CHAPTER V
I
Mr. Manners sat in his parlour ten days after the beginning of Lent,full of his Sunday dinner and of perplexing thoughts all at once. He hadeaten well and heartily after his week of spare diet, and then, while inhigh humour with all the world, first his wife and then his daughter hadlaid before him such revelations that all the pleasure of digestion wasgone. It was but three minutes ago that Marjorie had fled from him in atorrent of tears, for which he could not see himself responsible, sincehe had done nothing but make the exclamations and comments that shouldbe expected of a father in such a case.
The following were the points for his reflection--to begin with thosethat touched him less closely.
First that his friend Mr. Audrey, whom he had always looked upon withreverence and a kind of terror because of his hotness in matters ofpolitics and religion, had capitulated to the enemy and was to go tochurch at Easter. Mr. Manners himself had something of timidity in hisnature: he was conservative certainly, and practised, when he couldwithout bringing himself into open trouble, the old religion in which hehad been brought up. He, like the younger generation, had been educatedat Derby Grammar School, and in his youth had sat with his parents inthe nave of the old Cluniac church of St. James to hear mass. He hadthen entered his father's office in Derby, about the time that theReligious Houses had fallen, and had transferred the scene of hisworship to St. Peter's. At Queen Mary's accession, he had stood, withmild but genuine enthusiasm, in his lawyer's gown, in the train of thesheriff who proclaimed her in Derby market-place; and stood in thecrowd, with corresponding dismay, six years later to shout for QueenElizabeth. Since that date, for the first eleven years he had gone, asdid other Catholics, to his parish church secretly, thankful that therewas no doubt as to the priesthood of his parson, to hear the Englishprayers; and then, to do him justice, though he heard with somethingresembling consternation the decision from Rome that compromise mustcease and that, henceforth, all true Catholics must withdraw themselvesfrom the national worship, he had obeyed without even a serious momentof consideration. He had always feared that it might be so,understanding that delay in the decision was only caused by the hopethat even now the breach might not be final or complete; and so wasbetter prepared for the blow when it came. Since that time he had heardmass when he could, and occasionally even harboured priests, urgedthereto by his wife and daughter; and, for the rest, still went intoDerby for three or four days a week to carry on his lawyer's business,with Mr. Biddell his partner, and had the reputation of a sound andcareful man without bigotry or passion.
It was, then, a shock to his love of peace and serenity, to hear thatyet another Catholic house had fallen, and that Mr. Audrey, one of hisclients, could no longer be reckoned as one of his co-religionists.
The next point for his reflection was that Robin was refusing to followhis father's example; the third, that somebody must harbour the boy overEaster, and that, in his daughter's violently expressed opinion, andwith his wife's consent, he, Thomas Manners, was the proper person to doit. Last, that it was plain that there was something between hisdaughter and this boy, though what that was he had been unable tounderstand. Marjorie had flown suddenly from the room just as he wasbeginning to put his questions.
It is no wonder, then, that his peace of mind was gone. Not only werelarge principles once more threatened--considerations of religion andloyalty, but also those small and intimate principles which, so far morethan great ones, agitate the mind of the individual. He did not wish tolose a client; yet neither did he wish to be unfriendly to a youngconfessor for the faith. Still less did he wish to lose his daughter,above all to a young man whose prospects seemed to be vanishing. Hewondered whether it would be prudent to consult Mr. Biddell on thepoint....
* * * * *
He was a small and precise man in his body and face, as well as in hisdress; his costume was, of course, of black; but he went so far as towear black buckles, too, on his shoes, and a black hilt on his sword.His face was little and anxious; his eyebrows were perpetually arched,as if in appeal, and he was accustomed, when in deep thought, to movehis lips as if in a motion of tasting. So, then, he sat before his fireto-day after dinner, his elbow on the table where his few books lay, hisfeet crossed before him, his cup of drink untouched at his side; andmeantime he tasted continually with his lips, as if better to appreciatethe values and significances of the points for his consideration.
