“I think we should turn to the left, here?” he said to Jim, who answered “Yessir,” with his teeth chattering, “or do you think it should perhaps be to the right?”
Jim said “Yessir,” again, dull to all proprieties.
If Jim had been by himself he would probably have gone to sleep, and allowed the mare to find her own way home, which very likely she would have done; but Dr. Burnet could not trust to such a chance. To think much of what had been said to him was scarcely possible in these circumstances. But when the vague and confused glimmer of the Sliplin lights through the snow put his mind at rest, it cannot but be said that Dr. Burnet found a great many thoughts waiting to seize hold upon him. He was not perhaps surprised that Lady Jane should have divined his secret. He had no particular desire to conceal it, and though he did not receive Lady Jane’s offer with enthusiasm, he could not but feel that her friendship and assistance would be of great use to him—in fact, if not with Katherine, at least with other things. It would be good for him professionally, even this one visit, and the prescription for Lady Jane, not for Mrs. Cole, which must be made up at the chemist’s, would do him good. A man who held the position of medical attendant at Steephill received a kind of warrant of skill from the fact, which would bring other patients of distinction. When Dr. Burnet got home, and got into dry and comfortable clothes, and found no impatient messenger awaiting him, it was with a grateful sense of ease that he gave himself up to the study of this subject by the cheerful fire. His mind glanced over the different suggestions of Lady Jane, tabulating and classifying them as if they had been scientific facts. There was that hint about the old sick man, which she had herself blushed for before it was fully uttered, and at which Dr. Burnet now grinned in mingled wrath and ridicule. To take advantage of an old sick man—as being that old man’s medical attendant and desirous of marrying his daughter—was a suggestion at which Burnet could afford to laugh, though fiercely, and with an exclamation not complimentary to the intentions of Lady Jane. But there were other things which required more careful consideration.
Should he follow these other suggestions, he asked himself? Should he become a party to her plan, and get her support,and accept the privileges of a visitor at her house as she had almost offered, and meet Katherine there, which would probably be good for Katherine in other ways as well as for himself? There was something very tempting in this idea, and Dr. Burnet was not mercenary in his feeling towards Katherine, nor indisposed to do “justice to Stella” in the almost incredible case that it ever should be in his power to dispose of Mr. Tredgold’s fortune. He could not help another short laugh to himself at the absurdity of the idea. He to dispose of Mr. Tredgold’s fortune! So many things were taken for granted in this ridiculous hypothesis. Katherine’s acceptance and consent for one thing, of which he was not at all sure. She had evidently sent the Rector about his business, which made him glad, yet gave him a little thrill of anxiety too, for, though he was ten years younger than the Rector, and had no family to encumber him, yet Mr. Stanley, on the other hand, was a handsome man, universally pleasing, and perhaps more desirable in respect to position than an ordinary country practitioner—a man who dared not call his body, at least, whatever might be said of his soul, his own; and who had as yet had no opportunity of distinguishing himself. If she repulsed the one so summarily, would she not have in all probability the same objections to the other? At twenty-three a man of thirty-five is slightly elderly as well as one of forty-seven.
Supposing, however, that Katherine should make no objection, which was a very strong step for a man who did not in the least believe that at the present moment she had even thought of him in that light—there was her father to be taken into account. He had heard Mr. Tredgold say that about the thousand for thousand told down on the table, and he had heard it from the two ladies of the midge; but without, perhaps, paying much attention or putting any great faith in it. How could he table thousand for thousand against Mr. Tredgold? The idea was ridiculous. He had the reversion of that little, but ancient, estate in the North, of which he had been at such pains to inform Katherine; and he had a littlemoney from his mother; and his practice, which was a good enough practice, but not likely to produce thousands for some time at least to come. He had said there might be a dodge—and, as a matter of fact, there had blown across his mind a suggestion of a dodge, how he might perhaps persuade his uncle to “table” the value of Bunhope on his side. But what was the value of Bunhope to the millions of old Tredgold? He might, perhaps, say that he wanted nothing more with Katherine than the equivalent of what he brought; but he doubted whether the old man would accept that compromise. And certainly, if he did so, there could be no question of doing justice to Stella out of the small share he would have of her father’s fortune. No; he felt sure Mr. Tredgold would exact the entire pound of flesh, and no less; that he would no more reduce his daughter’s inheritance than her husband’s fortune, and that no dodge would blind the eyes of the acute, businesslike old man.
