"I do love motoring," said Mrs. Mercer, "especially on a lovely summer evening like this. I wish we had got a car of our own, Albert."
"My dear, when you married a poor country clergyman," said the Vicar, "you renounced all that sort of thing. We must be content with our one-hoss shay. Some day, perhaps,allthe clergy of the Church of England will be properly paid for devoting their lives to the good of the community, instead of only a few of them. The labourer is worthy of his car. Ha! ha! But I'm afraid it won't happen inourtime, if it ever happens at all. Too many Socialists and Radicals gnashing their teeth at us. In the meantime let's take the little pleasures that come in our way, and not envy those who are better off than we are. We must never forget that there are some who might think they had a right to envy us."
"Oh, yes, dear," said Mrs. Mercer. "Wearevery well off, really. I'm sure I don't envy anybody. And I reallyamenjoying myself now, and am going to, all the evening."
They were on their way to dine with the Pembertons at Grays. As the Vicarage horse was getting a trifletoo aged to be called upon to make an effort of ten miles each way the Vicar had borrowed a car from the Abbey, and was now being carried softly through the country, which was at its most peaceful and soothing on a fine evening of early July, with the hay scenting the air and the sun slanting its rays over the wide and varied landscape.
"Itwaskind of Caroline to let us have the car," said Mrs. Mercer, reverting to the subject a little later. "It would have taken us hours to get there with poor old Tiglath-Pilezer, and I shouldn't have liked tobicycleto dinner at a house like Grays. I'm glad she sent us an open car. One sees the lovely country so much better."
"It's the smallest car they have," said the Vicar; "and I should have preferred a closed one for coming home in. However, we mustn't grumble. It's very kind, as you say, for his rich parishioners to lend their clergyman a car at all."
"I wonder who will be there to-night," said Mrs. Mercer. "Do you think it will be a big dinner-party, Albert? I really think Imustget a new dress, if we are to begin dining out again. I am quite ashamed to appear in this one at the Abbey. I've worn it so often there."
"Mrs. Pemberton asked us in quite an informal way," said the Vicar, ignoring the latter part of his wife's speech. "There may be others there, or there may be just ourselves. I must confess I should rather like to meet a few people from the other side of thecounty. The Pembertons are quite on the edge of our circle, and they're about the only decent people in it."
"Except our own people at Abington," Mrs. Mercer corrected him. "We are very lucky in the Graftons, I must say."
"Yes, I suppose we are, as things go," said the Vicar. "I would rather have had regular country people, though, than rich Londoners. They get absorbed in their friends whom they bring down, and aren't of so much use to their country neighbours as they might be."
"Oh, but Albert, they so often ask us to dine. I'm sure they are very hospitable."
"I don't know that they've asked us so very often. They've asked us very seldom when they've had their smart parties. I suppose, as country bumpkins, we're not good enough. There isn't the intimate air about the house, either, that one might expect. There's a formality. They don't seem to know what to do when one just drops in for a cup of tea, or perhaps just to say something in the morning. They're not used to that sort of thing in London; I know that perfectly well. But they ought to know that it's usual in the country, and not make such a business of it. I hate always being announced by that pompous old Jarvis. One ought to be able to run in and out of the house, just as one does, for instance, with the Walters. They never do it with us either. It's chiefly owing to Miss Waterhouse. A governess, as I suppose she was, and been put into a position that's been too much for her!There isn't thefriendlinessI like to see in young girls."
"Perhaps they're rather afraid of you, dear. They always give me quite a nice welcome, if I happen to go there without you, which I don't very often do. And they do run in and out of the cottage, and Mollie goes there. I'm glad they have taken such a fancy to Mollie. She's come out wonderfully since they made a friend of her."
"She has come out a little too much for my taste. I feared it would turn her head to be taken notice of, and I ventured to give a friendly word of warning, which was not received as it should have been—by Miss Waterhouse, whom it really had nothing to do with. I'm sorry to have to say it of Mollie, but I'm sadly afraid there's something of the snob in her. More than once she has had an engagement at the Abbey when I wanted her to do something for me. Of course people living in a big house come before old friends. That's understood. But I didn't think Mollie would turn out like that, I must confess."
"Oh, but Albert dear, I'msureshe wouldn't neglect you for anybody. You've been so kind to her, and it has meant such a lot to her, your making a companion of her, and all. But, of course, itisnice for girls to have other girls to be friends with. I'm sure it would be just the same if the Graftons lived in a small house instead of a big one."
"I beg leave to doubt it, Gertrude. But here we are. The drive is about half a mile long. We shan't see the house for some distance yet."
They had turned in at some handsome lodge gates, and were going along a winding road which ran between iron railings, with fields on either side of it.
"It's not so nice as the park at Abington," said Mrs. Mercer; "more like a farm road except for the lodge. Is Grays as big a house as the Abbey?"
"Bigger, I should say," said her husband. "The Pembertons are a very old Meadshire family. I looked them up in a book in the library at the Abbey. Except the Clintons, over the other side, they are the oldest. They have often married into titled families. They are a good deal better than the Graftons, I should say. Sir James Grafton is only the third baronet, and his grandfather was a jeweller in Nottingham, the book says. Of course, they've made money, which stands for everything in these days. Oh, how that made me jump!"
Another car had come up behind them, of which the powerful horn had given warning that room was asked for it. The smaller car had changed gears at the beginning of the rise, and the larger one swung by it as it made way. Three girls were sitting together on the back seat, and waved as they were carried past. They were Caroline and Beatrix, with Mollie sitting between them.
"Now what on earth does that mean!" exclaimed the Vicar, in a tone of annoyance. "Mollie coming to dine here! But she doesn't even know them. And why didn't Caroline tell metheywere coming, when I askedher for the car? Why couldn't we all have come together?"
These questions were presently answered. Bertie Pemberton had come down from London in the afternoon and brought a friend with him. A car had been sent over to Abington to ask thateverybody who happened to be there should come over and dine. Caroline was also particularly asked to persuade little Miss Walter to come with them, and to take no denial. A note would be taken to her, but perhaps she wouldn't come unless she were pressed. This last piece of information, however, was not imparted to the Vicar, and he was left wondering how on earth Mollie came to be there, and with the full determination to find out later.
