heart.’ Mary assured herself many times that now they did not love one another, but she never satisfied herself. Sometimes when she lay awake in excitement, she could see Kathy’s face looking mournfully at her.

  She knew what Lady Meryton’s feelings would be. Lady Meryton in general regarded the lapses of men rather as a matter of course, sometimes with amusement. She was even lenient towards the indiscretions of good-looking young matrons, though it was a satisfaction to her that the morals, though not the jokes, of her immediate circle were irreproachable. The questionable jokes she placidly endured – she could not participate in them – with, ‘You young things really are outrageous.’ They would have frozen old Mrs Herbert with repulsion. But, in spite of all this latitude, Mary knew no mercy would be felt for a middle-aged married clergyman who had been disloyal to his wife; less than none for a middle-aged spinster.

  Dora was abroad just then. Gertrude’s husband got an appointment at Hong Kong. Dora went to help with the children on the voyage; she had little time for letters. Mary was glad; she shrank from the thought of Dora. She knew she would have had sympathy from Brynhilda. She could imagine with what pleasant, easy principles of guidance Brynhilda would have supported her inclination. She shrank from that too.

  One evening she wrote to Brynhilda telling her all. She put the case in its most favourable light, moistening the paper with tears of self-pity. When she had finished, she tore the letter up. She did wisely. If she had made Brynhilda the recipient of her vacillation, passion, repentance, and complaints, Brynhilda, though interested first of all, would soon have sickened of her; strong feeling repelled her.