This was rather a despairing point of view, from which Dr. Burnet tried to escape by thinking of Katherine herself, and what might happen could he persuade her to fall in love with him. That would make everything so much more agreeable; but would it make it easier? Alas! falling in love on Stella’s part had done no good to Somers; and Stella, though now cast off and banished, had possessed a far greater influence over her father than Katherine had ever had. Dr. Burnet was by no means destitute of sentiment in respect to her. Indeed, it is very probable that had Katherine had no fortune at all he would still have wished, and taken earlier more decisive steps, to make her aware that he wished to secure her for his wife; but the mere existence of a great fortune changes the equilibrium of everything. And as it was there, Dr. Burnet felt that to lose it, if there was any possible way of securing it, would be a great mistake. He was the old man’s doctor, who ought to be grateful to him for promoting his comfort and keeping him alive; and he was Katherine’s lover, and the best if not the only one there was. And he had free access to the house at all seasons, and a comfortable standing in the drawing-room aswell as in the master’s apartment. Surely something must be made of these advantages by a man with his eyes open, neglecting no opportunity. And, on the other hand, there was always the chance that old Tredgold might die, thus simplifying matters. The doctor’s final decision was that he would do nothing for the moment, but wait and follow the leading of circumstances; always keeping up his watch over Katherine, and endeavouring to draw her interest, perhaps in time her affections, towards himself—while, on the other hand, it would commit him to nothing to accept Lady Jane’s help, assuring her that—in the case which he felt to be so unlikely of ever having any power in the matter—he would certainly do “justice to Stella” as far as lay in his power.
When he had got to this conclusion the bell rang sharply, and, alas! Dr. Burnet, who had calculated on going to bed for once in comfort and quiet, had to face the wintry world again and go out into the snow.
Katherine’slife at Sliplin was in no small degree affected by the result of the Rector’s unfortunate visit. How its termination became known nobody could tell. No one ventured to say “She told me herself,” still less, “He told me.” Yet everybody knew. There were some who had upheld that the Rector had too much respect for himself ever to put himself in the position of being rejected by old Tredgold’s daughter; but even these had to acknowledge that this overturn of everything seemly and correct had really happened. It was divined, perhaps, from Mr. Stanley’s look, who went about the parish with his head held very high, and an air of injury which nobody had remarked in him before. For it was not only that he had been refused. That is a privilege which no law or authority can take from a free-born English girl, and far would it have been from the Rector’s mind to deny to Katherine this right; but it was the manner in which it had been exercised which gave him so deep a wound. It was not as the father of Charlotte and Evelyn that Mr. Stanley had been in the habit of regarding himself, nor that he had been regarded. His own individuality was too remarkable and too attractive, he felt with all modesty, to lay him under such a risk; and yet here was a young woman in his own parish, in his own immediate circle, who regarded him from that point of view, and who looked upon his proposal as ridiculous and something like an insult to her youth. Had she said prettily that she did not feel herself good enough for such a position, that she was not worthy—but that she was aware of the high compliment he had paid her, and never would forget it—which was the thing that any woman with a due sense of fitness would have said,he might have forgiven her. But Katherine’s outburst of indignation, her anger to have been asked to be the stepmother of Charlotte and Evelyn her playfellows, her complete want of gratitude or of any sense of the honour done her, had inflicted a deep blow upon the Rector. That he should be scorned as a lover seemed to him impossible, that a woman should be so insensible to every fact of life. He did not get over it for a long time, nor am I sure that he ever did get over it; not the disappointment, which he bore like a man, but the sense of being scorned. So long as he lived he never forgave Katherine that insult to his dearest feelings.