* * * * *
It would be about half an hour later that the door opened once more andMarjorie came in again.
She was in her fine dress to-day--fine, that is, according to theexigencies of the time and place, though sober enough if for atown-house--in a good blue silk, rather dark, with a little ruff, withlace ruffles at her wrists, and a quilted petticoat, and silverbuckles. For she was a gentleman's daughter, quite clearly, and not ayeoman's, and she must dress to her station. Her face was very pale andquite steady. She stood opposite her father.
"Father," she said, "I am very sorry for having behaved like a goose.You were quite right to ask those questions, and I have come back toanswer them."
He had ceased tasting as she came in. He looked at her timidly and yetwith an attempt at severity. He knew what was due from him as a father.But for the present he had forgotten what questions they were; his mindhad been circling so wildly.
"You are right to come back," he said, "you should not have left me so."
"I am very sorry," she said again.
"Well, then--you tell me that Mr. Robin has nowhere else to go."
She flushed a little.
"He has ten places to go to. He has plenty of friends. But none have theright that we have. He is a neighbour; it was to me, first of all, thathe told the trouble."
Then he remembered.
"Sit down," he said. "I must understand much better first. I do notunderstand why he came to you first. Why not, if he must come to thishouse at all--why not to me? I like the lad; he knows that well enough."
He spoke with an admirable dignity, and began to feel more happy inconsequence.
She had sat down as he told her, on the other side of the table; but hecould not see her face.
"It would have been better if he had, perhaps," she said. "But--"
"Yes? What 'But' is that?"
Then she faced him, and her eyes were swimming.
"Father, he told me first because he loves me, and because I love him."
He sat up. This was speaking outright what she had only hinted atbefore. She must have been gathering her resolution to say this, whileshe had been gone. Perhaps she had been with her mother. In that case hemust be cautious....
"You mean--"
"I mean just what I say. We love one another, and I am willing to be hiswife if he desires it--and with your permission. But--"
He waited for her to go on.
"Another 'But'!" he said presently, though with increasing mildness.
"I do not think he will desire it after a while. And ... and I do notknow what I wish. I am torn in two."
"But you are willing?"
"I pray for it every night," she cried piteously. "And every morning Ipray that it may not be so."
She was staring at him as if in agony, utterly unlike what he had lookedfor in her. He was completely bewildered.
"I do not understand one word--"
Then she threw herself at his knees and seized his hands; her face wasall torn with pain.
"And I cannot explain one word.... Father, I am in misery. You must prayfor me and have patience with me.... I must wait ... I must wait and seewhat God wishes."
"Now, now...."
"Father, you will trust me, will you not?"
"Listen to me. You must tell me thus. Do you love this boy?"
"Yes, yes."
"And you have told him so? He asked you, I mean?"
"Yes."
He put her hands firmly from his knee.
&nb
sp; "Then you must marry him, if matters can be arranged. It is what Ishould wish. But I do not know--"
"Father, you do not understand--you do not understand. I tell you I amwilling enough, if he wishes it ... if he wishes it."
Again she seized his hands and held them. And again bewilderment camedown on him like a cloud.
"Father! you must trust me. I am willing to do everything that I ought."(She was speaking firmly and confidently now.) "If he wishes to marryme, I will marry him. I love him dearly.... But you must say nothing tohim, not one word. My mother agrees with this. She would have told youherself; but I said that I would--that I must be brave.... I must learnto be brave.... I can tell you no more."
He lifted her hands and stood up.
"I see that I understand nothing that you say after all," he said with afine fatherly dignity. "I must talk with your mother."
II
He found his wife half an hour later in the ladies' parlour, which heentered with an air as of nothing to say. With the same air ofdisengagement he made sure that Marjorie was nowhere in the room, andpresently sat down.
