Kitabı oxu: «Modern Broods; Or, Developments Unlooked For», səhifə 4

CHAPTER VI—THE FRESCOES OF ST. KENELM’S

 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed
Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay.—Tennyson.
 

The deferred expedition to Rockquay also began, Magdalen driving Vera and Thekla.  She was pleased with her visitors, and hoped that the girls would feel the same, but Vera began by declaring that that Miss Merrifield was not pretty.

“Not exactly, but it is an honest, winning face.”

“So broad, and such a wide mouth, and no style at all, as I should have expected after all that about lords and ladies!  An old blue serge and sailor hat!”

“You don’t expect people to drive about the country in silk attire?”

“Well, perhaps she is not out!  Sister, do you know I am seventeen?”

“Yes, my dear, certainly.”

“Oh, look, look, there’s a dear little calf!” broke in Thekla, “and, oh! what horns the cows have.  I shall be afraid to go near them!  Was it only a sham mad bull when the little girl ran into the pond?”

“It was the railway whistle, and she had never heard it in the fields.  She rushed away in a great fright and ran into the pond, full of horrible black mud.  The gentlemen heard the scream and dragged her out, and it would have all been fun and a good story if she had not been so much afraid of the French lady’s maid.  It is curious how the sight of those brown eyes brought the whole scene back to me.  We all grew so fond of Mysie Merrifield in the few days we spent together, and she is very little altered.”

“Is she out?” asked Vera once more.

“Oh, yes, she cannot be less than twenty.”

“And I am seventeen,” said Vera, returning to the charge.  “I ought to be out.”

“If there are nice invitations, I shall be quite ready to accept them for you.”

“But I am too old for the schoolroom and lessons and masters.”

“Too old or too wise?” said Magdalen laughing.

“I have got into the highest form in everything.  Every one at Filston of my age is leaving off all the bother.”

“Not Agatha.”

“Oh, but Agatha is—!”

“Is what?

“Agatha is awfully clever, and wants to be something!”

“Something?  But do you want to evaporate?  To be nothing at all, I mean,” said Magdalen, seeing her first word was bewildering, and Thekla put in—

“Flapsy couldn’t go off in steam, could she?  Isn’t that evaporating?”

“I think what she wants is to be a young lady at large!  Eh, Vera?  Only I don’t quite see how that is to be managed, even if it is quite a worthy ambition.  But we will talk that over another time.  Do you see how pretty those sails are crossing the bay?”

Neither girl seemed to have eyes for the lovely blue of the sea in the spring sunshine, nor the striking forms of ruddy peaks of rock that enclosed it.  Uneducated eyes, she thought, as she slowly manœuvred the pony down the steep hill before coming to the Rockstone Cliff Road.  The other two girls were following her direction across field and road, and making their observations.

“A dose of lords and ladies,” said Agatha.

“I thought they were rather nice,” said Paula.

“I see how it will be,” said Agatha.  “They will patronise the M.A. as Lady Somebody’s old governess, and she will fawn upon them and run after them, and we shall be on those terms.”

“But I thought you meant to be a governess?”

“I shall make my own line.  I know how swells look on a governess of the ancien régime, and how they will introduce her as the kindly old goody who mends my little lady’s frock!”

“The girl had not any airs,” said Paula.  “She told me about the churches down there in the town—not the ones we went to on Sunday; but there’s one that is very low indeed, and St. Andrew’s, which is their parish church, was suiting the moderate high church folk; and there is St. Kenelm’s, very high indeed, Mr. Flight’s, I think I have heard of him, and it is just the right thing, I am sure.”

“Don’t flatter yourself that the M.A. will let you have much pleasure in it.  It is just what people of her sort think dangerous.”

“But do you know, Nag, I do believe that it is the church that Hubert Delrio was sent down to study and make a design for.”

“Whew!  There will be a pretty kettle of fish if he comes down about it!  That is, if he and Flapsy have not forgotten all about the ice and the forfeits at Warner’s Grange, as is devoutly to be hoped.”

“Do you hope it really, Nag, for Flapsy really was very much—did care very much.”