And thus Katherine’s small diversions were driven back into a still narrower circle. She could not go to the Rectory, where the girls were divided between gratitude to her for not having turned their life upside down, and wrath against her for not having appreciated papa; nor could she go where she was sure to meet him, and to catch his look of offended pride and wounded dignity. It made her way very hard for her to have to think and consider, and even make furtive enquiries whether the Stanleys would be there before going to the mildest tea party. When Mrs. Shanks invited her to meet Miss Mildmay, she was indeed safe. Yet even there Mr. Stanley might come in to pay these ladies a call, or Charlotte appear with her portfolio of drawings, or Evelyn fly in for a moment on her way to the post. She went even to that very mild entertainment with a quiver of anxiety. The great snowstorm was over which had stopped everything, obliterating all the roads, and making the doctor’s dog-cart and the butcher’s and baker’s carts the only vehicles visible about the country—which lay in one great white sheet, the brilliancy of which made the sea look muddy where it came up with a dull colour upon the beach. Everything, indeed, looked dark in comparison with that dazzling cloak of snow, until by miserable human usage the dazzling white changed into that most squalid of all squalid things, the remnant of a snowstorm in England, drabbled by all kinds of droppings, powdered with dust of smoke and coal, churned into the chillest and most dreadfulof mud. The island had passed through that horrible phase after a brief delicious ecstasy of skating, from which poor Katherine was shut out by the same reasons already given, but now had emerged green and fresh, though cold, with a sense of thankfulness which the fields seemed to feel, and the birds proclaimed better and more than the best of the human inhabitants could do.
The terrace gardens of Mrs. Shanks and Miss Mildmay shone with this refreshed and brightened greenness, and the prospect from under the verandah of their little houses was restored to its natural colour. The sea became once more the highest light in the landscape, the further cliffs were brown, the trees showed a faint bloom of pushing buds and rising sap, and glowed in the light of the afternoon sun near its setting. Mrs. Shanks’ little drawing room was a good deal darkened by its little verandah, but when the western sun shone in, as it was doing, the shade of the little green roof was an advantage even in winter; and it was so mild after the snow that the window was open, and a thrush in a neighbouring shrubbery had begun to perform a solo among the bushes, exactly, as Mrs. Shanks said, like a fine singer invited for the entertainment of the guests.
“It isn’t often you hear a roulade like that,” she said. “I consider Miss Sherlock was nothing to it.” Miss Sherlock was a professional lady who had been paying a visit in Sliplin, and who at afternoon teas and evening parties, being very kind and ready to “oblige,” had turned the season into a musical one, and provided for the people who were so kind as to invite her, an entertainment almost as cheap as that of the thrush in Major Toogood’s shrubbery.
“I hope the poor thing has some crumbs,” said Miss Mildmay. “I always took great pains to see that there was plenty of bread well peppered put out for them during the snow.”
“Was Miss Sherlock so very good?” said Katherine. “I was unfortunate, I never heard her, even at her concert. Oh, yes, I had tickets—but I did not go.”
“That is just what we want to talk to you about, my dearKatherine. Fancy a great singer in Sliplin, and the Cliff not represented, not a soul there. Oh, if poor dear Stella had but been here, she would not have stayed away when there was anything to see or hear.”
“Yes, I am a poor creature in comparison,” said Katherine, “but you know it isn’t nice to go to such places alone.”
“If there was any need to go alone! You know we would have called for you in the midge any time; but that’s ridiculous for you with all your carriages; it would have been more appropriate for you to call for us. Another time, Katherine, my dear——”
“Oh, I know how kind you are; it was not precisely for want of some one to go with.”
“Jane Shanks,” said Miss Mildmay, “what is the use of pretences between us who have known the child all her life? It is very well understood in Sliplin, Katherine, that there must be some motive in your seclusion. You have some reason, you cannot conceal it from us who know you, for shutting yourself up as you do.”
“What reason? Is it not a good enough reason that I am alone now, and that to be reminded of it at every moment is—oh, it is hard,” said Katherine, tears coming into her eyes. “It is almost more than I can bear.”
“Dear child!” Mrs. Shanks said, patting her hand which rested on the table. “We shouldn’t worry her with questions, should we?” But there was no conviction in her tone, and Katherine, though her self-pity was quite strong enough to bring that harmless water to her eyes, was quite aware not only that she did not seclude herself because of Stella, but also that her friends were not in the least deceived.
“I ask no questions,” said Miss Mildmay, “I hope I have a head on my shoulders and a couple of eyes in it. I don’t require information from Katherine! What I’ve got to say is that she mustn’t do it. Most girls think very little of refusing a man; sometimes they continue good friends, sometimes they don’t. When a man sulks it shows he was much in earnest, and is really a compliment. But to stay at home morning andnight because there is a man in the town who is furious with you for not marrying him; why, that’s a thing that is not to be allowed to go on, not for a day——”
“Nobody has any right to say that there is any man whom——”
“Oh, don’t redden up, Katherine, and flash your eyes at me! I have known you since you werethathigh, and I don’t care a brass button what you say. Do you think I don’t know all about you, my dear? Do you think that there’s a thing in Sliplin which I don’t know or Jane Shanks doesn’t know? Bless us, what is the good of us, two old cats, as I know you call us——”
“Miss Mildmay!” cried Katherine; but as it was perfectly true, she stopped there and had not another word to say.