There was nothing lacking in the warmth of welcome accorded to their guests by the whole Pemberton family, which could hardly have been more loudly expressed if they had come to dine in an asylum for the deaf, and were qualified for residence there. The Vicar had quite forgotten his dislike of this noisy cheerful family. He had bicycled over on a hot day to see Mrs. Pemberton, had found that she had forgotten who he was for the moment, but by engaging her in conversation on the subjects of which she had previously unbosomed herself had regained the interest she had shown in him. He had been given his cup of tea, and shown the village hall, and told that the next time he came over he must come to lunch. Then Mrs. Pemberton had left cards at Abington Vicarage—the Vicarand his wife being out, unfortunately, at the time,—and before they could return the call had asked them to dine. It was an acquaintanceship, begun under the happiest auspices, which the Vicar quite hoped would ripen into a genuine friendship. He was inclined to like the free-and-easy ways of real old-established country people. They were apt, possibly, to think too much about horses and dogs, but that did not prevent their taking a genuine interest in their fellow-creatures, especially those who were dependent on them for a good deal of their satisfaction in life. Mrs. Pemberton, although she didn't look it, was a woman who did a great deal of good. She would have made an admirable clergyman's wife.
Father Brill, the Vicar of Grays, was also dining, in a cassock. He had only been in the place for three months, but had already established his right to be called Father and to wear a cassock instead of a coat. He was a tall spare man with a commanding nose and an agreeable smile. Old Mr. Pemberton had taken a fancy to him, though he was very outspoken with regard to his eccentricities. But he chaffed him just as freely to his face as he criticised him to others. His attitude towards him was rather like that of a fond father towards a mischievous child. "What do you think that young rascal of mine has been doing now?" was the note on which his references to Father Brill were based.
The Vicar, who was 'low' in doctrine, but inclined to be 'high' in practice—where it didn't matter—hadcautiously commiserated Mrs. Pemberton on the extravagances of her pastor during his first visit. But he had discovered that they caused her no anxiety. The only thing she didn't care about was 'this confession'—auricular, she believed they called it. But as long as she wasn't expected to confess herself, which she should be very sorry to do, as it would be so awkward to ask Father Brill to dinner after it, she wasn't going to make any fuss. It would possibly do the young men of the place a lot of good to confess their sins to Father Brill, if he could induce them to do so; she was pretty certain it would do Bertie good, but, of course, he would never do it. As for the women, if they wanted to go in for that sort of thing, well, let 'em. Father Brill wasn't likely to do them any harm—with that nose. What sheshouldhave objected to would be to be interfered with in the things she ran herself in the parish. But they got on all right together there. In fact, she went her way and Father Brill went his, and neither of them interfered with the other.
The two clergymen sat on either side of their hostess, and the Vicar was rather inclined to envy the easy terms that Father Brill was on with her. It had not occurred to him to treat a lady in Mrs. Pemberton's position with anything but deference, to listen to her opinions politely, and not to press his own when they differed from hers. But here was Father Brill actually inviting her to discussion, and, while listening politely to what she had to say, finding food for amusement in it, and by no means hiding his amusement from her.
"I'm afraid you must be a good deal older than you admit to," he said. "You must have gained your opinions in girlhood, and they are about those that were held in the thirties and forties of the nineteenth century. That would make you about ninety-three now, and I must admit that you wear very well for your age."
Mrs. Pemberton seemed so to enjoy this kind of treatment that the Vicar took a leaf out of Father Brill's book and became a good deal more familiar, on the same lines, than he had ever thought of being in such a house as that, or at least with the older inhabitants of such a house. Perhaps he kept rather too much to the same lines. He asked Mrs. Pemberton whether she wore a wig, which as a matter of fact she did, though he was far from suspecting it; and as religious matters were being treated in a light vein, to which he had no objection, as long as anything like profanity was excluded, he begged her, if she should ever change her mind about confession, to confess to him and not to Father Brill. "I assure you, my dear lady," he said—Father Brill had once or twice called her 'my dear lady'—"that I shan't breathe a word of what you say to anybody—and I'm quite ready to be agreeably shocked."
Father Brill's eyebrows met ominously over his huge nose, and Mrs. Pemberton looked in some surprise at the Vicar, and then took a glance at his wine-glass. But at that moment Mr. Pemberton called out something to her from the foot of the table, and Effie Pembertonwho was sitting on the right of the Vicar engaged him in talk. Otherwise he would have exploited this vein still further, for he felt he was making rather a success of it.
His wife, meantime, was enjoying herself immensely. The young people were all laughing and talking gaily, and she was not left out of it. Old Mr. Pemberton addressed long narratives to her, but occasionally broke off to shout out: "Eh, what's that? I didn't hear that," if an extra burst of laughter engaged his attention; and after such an interruption he would usually address himself next to Caroline, who was sitting on the other side of him. So Mrs. Mercer found that she need not devote herself entirely to him, and laughed away as merrily as any of them, if there was anything to laugh at, which there generally was.
They really were nice, these Pembertons, in spite of their loudness and their horsey tastes. Kate sat next to her, and looked very handsome, with her abundant hair beautifully dressed and her white firm flesh liberally displayed. She was some years younger than her sisters, and had not yet acquired that almost weather-beaten look which is apt to overtake young country women who spend the greater part of their waking hours out of doors, and was already beginning to show in Nora and Effie. She had a great deal to say to Bertie's friend who sat on the other side of her, but she by no means neglected Mrs. Mercer, and whenever conversation was general brought her into it. She alsooccasionally talked to her alone, when Mr. Pemberton was engaged with Caroline.
"I like that little Waters girl, or whatever her name is," she said on one of these occasions, looking across to where Mollie was sitting between Nora and Bertie Pemberton. "She's quiet, but she does know how to laugh. Quite pretty too."
"Oh, she's a dear," said Mrs. Mercer enthusiastically. "We areawfullyfond of her. I don't know what my husband would do without her."
Kate laughed. "That's what Bertie seems to be feeling," she said. "He spotted her when we went over to Abington the other day. We rather chaffed him about it, as the Grafton girls are soextraordinarilypretty, and we hadn't taken so much notice of her ourselves. But he insisted upon her being sent for to-night, and made Nora write. I'm glad she came. We all three make pals of men, but we like girls too. I hope we shall see more of her. I expect we shall, if Bertie has anything to do with it."
She turned to her other neighbour, and Mrs. Mercer looked across to where Bertie Pemberton was entertaining Mollie with some vivacious narrative that was making her laugh freely. It was quite true that shecouldlaugh, and looked very pretty as she did so. Mrs. Mercer had had no idea how pretty she really was. Her generous heart gave a jump of pleasure as she saw how Bertie Pemberton was addressing himself to her. Supposing—only supposing—thatthatshould happen! How perfectly splendid for dear little Mollie,who had had such a dull life, but was worth any sort of life that could be given her. And how pleased her husband would be! They would have something to talk about when they went home.