“I have no great faith in Flapsy’s affections surviving the contact with greater swells.”

“Poor Hubert!”

“Perhaps his will not survive common sense.  I am sure I hope not for both their sakes.”

“But, Nag, it would be very horrid of them if they had no constancy,” declared the more romantic Paula.

“It will be a regular mess if they do have it, and bring on horrid scrapes with the M.A.  Just think.  It is all very well to say she has known Hubert all his life; but she can’t treat him as a gentleman, or she won’t.  She has a position to keep up with all these swells, and he will be only the man who paints the church!  I only hope he will not come.  There will be nothing but bother if he does, unless they both have more sense and less constancy than you expect.  Well, this really is a splendid view.  Old Mr. Delrio would be wild about it.”

Here the steep and stony hill brought them into contact with the pony carriage, nor were there any more confidential conversations.  The pony was put up at the top of the hill leading from Rockstone to Rockquay, and thence the party walked down for Miss Prescott to make a few purchases, and, moreover, to begin by gratifying Thekla’s reiterated entreaty for a bicycle, though, as she was unpractised and growing so fast, it was decided to be better to hire a tricycle for practice, and one bicycle on which Vera and Paula might learn the art.

The choice was a long one, and left only just time for a peep into the two churches and a study of the hours of their services.  St. Kenelm’s was decided to be a “perfect gem,” ornaments, beauty, and all, a little overdone, perhaps, in Magdalen’s opinion, but perfectly “the thing” in her sisters’.

This St. Andrew’s fulfilled to her mind, being handsome, reverent, and decorous in all the arrangements, while to the younger folk it was “all very well,” but quite of the old times.  Little did they know of “old times” beyond the quarter century of their birth!  Poor old Arnscombe might feebly represent them, but even that had struggled out of the modern “dark ages.”  Magdalen had decided on talking to Agatha and seeing how far she understood the situation, and she came to her room to put her in possession now that Mrs. Best had left the guest chamber free.

“This is your home when you are here.  You must put up any belongings that you do not want to take to St. Robert’s.”

“Thank you; it is a nice pleasant room.”

“And, my dear, may I stay a few minutes?  I think we had better have a talk, and quite understand one another.”

“Very well.”

It was not quite encouraging, but Agatha really wished to hear, and she advanced a wicker chair for her elder sister, and sat down on the window seat.

“Thank you, my dear; I do not know how much Mrs. Best has told you.”

“She told us that you had always been very good to us, and that you had been our guardian ever since we lost our mother.”

“Did she tell you what we have of our own that our father could leave us?”

“No.”

“What amounts to about £40 a year apiece.  Mrs. Best in her very great goodness has taken you four for that amount, though her proper charge is eighty.”

“And she never let any one guess it,” said Agatha, more warmly, “for fear we might feel the difference.  How very good of her.”

She seemed more impressed by Mrs. Best’s bounty than by Magdalen’s, but probably she took the latter as a matter of course and obligation; besides, the sense of it involved a sum in subtraction.  However, this was not observed by her sister, who did not want to feel obliged.

“Now that this property has come in,” continued Magdalen, “we can live comfortably together upon it for the present, and your expenses at Oxford can be paid, as well as masters in what may be needful for the others, and an allowance for dress.  I suppose you will want the £40 while you are at St. Robert’s, besides the regular expenses?”

“Thank you,” warmly said.

“But I want you to understand, as I think you do, about the future, for you must be prepared to be independent.”

“I should have wished for a career if I had been a millionaire,” said Agatha.

“I believe you would, and it is well that you should have every advantage.  But the others.  If I left you all this property, it would not be a comfortable maintenance divided among four; and you would not like to be dependent, or to leave the last who might not marry to a pittance alone.”

“Certainly not,” said Agatha, with flashing eyes.

“Then you see that it is needful that you should be able to do something for yourselves.  I can give one of you at a time the power of going to the University.”

“I don’t think Vera or Polly would wish for that,” said Agatha.

“Well, what would they wish for?  I can do something towards preparing them, and I can teach Thekla, but I should like to know what you think would be best for them.”