Mrs. Manners was well past her prime. She was over forty years old andlooked over fifty, though she retained the air of distinction whichMarjorie had derived from her; but her looks belied her, and she had notone tithe of the subtlety and keenness of her daughter. She was, infact, more suited to be wife to her husband than mother to her daughter.
"You have come about the maid," she said instantly, with disconcertingpenetration and frankness. "Well, I know no more than you. She will tellme nothing but what she has told you. She has some fiddle-faddle in herhead, as maids will, but she will have her way with us, I suppose."
She drew her needle through the piece of embroidery which she permittedto herself for an hour on Sundays, knotted the thread and bit it off.Then she regarded her husband.
"I.... I will have no fiddle-faddle in such a matter," he saidcourageously. "Maids did not rule their parents when I was a boy; theyobeyed them or were beaten."
His wife laughed shortly; and began to thread her needle again.
He began to explain. The match was in all respects suitable. Certainlythere were difficulties, springing from the very startling events atMatstead, and it well might be that a man who would do as Mr. Audrey haddone (or, rather, proposed to do) might show obstinacy in otherdirections too. Therefore there was no hurry; the two were still veryyoung, and it certainly would be wiser to wait for any formal betrothaluntil Robin's future disclosed itself. But no action of Mr. Audrey'sneed delay the betrothal indefinitely; if need were, he, Mr. Manners,would make proper settlements. Marjorie was an only daughter; in fact,she was in some sort an heiress. The Manor would be sufficient for themboth. As to any other difficulties--any of the maidenly fiddle-faddle ofwhich his wife had spoken--this should not stand in the way for aninstant.
His wife laughed again in the same exclamatory manner, when he had doneand sat stroking his knees.
"Why, you understand nothing about it, Mr. Manners," she said, "Did themaid not tell you she would marry him, if he wished it? She told me so."
"Then what is the matter?" he asked.
"I know no more than you."
"Does he not wish it?"
"She says so."
"Then--"
"Yes, that is what I say. And yet that says nothing. There is somethingmore."
"Ask her."
"I have asked her. She bids me wait, as she bids you. It is no good, Mr.Manners. We must wait the maid's time."
He sat, breathing audibly through his nose.
* * * * *
These two were devoted to their daughter in a manner hardly to bedescribed. She was the only one left to them; for the others, of whomtwo had been boys, had died in infancy or childhood; and, in the event,Marjorie had absorbed the love due to them all. She was a strain higherthan themselves, thought her parents, and so pride in her was added tolove. The mother had made incredible sacrifices, first to have hereducated by a couple of old nuns who still survived in Derby, and thento bring her out suitably at Babington House last year. The father hadcordially approved, and joined in the sacrifices, which included anexpenditure which he would not have thought conceivable. The result was,of course, that Marjorie, under cover of a very real dutifulness, ruledboth her parents completely; her mother acknowledged the dominion, atleast, to herself and her husband; her father pretended that he didnot; and on this occasion rose, perhaps, nearer to repudiating it thanever in his life. It seemed to him unbearable to be bidden by hisdaughter, though with the utmost courtesy and affection, to mind his ownbusiness.
So he sat and breathed audibly through his nose, and meditatedrebellion.
* * * * *
"And is the lad to come here for Easter?" he asked at last.
"I suppose so."
"And for how long?"
"So long as the maid appoints."
He breathed louder than ever.
"And, Mr. Manners," continued his wife emphatically, "no word must besaid to him on the matter. The maid is very plain as to that.... Oh! wemust let her have her way."
"Where is she gone?"
She nodded with her head to the window. He went to it and looked out.
* * * * *
It was the little walled garden on which he looked, in which, if he hadbut known it, the lad whom he liked had kissed the maid whom he loved;and there walked the maid, at this moment with her back to him, going upthe central path that was bordered with box. The February sun shone onher as she went, on her hooded head, her dark cloak and her blue dressbeneath. He watched her go up, and drew back a little as she turned, sothat she might not see him watching; and as she came down again he sawthat she held a string of beads in her fingers and was making herdevotions. She was a good girl.... That, at least, was a satisfaction.