“Yes, that’s my name, andhername is Mrs. Shanks; but that makes no difference. We are the two old cats. I have no doubt it was to Stella we owed the title, and I don’t bear her any malice nor you either. Neither does Jane Shanks. We like you, on the contrary, my dear; but if you think you can throw dust in our eyes—— Why, there is the Rector’s voice through the partition asking for me.”
“Oh,” said Katherine, “I must go, really I must go; this is the time when papa likes me to go to him. I have stayed too long, I really, really must go now——”
“Sit down, sit down, dear. It is only her fun. There is nobody speaking through the partition. The idea! Sliplin houses are not very well built, but I hope they are better than that.”
“I must have been mistaken,” said Miss Mildmay grimly. “I believe after all it is only Jane Shanks’ boy; he has a very gruff manly voice, though he is such a little thing, and a man’s voice is such a rarity in these parts that he deceives me. Well, Katherine, the two old cats hear everything. If it does not come to me it comes toher. My eyes are the sharpest, I think, but she hears the best. You can’t take us in. We know pretty well all that has happened to you, though youhave been so very quiet about it. There was that young city man whom you wouldn’t have, and I applaud you for it. But he’ll make a match with somebody of much more consequence than you. And then there is poor Mr. Stanley. The Stanleys are as thankful to you as they can be, and well they may. Why, it would have turned the whole place upside down. A young very rich wife at the Rectory and the poor girls turned out of doors. It just shows how little religion does for some people.”
“Oh, stop! stop!” cried Mrs. Shanks. “What has his religion to do with it? It’s not against any man’s religion to fall in love with a nice girl.”
“Please don’t say any more on this subject,” cried Katherine; “if you think it’s a compliment to me to be fallen in love with—by an old gentleman!—— But I never said a word about the Rector. It is all one of your mistakes. You do make mistakes sometimes, Miss Mildmay. You took little Bobby’s voice for—a clergyman’s.” It gave more form to the comparison to say a clergyman than merely a man.
“So I did,” said Miss Mildmay, “that will always be remembered against me; but you are not going to escape, Katherine Tredgold, in that way. I shall go to your father, if you don’t mind, and tell him everything, and that you are shutting yourself up and seeing nobody, because of—— Well, if it is not because of that, what is it? It is not becoming, it is scarcely decent that a girl of your age should live so much alone.”
“Please let me go, Mrs. Shanks,” said Katherine. “Why should you upbraid me? I do the best I can; it is not my fault if there is nobody to stand by me.”
“We shall all stand by you, my dear,” said Mrs. Shanks, following her to the door, “and Ruth Mildmay is never so cross as she seems. We will stand by you, in the midge or otherwise, wherever you want to go. At all times you may be sure of us, Katherine, either Ruth Mildmay or me.”
But when the door was closed upon Katherine Mrs. Shanks rushed back to the little drawing-room, now just sinking intogreyness, the last ray of the sunset gone. “You see,” she cried, “it’s all right, I to——”
But she was forestalled with a louder “I told you so!” from Miss Mildmay; “didn’t I always say it?” that lady concluded triumphantly. Mrs. Shanks might begin the first, but it was always her friend who secured the last word.
Katherine walked out into the still evening air, a little irritated, a little disgusted, and a little amused by the offer of these two chaperons and the midge to take her about. She had to walk through the High Street of Sliplin, and everybody was out at that hour. She passed Charlotte Stanley with her portfolio under her arm, who would probably have rushed to her and demanded a glance at the sketches even in the open road, or that Katherine should go in with her to the stationer’s to examine them at her ease on the counter; but who passed now with an awkward bow, having half crossed the road to get out of her way, yet sending a wistful smile nevertheless across what she herself would have called the middle distance. “Now what have I done to Charlotte?” Katherine said to herself. If there was anyone who ought to applaud her, who ought to be grateful to her, it was the Rector’s daughters. She went on with a sort of rueful smile on her lips, and came up without observing it to the big old landau, in which was seated Lady Jane. Katherine was hurrying past with a bow, when she was suddenly greeted from that unexpected quarter with a cry of “Katherine! where are you going so fast?” which brought her reluctantly back.