They played round games at a table in the drawing-room—all of them, including Mr. Pemberton, who did not like to be left out of anything—to an accompaniment of much shouting and laughter. The two cars were kept waiting for half an hour before the guests departed, and they returned as they had come. The Vicar had wanted Mollie to accompany him and his wife, but as she had hesitated, with a glance at Beatrix, which plainly showed her own wishes in the matter, Caroline had put in her claim and settled it for her.
So the Vicar started on the homeward drive not in the best of humours, especially as the other car was being kept back while the three girls were still laughing and talking as if they were going to stay all night, although he and his wife had been permitted to leave when they were ready to do so.
"Really, Miss Caroline has a fairly abrupt way with her when it suits her," he said. "If we hadn't been indebted to her for the loan of the car, I should certainly have insisted that Mollie come with us. We live nearly opposite, and the Pemberton's car will have to go out of the way to take her home. Mollie ought to have had the sense to see it herself, and the pluck to take matters into her own hands. She is allowing herself to be led away by all the notice she is receiving. I have yet to learn exactly how it was that she cameto be here to-night. There's something I don't understand, and I don't quite like it."
"Oh, I can tell you all about that, Albert dear," said Mrs. Mercer eagerly. "I've been longing to tell you, and you'll besopleased. It was Bertie Pemberton. He has taken animmensefancy to Mollie, and it was he who insisted that she should be sent for with the Grafton girls. Kate told me so herself, and they like her so much, and they are going to make Mrs. Pemberton call on Mrs. Walter, and have Mollie over there often. Justfancy, if anything should come of it!"
"Well, I never!" said the Vicar in his coldest tones.
Mrs. Mercer felt the drop in the temperature. "But it would be such asplendidthing for Mollie, dear," she pleaded, "and she does so come out in company. I thought she looked quite as pretty as the Grafton girls to-night, and I was quite proud of her, the way she behaved, enjoying herself, but never pushing herself forward, and everybody liking her and all."
"If you've quite finished, Gertrude," said the Vicar, as coldly as before, "I should like to say something. I'd no idea—no idea whatever—that it was on that young man's invitation that Mollie was there to-night and——"
"Oh, but it wasn't, dear. It was Nora who wrote to her. Of coursehewouldn't have done it."
"Let me finish, please. Here is a young girl living, with her mother, almost under our protection. Whateverfriends they have made here they have made through us. I was glad enough for Mollie to be taken up by the Graftons, although she does not belong to their class by birth, and there is some danger of her thinking herself their equal in a way whichtheymay perhaps come not to like, if she pushes it too far. That is why I wished her not to go to the Abbey too much, unless I, or you, were with her. I feel a responsibility towards the girl."
"But, Albert dear, surely it has got past that now! She's their friend just as much as we are. And theylovehaving her there."
"Please let me finish, Gertrude. I know she's their friend, and now see what it has led to! By your own showing, Mrs. Pemberton doesn't even know Mrs. Walter. She is onlygoingto call on her, because her daughter is going tomakeher. Yet, on the invitation of a young man, who has taken a fancy to her,—well, on his sister's invitation then, if you must be so particular, whichshe, this time, ismadetogive,—Mollie can so far forget herself as to go to the house of perfect strangers and be entertained by them. Why, it's lending herself to—to— I'd really rather not say what. To me it seems perfectly outrageous. Have you, I should like to ask, really looked upon Mollie in the light of a girl that any young man can throw down his glove to, and she'll pick it up?"
"Oh,no, Albert dear," expostulated Mrs. Mercer, greatly distressed by the suggestion. "It isn't like that at all.Sheisn't like that, and I'm sureheisn'tlike that either. I was watching him at dinner, and afterwards, and I believe he really is in——"
"I don't want to hear any more," said the Vicar abruptly, throwing himself back in his seat and folding his arms. "I shall call on Mrs. Walter to-morrow and have it out with her—and with Mollie."
There was a toot of a big bass horn behind them, and the other car went sliding past. The three girls were sitting together as before, and waved gaily to them as they passed. Mrs. Mercer returned the greeting. The Vicar took no notice of it at all, and remained obstinately silent for the rest of the drive home.
Caroline awoke very early one morning in mid-July, disturbed perhaps by the light and the soft stillness. She had been in London during the week, where she had been wont to sleep late, in a darkened room. She had enjoyed her dinners and her plays and her parties, but she had a great sense of happiness and peace as she opened her eyes and realised that she was in London no longer, but in her large airy room at Abington, with the sweet fresh world of the country all about her, and no engagements of any sort before her that would prevent her from enjoying it.
The London season was over now; she had only spent the inside of three weeks away from Abington since they had first come there, and the days had seemed to go more quickly than at any time she had known. They had been contented and peaceful; she had never known a dull moment, with all the little tasks and pleasures she had found to her hand, not even when she and Barbara and Miss Waterhouse had been alone in the house together. The Saturdays and Sundays had been happy, with her father there, who seemed to belong to her now more than he had ever done, for many of her pleasures were his, and he shared her enjoyment of a life far simpler in its essence than anyshe had known since she had grown up, or than he had known at any time within her experience. It had been quite exciting to look forward to the Friday evenings; and the guests who sometimes came down with him had filled all her desire for society other than that of her family, or the people she saw from the houses around.
And now they were going to live the life of their home together, at least for some weeks. Her father was giving himself one of his numerous holidays, and was going to spend it entirely at Abington. Beatrix was coming home after she had gone to Cowes and before she went to Scotland. Bunting would be home for his summer holidays in a week or so. It was a delightful prospect, and gave her more pleasure than she had gained from the after-season enjoyments of previous years. She had refused an invitation to Cowes, and another to Scotland. She might go up there later, perhaps. At present she wanted nothing but Abington—to feel that she belonged there, and her days would remain the same as long as she cared to look forward.
She rose and went to the window, just to look out on the sweetness of the early morning, and the flowers and the trees. As she stood there, she saw her father come round the corner of the house. He was dressed, untidily for him, in a grey flannel suit and a scarf round his neck instead of a collar, and he carried in one hand a wooden trug full of little pots and in the other a trowel. He was walking fast, as if he had business on hand.
Something impelled her to keep silent, and she drew back a little to watch him. He went down the broad central path of the formal garden on to which her windows looked, on his way to the new rock-garden, which had been another of their spring enterprises. He had brought down the night before some big cases of rock-plants, and had evidently not been able to wait to go out and play with them.