“Vera’s strong point is music,” said Agatha.  “She cares for that more than anything else, and Mr. Selby thought she had talent and might sing, only she must not strain her voice.  I don’t believe she will do much in any other line.  And Polly—she is very good, and always does her best because it is right, but I don’t think anything is any particular pleasure to her, except needlework.  She is always wanting to make things for the church.  She really has a better voice than Flapsy, and can play better, but that is because she is so much steadier.”

“Seventeen and sixteen, are they not?”

“Yes; but Polly seems ever so much older than Flapsy.”

“Mrs. Best showed me that she had higher marks.  She must be a thoroughly good girl.”

“That she is,” cried Agatha, warmly.  “She never had any task for getting into mischief.”

“Well, they are both so young that a little study with me will be good for them, and there will be time to judge what they are fit for.  In art I think they are not much interested.”

“Paula draws pretty well, but Vera hates it.  Old Mr. Delrio is always cross to her now; but—” Agatha stopped short, remembering that there might be a reason why the drawing master no longer made her a favourite pupil.

“Do you think him a good judge?”

“Yes; Mrs. Best thinks much of him.  He had an artist’s education, and sometimes has a picture in the Water Colour Exhibition; but I believe he did not find it answer, and so he took our school of art.”

Agatha had talked sensibly throughout the conference, but not confidentially; much, in fact, as she would have discussed her sisters with Mrs. Best.  She was glad that at the moment the sound of the piano set them listening.  She did not feel bound to mention to “sister” any more than she would to the head mistress, that when staying at Mr. Waring’s country house a sort of semi-flirtation had begun with Hubert Delrio, a young man to whose education his father had sacrificed a great deal, and who was a well-informed and intelligent gentleman in all his ways.  He had engaged himself to the great firm of Eccles and Beamster, ecclesiastical decorators, and might be employed upon the intended frescoes of St. Kenelm’s Church.

Ought “Sister” to be told?

But Agatha thought it would be betraying confidence to “set on the dragon”; and besides nobody ever could tell how much Vera’s descriptions meant.  She knew already that the sweetest countenance in the world and the loveliest dark eyes belonged to a fairly good-looking young man, and she could also suspect that the “squeeze of my hand” might be an ordinary shake, and the kneeling before the one he loved best might have been only the customary forfeit.  On the whole, it would be better to let things take their course; it was not likely that either was seriously smitten, and it was more than probable that Hubert Delrio would be too busy to look after a young lady now in a different stratum, and that Vera would have found another sweetest countenance in the world.

All this passed through her mind while Magdalen listened, and pronounced—

“That is brilliant—a clever touch—only—”

“Yes, that is Vera—I know what you are noticing, but this is only amusement; she is not taking pains.”

“It is very clever—especially as probably she has no music.  But there—”

“Polly’s?  Oh, yes; she is really steady-going.  That is just what you will find her.  This is a charming room, sister; thank you very much.”

“Make it your home, my dear.”

But in reality they were not much nearer together than before the conference.

CHAPTER VII—SISTER AND SISTERS

 
“Have we not all, amid earth’s petty strife,
Some pure ideal of a nobler life?
We lost it in the daily jar and fact,
And now live idly in a vain regret.”
 

Adelaide Procter.

Agatha was so much absorbed in her preparation for St. Robert’s that she did not pay very much heed to her younger sisters or their relations with Magdalen.  She had induced them to submit to the regulation of their studies with her pretty much as if she had been Mrs. Best, looking upon her, however, as something out of date, and hardly up to recent opinions, not realising that, of late, Magdalen’s world had been a wide one.

Perhaps, in Agatha’s feelings, there was an undercurrent inherited from her mother, who had always felt the better connected, better educated step-daughter, a sort of alien element, exciting jealousy by her companionship to her father, and after his death, apt to be regarded as a scarcely willing, and perhaps censorious pay-master.

“Your sister might call it too expensive.”  “I must ask your sister.”  “No, your sister does not think she can afford it.  I am sure she might.  Her expenses must be nothing.”  All this had been no preparation for full sisterly confidence with “Sister,” even when a sort of grudging gratitude was extracted, and Agatha had been quite old enough to imbibe an undefined antagonism, though, being a sensible girl, she repressed the manifestations, kept her sisters in order and taught them not to love but to submit, and herself remained in a state of civil coolness, without an approach beyond formal signs of affection, and such confidence.