“My dear Katherine! what a long time it is since we have met,” said Lady Jane.
“Yes,” said Katherine sedately. “That is very true, it is a long time.”
“You mean to say it is my fault by that tone! My dear, you have more horses and carriages, and a great deal more time and youth and all that than I. Why didn’t you come to see me? If you thought I was huffy or neglectful, why didn’t you come and tell me so? I should have thought that was the right thing to do.”
“I should not have thought it becoming,” cried Katherine, astonished by this accost, “from me to you. I am the youngest and far the humblest——”
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” cried the elder lady, “that’s not true humility, that’s pride, my dear. I was an old friend; and though poor dear Stella always put herself in the front, you know it was you I liked best, Katherine. Well, when will you come, now? Come and spend a day or two, which will be extremely dull, for we’re all alone; but you can tell me of Stella, as well as your own little affairs.”
“I don’t know that I can leave papa,” Katherine said, with a little remnant of that primness which had been her distinction in Captain Scott’s eyes.
“Nonsense! He will spare you to me,” said Lady Jane with calm certainty. “Let me see, what day is this, Tuesday? Then I will come for you on Saturday. You can send over that famous little brougham with your maid and your things, and keep it if you like, for we have scarcely anything but dog-carts, except this hearse. Saturday; and don’t show bad breeding by making any fuss about it,” Lady Jane said.
Katherine felt that the great lady was right, it would have been bad breeding; and then her heart rose a little in spite of herself at the thought of the large dull rooms at Steephill in which there was no gilding, nor any attempt to look finer than the most solid needs of life demanded, and where Lady Jane conducted the affairs of life with a much higher hand than any of the Sliplin ladies. After being so long shut up in Sliplin, and now partly out of favour in it, the ways of Lady Jane seemed bigger, the life more easy and less self-conscious, and she consented with a little rising of her heart. She was a little surprised that Lady Jane, with her large voice, should have shouted a cordial greeting to the doctor as he passed in his dog-cart. “I am going to write to you,” she cried, nodding her head at him; but no doubt this was about some little ailment in the nursery, for with Katherine, a young lady going on a visit to Steephill, what could it have to do?
Thedoctor had made himself a very important feature in Katherine’s life during those dull winter days. After the great snowstorm, which was a thing by which events were dated for long after, in the island, and which was almost coincident with the catastrophe of the Rector; he had become more frequent in his visits to Mr. Tredgold and consequently to the tea-table of Mr. Tredgold’s lonely daughter. While the snow lasted, and all the atmospheric influences were at their worst, it stood to reason that an asthmatical, rheumatical, gouty old man wanted more looking after than usual; and it was equally clear that a girl a little out of temper and out of patience with life, who was disposed to shut herself up and retire from the usual amusements of her kind, would also be much the better for the invasion into her closed-up world of life and fresh air in the shape of a vigorous and personable young man, who, if not perhaps so secure in self-confidence and belief in his own fascinations as the handsome (if a little elderly) Rector, had not generally been discouraged by the impression he knew himself to have made. And Katherine had liked those visits, that was undeniable; the expectation of making a cup of tea for the doctor had been pleasant to her. The thought of his white strong teeth and the bread and butter which she never got out of her mind, was now amusing, not painful; she had seen him so often making short work of the little thin slices provided for her own entertainment. And he told her all that was going on, and gave her pieces of advice which his profession warranted. He got to know more of her tastes, and she more of his in this way, than perhaps was the case with any two young people in the entire island, and this in the most simple, themost natural way. If there began to get a whisper into the air of Dr. Burnet’s devotion to his patient on the Cliff and its possible consequences, that was chiefly because the doctor’s inclinations had been suspected before by an observant public. And indeed the episode of the Rector had afforded it too much entertainment to leave the mind of Sliplin free for further remark in respect to Katherine and her proceedings. And Mr. Tredgold’s asthma accounted for everything in those more frequent visits to the Cliff. All the same, it was impossible that there should not be a degree of pleasant intimacy and much self-revelation on both sides during these half hours, when, wrapped in warmth and comfort and sweet society, Dr. Burnet saw his dog-cart promenading outside in the snow or during the deeper miseries of the thaw, with the contrast which enhances present pleasure. He became himself more and more interested in Katherine, his feelings towards her being quite genuine, though perhaps enlivened by her prospects as an heiress. And if there had not been that vague preoccupation in Katherine’s mind concerning James Stanford, the recollection not so much of him as of the many, many times she had thought of him, I think it very probable indeed that she would have fallen in love with the doctor; indeed, there were moments when his image pushed Stanford very close, almost making that misty hero give way. He was a very misty hero, a shadow, an outline, indefinite, never having given much revelation of himself; and Dr. Burnet was very definite, as clear as daylight, and in many respects as satisfactory. It would have been very natural indeed that the one should have effaced the other.