A very soft look came over Caroline's face as she watched him. She felt maternal. Men were so like babies, with their toys. And this was such a nice toy for the dear boy, and so different from the expensive grown-up toys he had played with before. He looked so young too, with his active straight-backed figure. At a back-view, with his hat hiding his hair, he might have been taken for quite a young man. And in mind he was one, especially when he was at home at Abington. There was none of all the young men with whom Caroline had made friends whom she liked better to be with, not only because she loved him, but because with none of them could she talk so freely or receive so much in return. There was nothing in her life about which she could not or did not talk to him. Francis Parry's proposal—she had not been at ease until she had told him about it and of all that was in her mind with regard to it. Surely they were nearer together than most fathers and daughters, and always would be so.
She thought she would go down and help him with his plantings and potterings. She loved him so much that she wanted to see that look of pleasure on his face thatshe knew would come at the agreeable surprise she would bring him. Perhaps she would be able to steal up behind him without his seeing her, and then she would get this plain sign of his love for her and his pleasure in her unexpected appearance brought out of him suddenly. She had something more to tell him too.
She dressed and went down. She collected her garden gloves, a trowel and a trug, and then went into the empty echoing back regions where the cases of plants had been unpacked, and took out some more of the little pots. They were mostly thymes, in every creeping variety. She knew what he was going to do, then—furnish the rocky staircase, which he and two of the gardeners had built themselves, after the main part of the rock-garden had been finished and planted with professional assistance. It was rather late to be planting anything, but garden novices take little heed of seasons when they are once bitten with the planting and moving mania, and if some of the plants should be lost they could replace them before the next flowering season.
The clock in the church tower struck six as she let herself out into the dewy freshness of the garden. She had to go across the little cloistered court and all round the house, and she stood for a moment in front of it to look over the gentle undulations of the park, where the deer were feeding on the dew-drenched grass, and the bracken grew tall on the slopes sentinelled by the great beeches. She had never been able to make up her mind whether or not she liked the church and thechurchyard being so near the house. At first they had seemed to detract from its privacy, and from the front windows they certainly interfered with the view of the park hollows and glades, which were so beautiful in the varied lights in which they were seen. But as the weeks had gone by she had come to take in an added sense of the community of country life from their proximity. The villagers, all of whom she now knew by sight, and some of them intimately, came here every Sunday, and seemed to come more as friends, with the church almost a part of her own home. And some of them would come up sometimes to visit their quiet graves, to put flowers on them, or just to walk about among the friends whom they had known, now resting here. The names on many of the stones were alike, and families of simple stay-at-home cottagers could be traced back for generations. The churchyard was their book of honour; some personality lingered about the most far-away name that was commemorated in it. Caroline wished that her own mother could have been buried here. It would have been sweet to have tended her grave, and to have cherished the idea that she was not cut off from the warmth of their daily life. That was how the villagers must feel about those who were buried here. She felt it herself about an old man and a little child who had died since she had come to live at Abington. They were still a part of the great family.
She went on through the formal garden and across the grass to the disused quarry which was the scene ofher father's labours. It formed an ideal opportunity for rock-gardening, and was big enough to provide amusement for some time to come in gradual extension. He was half-way up the rocky stair he had made, very busy with his trowel and his watering-pot. As she came in sight of him he stood up to straighten his back, and then stepped back to consider the effect he had already made. This is one of the great pleasures of gardening, and working gardeners should not be considered slack if they occasionally indulge in it.
He turned and saw her as she crossed the grass towards him. She was not disappointed in the lightening of his face or the pleasure that her coming gave him. "Why, my darling!" he said. "I thought you'd be slumbering peacefully for another couple of hours. Thisisjolly!"
He gave her a warm kiss of greeting. She rubbed her soft cheek. "It's the first time I've ever known you to dress without shaving first," she said.
"Oh, I'm going to have a bath and a shave later on," he said. "This is the best time to garden. You don't mind how grubby you get, and you've got the whole world to yourself. Besides, I was dying to get these things in. How do you think it looks? Gives you an idea of what you're aiming at, doesn't it?"
He stood at the foot of the stair and surveyed his handiwork critically, with his head on one side. She had again that impulse of half-maternal love towards him, and put her arm on his shoulder to give him another kiss. "I think it's beautiful, darling," she said."You're getting awfully clever at it. I don't think you've given the poor things enough water though. You really ought not to go planting without me."
"Well, itisrather a grind to keep on fetching water," he confessed. "I think we must get it laid on here. I'll tell you what we'll do this morning, Cara; we'll get hold of Worthing and see if we can't find a spring or a stream or something in the park that we can divert into this hollow. I've been planning it out. We might get a little waterfall, and cut out hollows in the rock for pools—have all sorts of luxuries. What do you think about it? I shouldn't do it till we'd worked it all out together."
In her mood of tenderness she was touched by his wanting her approval and connivance in his plan. "I think it would be lovely, darling," she said. "And it would give us lots to do for a long time to come."
They discussed the fascinating plan for some time, and then went on with their planting, making occasional journeys together for water, or for more pots from the cases. The sun climbed higher into the sky, and the freshness of the early morning wore off towards a hot still day. But it was still early when they had finished all that there was to be done, and the elaborate preparations of servants indoors for the washings and dressings and nibblings of uprising would not yet have begun.
"I'm going to sit down here and have a quiet pipe," said Grafton, seating himself on a jutting ledge of rock. "Room for you too, darling. We've had the best of the day. It's going to be devilish hot."
"I love the early morning," said Caroline. "But if we're going to do this very often I must make arrangements for providing a little sustenance. I'll get an electric kettle and make tea for us both. I don't think you ought to smoke, dear, before you've had something to eat."
"Oh, I've had some biscuits. Boned 'em out of the pantry. I say, old Jarvis keeps a regular little store of dainties there. There's somepâté, and all sorts of delicacies. Have some."
He took some biscuits out of his pocket, with toothsome pastes sandwiched between them, and Caroline devoured them readily, first delicately removing all traces of fluff that had attached itself to them. She was hungry and rather sleepy now, but enjoying herself exceedingly. It was almost an adventure to be awake and alive at a time when she would usually be sleeping. And certainly they had stolen the sweetest part of the day.
"Dad darling," she said, rather abruptly, after they had been silent for a time. "You know what I told you about Francis? Well, it's gone on this week, and he wants me to give him an answer now."
He came out of his reverie, which had had to do with the leading of water, and frowned a little. "What a tiresome fellow he is!" he said. "Why can't he wait?"