It was the more disappointing to Magdalen, because Agatha and Paulina both showed so much unconscious likeness to their father, not only in features, but in little touches of gesture and manner.  She longed to pet them, and say, “Oh, my dears, how like papa!” but the only time she attempted it, she was met by a severe, uncomprehending look and manner.

And Agatha went away to Oxford without any thawing on her part.

The only real ground that had been gained was with little Thekla, who was soon very fond of “Sister,” and depended on her more and more for sympathy and amusement.  Girls of seventeen and sixteen do not delight in the sports of nine-year-olds, except in the case of special pets and protégées, and Thekla was snubbed when a partner was required to assist in doll’s dramas, or in evening games.  Only “Sister” would play unreservedly with her, unaware or unheeding that this was looked on as keeping up the métier of governess.  Indeed, Thekla’s reports of schoolroom murmurs and sneers about the M.A. had to be silenced.  Peace and good will could best be guarded by closed ears.  Yet, even then, Thekla missed child companionship, and, even more, competition, the lack of which rendered her dull and listless over her lessons, and when reproved, she would beg to be sent to school, or, at least, to attend the High School on her bicycle.  Not admiring the manners or the attainments of the specimens before her, Magdalen felt bound to refuse, and the sisters’ pity kept alive the grievance.

She had, however, decided on granting the bicycles.  She had found plenty of use for her own, for it was possible with prudent use of it, avoiding the worst parts of the road, to be at early celebration at St. Andrew’s, and get to the Sunday school at Arnscombe afterwards; and Paulina, with a little demur, decided on giving her assistance there.

At a Propagation of the Gospel meeting at the town hall, the Misses Prescott were introduced to the Reverend Augustine Flight, of St. Kenelm’s, and his mother, Lady Flight, who sat next to Magdalen, and began to talk eagerly of the designs for the ceiling of their church, and the very promising young artist who was coming down from Eccles and Beamster to undertake the work.

The church had not yet been seen, and the conversation ended in the sisters coming back to tea, at which Paula was very happy, for the talk had something of the rather exclusive High Church tone that was her ideal.  She had seen it in books, but had never heard it before in real life, and Vera was in a restless state, longing to hear whether the promising young artist was really Hubert Delrio, and hoping, while she believed that she feared, that she should blush when she heard his name.  However, she did not, though Mr. Flight unfolded his rough plans for the frescoes, which were to be of virgin and child martyrs, Magdalen hesitating a little over those that seemed too legendary; while old Lady Flight, portly and sentimental, declared them so sweet and touching.  After tea, they went on to the church.  Just at the entrance of the porch, Vera clutched at Paula, with the whisper, “Wasn’t that Wilfred Merrifield?  There, crossing?”

“Nonsense,” was Paula’s reply, as she lingered over the illuminated list of the hours of services displayed at the door, and feeling as if she had attained dreamland, as she saw two fully habited Sisters enter, and bend low as they did so.

The church was very elaborately ornamented, small, but showing that no expense had been spared, though there was something that did not quite accord with Magdalen’s ideas of the best taste; so that when they went out she answered Paula’s raptures of admiration somewhat coldly, or what so appeared to the enthusiastic girl.

The next day, meeting Miss Mohun over cutting out for a working party, Magdalen asked her about the Flights and St. Kenelm’s.

“He is an excellent good man,” said Jane Mohun, “and has laid out immense sums on the church and parish.”

“All his own?  Not subscription?”

“No.  He is the only son of a very rich City man, a brewer, and came here with his mother as a curate, as a good place for health.  They found a miserable little corrugated-iron place, called the Kennel Chapel, and worked it up, raising the people, and doing no end of good till it came to be a district, as St. Kenelm’s.”

“Very ornamental?”