Then he turned from the window again.
"Well?" said his wife.
"I suppose it must be as she says."
III
It was an hour before sunset when Marjorie came out again into thewalled garden that had become for her now a kind of sanctuary, and inher hand she carried a letter, sealed and inscribed. On the outside thefollowing words were written:
"To Mr. Robin Audrey. At Matstead.
"Haste, haste, haste."
Within, the sheet was covered from top to bottom with the neatconvent-hand she had learnt from the nuns. The most of it does notconcern us. It began with such words as you would expect from a maid toher lover; it continued to inform him that her parents were willing,and, indeed, desirous, that he should come to them for Easter, and thather father would write a formal letter later to invite him; it was to bewritten from Derby, (this conspirator informed the other), that it mightcause less comment when Mr. Audrey saw it, and was to be expressed interms that would satisfy him. Finally, it closed as it had begun, andwas subscribed by his "loving friend, M. M." One paragraph, however, isworth attention.
"I have told my father and mother, that we love one another, my Robin;and that you have asked me to marry you, and that I have consentedshould you wish to do so when the time comes. They have consented mostwillingly; and so Jesu have you in His keeping, and guide your mindaright."
It was this paragraph that had cost her half of the hour occupied inwriting; for it must be expressed just so and no otherwise; and itswording had cost her agony lest on the one side she should tell him toomuch, and, on the other, too little. And her agony was not yet over; forshe had to face its sending, and the thought of all that it might costher. She was to give it to one of the men who was to leave early forDerby next morning and was to deliver it at Matstead on the road; so shebrought it out now to her sanctuary to spread it, like the old King ofIsrael, before the Lord....
* * * * *
There was a promise of frost in the air to-night. Underfoot the moistureof the path was beginning, not yet to stiffe
n, but rather to withdrawitself; and there was a cold clearness in the air. Over the wall besidethe house, beyond the leafless trees which barred it like prison-bars,burned the sunset, deepening and glowing redder every instant. Yet shefelt nothing of the cold, for a fire was within her as she went again upand down the path on which her father had watched her walk--a fire ofwhich as yet she could not discern the fuel. The love of Robin wasthere--that she knew; and the love of Christ was there--so she thought;and yet where the divine and the human passion mingled, she could nottell; nor whether, indeed, for certain, it were the love of Christ atall, and not a vain imagination of her own as to how Christ, in thiscase, would be loved. Only she knew that across her love for Robin ashadow had fallen; she could scarcely tell when it had first come toher, and whence. Yet it had so come; it had deepened rapidly andstrongly during the mass that Mr. Simpson had said, and, behold! in itsvery darkness there was light. And so it had continued till confusionhad fallen on her which none but Robin could dissolve. It must be hisword finally that must give her the answer to her doubts; and she mustmake it easy for him to give it. He must know, that is, that she lovedhim more passionately than ever, that her heart would break if she hadnot her desire; and yet that she would not hold him back if a love thatwas greater than hers could be for him or his for her, called him toanother wedding than that of which either had yet spoken. A broken heartand God's will done would be better than that God's will should beavoided and her own satisfied.
* * * * *
It was this kind of considerations, therefore, that sent her swiftly toand fro, up and down the path under the darkening sky--if they can becalled considerations which beat on the mind like a clamour of shouting;and, as she went, she strove to offer all to God: she entreated Him todo His will, yet not to break her heart; to break her heart, yet notRobin's; to break both her heart and Robin's, if that Will could nototherwise be served.
Her lips moved now and again as she went; but her eyes were downcast andher face untroubled....
* * * * *
As the bell in the court rang for supper she went to the door and lookedthrough. The man was just saddling up in the stable-door opposite.
"Jack," she called, "here is the letter. Take if safely."
Then she went in to supper.