"He says he wouldn't mind waiting if there was anything to wait for. But he's got plenty of money, he says, to give me everything I ought to have, and hewants me. What he says is that he wants me damnably."
"Oh, it's got to that, has it? He hasn't wanted you so damnably up till now. He's been hanging about you for years."
"He says he didn't know how much he loved me before," she said, half-unwillingly. "He found it out when he saw me here. I'm much nicer in the country than I was in London."
"I didn't see much difference. You've always been much the same to him."
"Oh, he didn't mean that. I'm a different person in the country. In London I'm one of the crowd; here I'm myself. Well, I feel that, you know. I am different. He thinks I'm much nicer. Do you think I'm much nicer, Dad?"
He put his hand caressingly on her neck. "You're always just what I want you," he said. "I'm not sure I don't want you damnably too. I should be lost here without you, especially with B so much away."
"Would you, darling? Well then, that settles it. I don't want to be married yet. I want to stay here with you."
As she was dressing, later on, she wondered exactly what it was that had made her take this sudden decision, and feel a sense of freedom and lightness in having taken it. She had not intended to refuse Francis definitely when she had gone out to her father a couple of hours before; but now she was going to do so. She liked him as much as ever—or thought she did. Buthis importunities had troubled her a little during her week in London. They had never been such as to have caused her to reject advances for which she was not yet ready. He had made no claims upon her, but only asked for the right to make claims. Other young men from time to time in her two years' experience had not been so careful in their treatment of her; that was why she liked Francis better than any of those who had shown their admiration of her. And yet he had troubled her, with his quiet direct speech and his obvious longing for her, although she liked him so much, and had thought that in time she might give him what he wanted. Yes, she had thought she liked him well enough for that. She knew him; he was nice all through; they had much in common; they would never quarrel; he would never let her down. All that she had intended to ask her father was whether it was fair to Francis to keep him waiting, say for another year; or whether, if she did that, it was to be the engagement or the marriage that was to be thus postponed. But the question had been answered without having been asked. She did not want to marry him now, and she did not want to look forward to a future in which she might want to marry him. There was still the idea in her mind that if he asked her again, by and by, she might accept him; but for the present all she wanted was to be free, and not to have it hanging over her. So she would refuse him, definitely; what should happen in the future could be left to itself.
Oh, how nice it was to live this quiet happy countrylife, and to know that it would go on, at least as far as she cared to look ahead! She had the companionship in it that she liked best in the world; she had everything to make her happy. And she was completely happy as she dressed herself, more carefully than before, though a trifle languid from the early beginning she had made of the day.
A message was sent over to the Estate Office to ask Worthing if he could come up as soon as possible in the morning. He came up at about half-past ten, and brought with him a young man who had arrived the day before to study land agency with him as his pupil.
"Maurice Bradby," he introduced him all round. "He's going to live with me for a bit if we find we get on well together, and learn all I can teach him. I thought I'd bring him up and introduce him. If I die suddenly in the night—as long as I don't do it before he's learnt his job—he'd be a useful man to take my place."
Bradby was a quiet-mannered rather shy young man of about five and twenty. He was tall and somewhat loose-limbed, but with a look of activity about him. He had a lot of dark hair, not very carefully brushed, and was dressed in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, conspicuous neither in style nor pattern. He fell to Barbara's lot to entertain, as Caroline was too interested in the quest upon which they set across the park to leave the company of her father and Worthing. Barbara found him nice, but uninteresting. She had to support most of the conversation herself, and hadalmost exhausted her topics before they came to the stream in the woods which Worthing thought might be diverted into the rock-garden. Thereafter the young man fell into the background, but showed himself useful on the return journey in helping to gauge the slopes down which the water could best be led, and made one suggestion, rather diffidently, which Worthing accepted in preference to his own. Grafton said a few friendly words to him, and asked him to come and play lawn tennis in the afternoon, which invitation he gratefully but diffidently accepted.
There were two tennis courts at the Abbey, but there were a good many people to play on them that afternoon. Bradby played well, but when his turn came to sit out he hardly seemed to belong to the party, which included the Pemberton girls, and others who all knew one another, and showed it. He sat silent and awkward, until Caroline said to Barbara: "Do go and talk to Mr. Bradby; nobody's taking any trouble about him, and he's too shy to join in with the rest."
"Darling, I think you might take him on a bit yourself," expostulated Barbara. "I had him this morning, and he's frightfully dull. But I will if you like."
Caroline, disarmed by this amiability, 'took him on' herself, and finding him interested in flowers took him to see some. When she next spoke to Barbara she said: "I don't know why you say Mr. Bradby is dull. He's as keen as anything about gardening, and knows a lot too."
"Oh, of course if he likesgardening!" said Barbara."Well, he'll be a nice little friend for you, darling. I suppose we shall have to see a good lot of him if he's going to live with Uncle Jimmy, and I dare say we can make him useful when Bunting comes home. I think he's the sort who likes to make himself useful. Otherwise, I think he's rather a bore."
That being Barbara's opinion, it fell to Caroline's lot to entertain the young man again when he came to dine, with Worthing. He was too diffident to join in the general conversation, and was indeed somewhat of a wet-blanket on the cheerful talkative company. Miss Waterhouse exerted herself to talk to him during dinner, but stayed indoors afterwards when the rest of them went out into the garden. Caroline was too kind-natured and sweet-tempered to feel annoyance at having to devote herself to him, instead of joining in a general conversation, but she did think that if he were to be constantly at the house, as he could hardly help being, she had better encourage him to make himself more at home in their company. So she tried to draw him out about himself and had her reward; for he told her all his life's history, and in such a way as to make her like him, and to hope that he would be a welcome addition to their more intimate circle, when he succeeded in throwing off his shyness.
His story was simple enough. He was the youngest son of a clergyman, who had three other sons and four daughters. They had been brought up in the country, but when Maurice was fourteen his father had been given a living in a large Midland town. His three elderbrothers had obtained scholarships at good schools and afterwards at Oxford or Cambridge, and were doing well, one in the Woods and Forests Department, one as a schoolmaster, and one in journalism. He was the dunce of the family, he told Caroline, and after having been educated at the local Grammar School, he had been given a clerkship, at the age of eighteen, in a local bank. He had always hated it. He had wanted to emigrate and work with his hands, on the land, but his mother had dissuaded him. He was the only son at home, and two of the daughters had also gone out into the world. Finally a legacy had fallen to his father, which had enabled him to give his youngest son a new start in life. He was to learn land agency for a year. If he succeeded in making a living out of it after that time, he would stay in England. Otherwise, he was to be allowed his own way at last, and go out to Canada or Australia.