“Oh, very,” said Jane, warming out of caution, as she felt she might venture showing city gorgeousness all over.  “But it is infinitely to his credit.  He had a Fortunatus’ purse, and was a spoilt child—not in the bad sense—but with an utterly idolising mother, and he tried a good many experiments that made our hair stand on end; but he has sobered down, and is a much wiser man now—though I would not be bound to admire all he does.”

“I see there are Sisters?  Do they belong to his arrangements?”

“Yes.  They are what my brother calls Cousins of Mercy.  The elder one has tried two or three Sisterhoods, and being dissatisfied with all the rules, I fancy she has some notion of trying to set up one on her own account at Mr. Flight’s.  They are both relations of his mother, and are really one of his experiments—fancy names and fancy rules, of course.  I believe the young one wanted to call herself Sister Philomena, but that he could not stand.  So they act as parish women here, and they do it very well.  I liked Sister Beata when I have come in contact with her, and I am sure she is an excellent nurse.  They will do your nieces no harm, though I don’t like the irregular.”

Of this assurance Magdalen felt very glad, when at the door of the parish room, where the ladies were to hold a working party for the missions, Carrigaboola Missions at Albertstown, she and her nieces were introduced to the two ladies in hoods and veils; and Paula’s eyes sparkled with delight as she settled into a chair next to Sister Mena.  She looked as happy as Vera looked bored!  Conversation was not possible while a missionary memoir was being read aloud, but the history of Mother Constance, once Lady Herbert Somerville, but then head at Dearport, and founder of the Daughter Sisterhood at Carrigaboola.  To the Merrifields it was intensely interesting, and also to Magdalen; but all the time she could see demonstrations passing between Paula and Sister Mena, a nice-looking girl, much embellished by the setting of the hood and veil, as if the lending of a pair of scissors or the turning of a hem were an act of tender admiration.  So sweet a look came out on Paula’s face that she longed to awaken the like.  Vera meantime looked as if her only consolation lay in the neighbourhood of a window, whence she could see up the street, as soon as she had found whispers to Mysie Merrifield treated as impossible.

The party at the Goyle had begun to fall into regular habits, and struggles were infrequent.  There was study in the forenoon, walks or cycle expeditions in the afternoon, varied by the lessons in music and in art, which Vera and Paula attended on Wednesdays and Fridays, the one in the morning, the other after dinner.  It was possible to go to St. Andrew’s matins at ten o’clock before the drawing class, and to St. Kenelm’s at five, after the music was over.  Magdalen, whenever it was possible, went with her sisters on their bicycles to St. Andrew’s, and sometimes devised errands that she might join them at St. Kenelm’s, but neither could always be done by the head of the household.  And she could perceive that her company was not specially welcome.

Valetta, the only one of the Clipstone family whose drawing was worth cultivating, used to ride into Rockstone, escorted by her brother Wilfred, who was in course of “cramming” with a curate on his way to his tutor, and Vera found in casual but well-cultivated meetings and partings, abundant excitement in “nods and becks and wreathed smiles,” and now and then in the gift of a flower.

Paula on the other hand found equal interest and delight in meetings with Sister Mena, especially after a thunderstorm had driven the two to take refuge at what the Sisters called “the cell of St. Kenelm,” and tea had unfolded their young simple hearts to one another!  Magdalen had called on the Sisters and asked them to tea at the Goyle, and there had come to the conclusion that Sister Beata was an admirable, religious, hardworking woman, of strong opinions, and not much cultivated, with a certain provincial twang in her voice.  She had a vehement desire for self-devotion and consecration, but perhaps not the same for obedience.  She sharply criticised all the regulations of the Sisterhoods with which she was acquainted, wore a dress of her own device, and with Sister Mena, a young cousin of her own, meant to make St. Kenelm’s a nucleus for a Sisterhood of her own invention.

Sister Mena had been bred up in a Sisterhood’s school, from five years old and upwards, and had no near relatives.  Mr. Flight was Saint, Pope and hero to both, and Mena knew little beyond the horizon of St. Kenelm’s, but she and Paula were fascinated with one another; and Magdalen saw more danger in interfering than in acquiescing, though she gave no consent to Paulina’s aspirations after admission into the perfect Sisterhood that was to be.