That was all. But he was at the very beginning of his new life now, and all ablaze, under his crust of shyness, with the joy of it. Caroline felt a most friendly sympathy with him. "I'm sure you will get on well if you are as keen as that," she said kindly. "I don't wonder at your hating being tied to an office if you love the country so. I love it too, and everything that goes on in it. And of all places in the world I love Abington. I think you're very lucky to have found Mr. Worthing to learn from, here."
The Vicar was taking tea at Surley Rectory, after the afternoon service. Old Mr. Cooper, the Rector of Surley, was over eighty, and getting infirm. His daughters took all the responsibility for 'running the parish' off his hands, but ecclesiastical law forbade their taking the services in church, which otherwise they would have been quite willing to do, and he had to call in help from among his colleagues for this purpose, when he was laid up. There was no one more ready to help him than the Vicar of Abington. His own service was in the evening, and he was always willing to take that at Surley in the afternoon.
The living of Surley was a 'plum,' in the gift of the Bishop of the diocese. It was worth, 'gross,' over a thousand a year, and although its emoluments had shrunk to a considerably lower figure, 'net,' its rector was still to be envied as being in possession of a good thing. There was a large house and an ample acreage of glebe, all very pleasantly situated, so that Surley Rectory had the appearance and all the appanages of a respectable-sized squire's house, and was only less in importance in the parish than Surley Park, which it somewhat resembled, though on a smaller scale. Mr.Cooper had held it for close upon forty years, and had done very well out of it. His daughters would be well provided for, and if at any time he chose to retire he would have ample means, with the pension he would get from his successor, to end his days in the same sort of comfort as that in which he had lived there for so long. But he had become a little 'near' in his old age. He would not retire, although he was gradually getting past what little work he had to do himself, and he would not keep a curate. What he ardently wished was that his son, who had come to him late in life, should succeed him as Rector of Surley. Denis would be ready to be ordained in the following Advent, and would come to him as curate. If the old man managed to hang on for a few years longer it was his hope that Denis would so have established himself as the right man to carry on his work that he would be presented to the living. It was a fond hope, little likely of realisation. The Vicar of Abington was accustomed to throw scorn upon it when discussing the old man's ambitions with his wife. "If it were a question of private patronage," he said to her once after returning from Surley, "I don't say that it might not happen. But there would be an outcry if the Bishop were to give one of the best livings in his diocese to a young man who had done nothing to deserve it. Quite justifiably too. Livings like Surley ought to be given to incumbents in the diocese, who have borne the burden and heat of the day in the poorer livings. I'm quite sure the Bishop thinks the same. I was telling him the other day howdifficult it would be for a man to live here, and do his work as it ought to be done, unless he had private means behind him; and he said that men who took such livings ought to be rewarded. It's true that there are other livings in the diocese even poorer than this, but I was going through them the other day and I don't think there's a man holds any of them who would be suitable for Surley. There's a position to keep up there, and it could not be done, any more than this can, without private means. I don't suppose Mr. Cooper will last much longer. I fancy he's going a little soft in the head already. This idea that there's any chance of Denis succeeding him seems to indicate it."
The Vicar, however, did nothing to discourage the old man's hopes when he so kindly went over to take his duty for him. Nor did he even throw cold water upon those which the Misses Cooper shared with their father on their brother's behalf, but encouraged them to talk about the future, and showed nothing but sympathy with them in their wishes.
They talked about it now over the tea-table, in the large comfortably furnished drawing-room, which was so much better than the drawing-room at Abington Vicarage, but would look even better than it did now if it had the Abington Vicarage furniture in it, and a little money spent to increase it. Perhaps the carpet, which was handsome, though somewhat faded, and the curtains, which matched it well, might be taken over at a valuation if it should so happen that——
"I think dear father is a little easier," Rhoda was saying, as she poured tea out of an old silver tea-pot into cups that had belonged to her grandmother. "We shan't get him up yet awhile though, or let him out till the weather turns fine again. Denis will be home next Sunday, and he can take the sendees now, with his lay-reader's certificate."
"But I shall be delighted to come over in the afternoons until your father is better," said the Vicar. "It has been a great pleasure to me to help an old friend."
"I'm sure you've beenmostkind, Mr. Mercer," said Ethel. "Later on, when Denis has to go back for his last term, we may have to call on you again. But it won't be for long now. When Denis is once ordained and settled down here we shall breathe again."
"I believe father will be better altogether when that happens," said Rhoda. "He can't get it out of his head that he may die before Denis is ready to take his place. I don't think there'sanydanger of it, but naturally, it depresses him. I'mafraid, if anything so dreadful were to happen, one could hardly expect the Bishop to keep the living open for Denis until he's priested. Do you think so, Mr. Mercer?"
"I shouldn't let the old gentleman think itcouldn'thappen, if I were you," said the Vicar.
"Oh, no; we do all we can to keep up his hopes. If only we could get the Bishop to make him some sort of a promise!"
"He won't do that, I'm afraid," said the Vicar.
"No, I'm afraid not. Did you know, Mr. Mercer, that Mrs. Carruthers was the Bishop's niece?"
"No, I didn't know that. Are you sure?"
"Yes; he told us so himself when Ethel and I went to call at the Palace. It was a little awkward for us, for, of course, they asked about her. But we were able to say that she had been abroad for some months, which, of course, they knew. So the subject passed off. But they are evidently rather fond of her, and when she comes back I think it is quite likely that they will come to stay with her."
This news wanted digesting. The Bishop of Med-Chester had only recently been appointed, and it would be rather an advantage to the neighbouring clergy for him to come amongst them more often than he would otherwise have done. But there were certain difficulties to be anticipated, since the lady who would attract him there had broken off relations with the clergy of her own parish, and the next.
It seemed already, however, to have been digested by the Misses Cooper. "We shall make friends with her again when she comes back," said Rhoda calmly. "Wedidmake a mistake on the subject we quarrelled about, and there's no good saying we didn't. She behaved in a very unladylike way about it—Imustsay that; but ifwecan forgive it, and let bygones be bygones, I supposeshecan. If she wished, she could probably do something to influence the Bishop about Denis. Denis had nothing to do with the cause of dispute, and used to be asked to the Park a good deal before we left offgoing there altogether. She always liked him, and in fact wanted to keep friends with him after she had been so rude to us; just as she did with father. That, of course, we couldn't have; but if we are all ready to make friends together again the objection will be removed. I think it is likely that her relationship to the Bishop will count for a good deal when it becomes necessary to appoint somebody to succeed dear father."
It did, indeed, seem likely. The Bishop, who was well connected, and thought to be a trifle worldly, had already, during his short term of office, instituted one incumbent on the recommendation of the Squire of the parish. The living was not a particularly good one, and the man was suitable; but there was the precedent. The betting, if there had been such a thing, on young Cooper's succeeding his father, would have gone up several points, on the relationship of Mrs. Carruthers to the Bishop becoming known.
"Personally," said the Vicar, "I was always inclined to like Mrs. Carruthers. I confess I was disturbed—even offended—when she refused to see me after her husband's death. But one can make excuses for a woman at such a time. One must not bear malice."
"Oh, no," said Rhoda. "Let's all forgive and forget. She is coming back in September, I believe. I should think you might see a good deal of her over at Abington, Mr. Mercer. She is bound to make friends with the Graftons. They're just her sort. Two very lively houses we have in our parishes, haven't we? Always somebody coming and going! I can't say I shallbe sorry to be friends with Mrs. Carruthers again. It does cheer one up to see people from outside occasionally."
"Personally, I don't much care for this modern habit of week-end visiting in country houses," said Ethel. "It means that people are taken up with guests from outside and don't see so much of their neighbours. In old Mr. Carruthers's time, they had their parties, for shooting and all that, but there were often people who stayed for a week or two, and one got to know them. And, of course, when the family was here alone, there was much more coming and going between our two houses. It was much more friendly."
"I agree with you," said the Vicar. "And the clergyman of the parishoughtto be the chief friend of his squire, if his squire is of the right sort. Unfortunately, nowadays, he so often isn't."
"Butyouhaven't much to complain about, have you, Mr. Mercer?" enquired Rhoda. "I have always thought you got on so extremely well with the Graftons."
"We have often envied you having such a nice house to run in and out of," said Ethel, "when you told us how welcome they made you. Especially with those pretty girls there," she added archly.
"We've thought sometimes that you were rather inclined to forsakeoldfriends for their sake," said Rhoda.
The Vicar was dragged by two opposing forces. On the one hand he was unwilling to destroy the impression that he was hand in glove with the family of hissquire; on the other hand the wounds of vanity needed consolation. But thesewereold friends and would no doubt understand, and sympathise.
"To tell you the truth they haven't turned out quite as well as I hoped they might at the beginning," he said. "There are a good many things I don't like about them, although in others I am perhaps, as you say, fortunate."
Rhoda and Ethel pricked up their ears. This was as breath to their nostrils.
"Well, now you've said it," said Rhoda, "I'll confess that we have sometimes wondered how long your infatu—your liking for the Graftons would last. They're not at all the sort of peopleweshould care to have living next door to us."
"Far from it," said Ethel. "But, of course, we couldn't say anything as long as they seemed to be so important toyou."
"What is there that you particularly object to in them?" asked the Vicar in some surprise. "I thought you did like them when you went over there at first."
"At first, yes," said Rhoda; "except that youngest one, Barbara. She pretended to be very polite, but she seemed to be taking one off all the time."
"I know what you mean," said the Vicar uneasily. "I've sometimes almost thought the same myself. But I think it's only her manner. Personally I prefer her to the other two. She isn't so pretty, but——"
"I don't deny Caroline and Beatrix's prettiness," said Rhoda. "Some girls might say they couldn't seeit, but thank goodness I'm not a cat. Still, good looks, to pleaseme, must have something behind them, or I've no use for them."
"They're ill-natured—ill-natured and conceited," said Ethel. "That's what they are, and that's what spoils them. And the way they go on with their father! 'Darling' and 'dearest' and hanging round him all the time! It's all show-off. They don't act in that way to others."
"I dare say Mr. Mercer wishes they did," said Rhoda, who was not altogether without humour, and also prided herself on her directness of speech.
"Indeed not!" said the Vicar indignantly. "I quite agree with Miss Ethel. I dislike all that petting and kissing in company."
"I only meant that they are not so sweet as all that inside," said Ethel. "I'm sure Rhoda and I did our best to make friends with them. They are younger than we are, of course, and we thought they might be glad to be taken notice of and helped to employ and interest themselves. But not at all. Oh, no. They came over here once, and nothing was good enough for them. They wouldn't do this, and they didn't care about doing that, and hadn't time to do the other. At last I said, 'Whateverdoyou do with yourselves then, all day long? Surely,' I said, 'you take some interest in your fellow-creatures!'—we'd wanted them to do the same sort of thing at Abington as we do here, and offered to bicycle over there as often as they liked to help and advise them. Caroline looked at me, and saidin a high and mighty sort of way, 'Yes we do; but we like making friends with them by degrees.' Well now, I call that simply shirking. If we had tried to run this parish on those lines—well, it wouldn't be the parish it is; that's all I can say."
"They are of very little use in the parish," said the Vicar. "I tried to get them interested when they first came, and asked them to come about with me and see things for themselves, but I've long since given up all idea of that. And none of them will teach in the Sunday-school, where we really want teachers."
"Yes, I suppose you do," said Rhoda. "Until Mollie Walter came I suppose you had hardly anybody. How do they get on with Mollie Walter, by the by? Ordon'tthey get on. She'd hardly be good enough for them, I suppose."
"Far from that," said the Vicar, "they are spoiling Mollie completely. She used to be such a nice simple modest girl; well, you often said yourselves that you would like to have a girl like that to help you in the parish."
"Yes, we did," said Ethel. "And she used to be so pleased to come over here and to be told how to do things. Now I think of it she hardly ever does come over now. So that's the reason, is it? Taken up by the Graftons and had her head turned. Well, all I can say is that when she does deign to come over here again, or we go and see her, we shan't stand any nonsense ofthatsort. If she wants a talking to she can get it here."
"I wish youwouldtalk to her," said the Vicar. "I've tried to do so, seeing her going wrong, and thinking it my duty; but she simply won't listen to me now. They've entirely altered her, and I whom she used to look up to almost as a father am nothing any more, beside them."
"That's too bad," said Rhoda. "And you used to make such a pet of her."
"Well, I don't know that I ever did that," said the Vicar. "Of course I was fond of the child, and tried to bring her out; but I was training her all the time, to make a good useful woman of her. Her mother was grateful to me for it, I know, and she herself has often told me what a different life it was for her from the one she had been living, and how happy she was at Abington in their little cottage, and having us as their friends. Well she might be too! We've done everything for that girl, and this is the return. I haven't yet told you what disturbs me so much. You know how I dislike those noisy rackety Pembertons."
"Why I thought you were bosom friends with them again," said Rhoda. "Mr. Brill came over the other day—Father Brill I refuse to call him—and said he had met you and Mrs. Mercer dining there."
"Oh, one must dine with one's neighbours occasionally," said the Vicar, "unless one wants to cut one's self off from them entirely. Besides, I thought I'd done them an injustice. Mrs. Pemberton had done me the honour to consult me about certain good works that she was engaged in, and I did what I could, naturally,to be helpful and to interest myself. Why she did it I don't know, considering that when I took the trouble to bicycle over there last I was informed that she was not at home, although, if you'll believe me, there was a large party there, the Graftons and Mollie among them, playing tennis."
"Mollie! I didn't knowsheknew the Pembertons! Sheisgetting on! No wonder her head's turned!"
"What I wanted to tell you was that young Pemberton met her at the Abbey some time ago, when the Graftons first came, and took a fancy to her. It washewho got her asked over to Grays, and she actually went there before Mrs. Pemberton had called on Mrs. Walter. Now I ask you, is that the proper way for a girl to behave?"
"Well, you haven't told us how she does behave yet," said Rhoda. "Has she taken a fancy to young Pemberton? It would be a splendid match for her."
The Vicar made an exclamation of impatience. "Is it likely, do you think, that he has anything of that sort in his head?" he asked. "He's just amusing himself with a pretty girl, and thinks he can do what he likes with her, because she's beneath him in station. It makes my blood boil. And there's the girl lending herself to it—in all innocence, of course; I know that—and nobody to give her a word of warning."
"Haven't you given her a word of warning?" asked Ethel.
"I tried to do so. But she misunderstood me. I'vesaid that it's all innocence onherpart. And it's difficult for a man to advise in these matters."
"Couldn't Mrs. Mercer?"
"My wife doesn't see quite eye to eye with me in this, unfortunately. She thinks I made a mistake in mentioning the matter to Mollie at all. Perhaps it would have been better if I'd left it to her. But she couldn't do anything now."
"Couldn't you say anything to Mrs. Walter?"
"I did that. She was there when I talked to Mollie. I'm sorry to say that she took offence. I ought really to have talked to them separately. They listened to what I had to say at first, and seemed quite to realise that a mistake had been made in Mollie going over to Grays in that way before Mrs. Pemberton had called on Mrs. Walter. It was even doubtful at that time whether shewouldcall on her, although she did so afterwards. But when I mentioned young Pemberton, they simply wouldn't listen to me. Mollie went out of the room with her head in the air, and Mrs. Walter took the line that I had no right to interfere with the girl at all in such matters as that. Why, those are the very matters that a man of the world, as I suppose one can be as well as being a Christian, ought to counsel a girl about, if he's on such terms with her as to stand for father or brother, as I have been with Mollie. Don't you think I'm right?"
"Well, I don't know," said Rhoda. "If she'd just taken it naturally, and hadn't been thinking of any harm, itwouldbe likely to offend her to have it putto her in that way; especially if she was inclined to like him and didn't know it yet."
"Perhaps it was a mistake," the Vicar admitted again. "I suppose I ought to have talked to Mrs. Walter first. But they had both been so amenable in the way they had taken advice from me generally, in things that they couldn't be expected to know about themselves, and so grateful for my friendship and interest in them, that it never occurred to me not to say exactly what I thought. One lives and learns. There's very littlerealgratitude in the world. Mollie has got thoroughly in with the Graftons now, and allI've done for her goes for nothing, or very little. And even Mrs. Walter has laid herself out to flatter and please them, in a way I didn't think it was in her to do. She is always running after Miss Waterhouse, and asking her to the Cottage. They both pretend that nothing is altered—she and Mollie—but it's plain enough that now they think themselves on a level with the Graftons—well, they have got where they want to be and can kick down the ladder that led them there. That's about what it comes to, and I can't help feeling rather sore about it. Well, I've unburdened myself to you, and it's done me good. Of course you'll keep what I say to yourselves."
"Oh, of course," said Rhoda. "Confidences with us are sacred. Then Mollie still goes over to Grays? Her mother lets her?"
"She goes over with the Graftons. I don't fancy she has been by herself; but I never ask. I don't mentionthe subject at all, and naturally they would be ashamed of bringing it up themselves before me."
"The Grafton girls back her up, of course!"
"I'm afraid they do. And I hardly like to say it, or even to think it, but Mollie must have given them quite a wrong impression of what was said after she had dined at Grays with them. There is a difference in their behaviour towards me, and I can hardly help putting it down to that. I used to get such a warm welcome at the Abbey, whenever I liked to go there. I could always drop in for a cup of tea, or at any time of the day, and know that they were pleased to see me. When their father was up in town I may have been said really to have looked after them, as was only natural under the circumstances, and everybody was glad to have it so. But now it is entirely different. There is a stiffness; a formality. I no longer feel that I am the chosen friend of the family. And I'm bound to put it down to Mollie. I go in there sometimes and find her with them, and—oh, but it's no use talking about it. I must say, though, that it's hard that everything should be upset for me just because I have not failed in my duty. Standing as I do, for the forces of goodness and righteousness in the parish, it's a bitter disappointment to have my influence spoilt in this fashion; and when at first I had expected something so different."
"Mr. Grafton seldom goes to church, does he?"
"He has disappointed me very much in that way. I thought he would be my willing helper in my work.But he has turned out quite indifferent. And not only that. Barbara would have been confirmed this year if they had been in London. They told me that themselves. Of course I offered to prepare her for confirmation myself, as they decided to stay here. They shilly-shallied about it for some time, but a fortnight ago Miss Waterhouse informed me that she would not be confirmed till next year."
"That's not right," said Ethel decisively. "She ought to have been confirmed long ago."
The Vicar got up to leave. "I'm afraid they've very little sense of religion," he said. "Well, one must work on, through good report and ill report. Some day, perhaps, one will get the reward of all one's labours. Good-bye, dear ladies. It has done me good to talk it all over with you. And it is a real joy to rest for a time in such an atmosphere as this. I will come again next Sunday."
They saw him to the hall door and watched him ride off on his bicycle. Then they returned in some excitement to the drawing-room.
"The fact is that he's put his foot in it, and had a sound snub," said Rhoda.
"He's behaved like a fool about Mollie, and now he's as jealous as a cat because she's left him for somebody else," said Ethel.