Dr. Burnet did not know anything of James Stanford. He thought of Katherine as a little shy, a little cold, perhaps from the persistent shade into which she had been cast by her sister, unsusceptible as people say; but he did not at all despair of moving her out of that calm. He had thought indeed that there were indications of the internal frost yielding, before his interview with Lady Jane. With Lady Jane’s help he thought there was little doubt of success. But even that security made him cautious. It was evident that she was a girlwith whom one must not attempt to go too fast. The Rector had tried to carry the fort by acoup de main, and he had perished ingloriously in the effort. Dr. Burnet drew himself in a little after he acquired the knowledge of that event, determined not to risk the same fate. He had continued his visits but he had been careful to give them the most friendly, the least lover-like aspect, to arouse no alarms. When he received the salutation of Lady Jane in passing, and her promise that he should hear from her, his sober heart gave a bound, which was reflected unconsciously in the start of the mare making a dash forward by means of some magnetism, it is to be supposed conveyed to her by the reins from her master’s hand—so that he had to exert himself suddenly with hand and whip to reduce her to her ordinary pace again. If the manœuvre had been intentional it would have been clever as showing his skill and coolness in the sight of his love and of his patroness. It had the same effect not being intentional at all.
I am not sure either whether it was Lady Jane’s intention to enhance the effect of Dr. Burnet by the extreme dulness of the household background upon which she set him, so to speak, to impress the mind of Katherine. There was no party at Steephill. Sir John, though everything that was good and kind, was dull; the tutor, who was a young man fresh from the University, and no doubt might have been very intellectual or very frivolous had there been anything to call either gifts out, was dull also because of having little encouragement to be anything else. Lady Jane indeed was not dull, but she had no call upon her for any exertion; and the tone of the house was humdrum beyond description. The old clergyman dined habitually at Steephill on the Sunday evenings, and he was duller still, though invested to Katherine with a little interest as the man who had officiated at her sister’s marriage. But he could not be got to recall the circumstance distinctly, nor to master the fact that this Miss Tredgold was so closely related to the young lady whom he had made into Lady Somers. “Dear! dear! to think of that!” he had said when the connection had been explained to him, but what he meantby that exclamation nobody knew. I think it very likely that Lady Jane herself was not aware how dull her house was when in entire repose, until she found it out by looking through the eyes of a chance guest like Katherine. “What in thunder did you mean by bringing that poor girl here to bore her to death, when there’s nobody in the house?” Sir John said, whose voice was like a westerly gale. “Really, Katherine, I did not remember how deadly dull we were,” Lady Jane said apologetically. “It suits us well enough—Sir John and myself; but it’s a shame to have asked you here when there’s nobody in the house, as he says. And Sunday is the worst of all, when you can’t have even your needlework to amuse you. But there are some people coming to dinner to-morrow.” Katherine did her best to express herself prettily, and I don’t think even that she felt the dulness so much as she was supposed to do. The routine of a big family house, the machinery of meals and walks and drives and other observances, the children bursting in now and then, the tutor appearing from time to time tremendouslycomme il faut, and keeping up his equality, Sir John, not half so careful, rolling in from the inspection of his stables or his turnips with a noisy salutation, “You come out with me after lunch, Miss Tredgold, and get a blow over the downs, far better for you than keeping indoors.” And then after that blow on the downs, afternoon tea, and Mr. Montgomery rubbing his hands before the fire, while he asked, without moving, whether he should hand the kettle. All this was mildly amusing, in the proportion of its dulness, for a little while. We none of us, or at least few of us, feel heavily this dull procession of the hours when it is our own life; when it is another’s, our perceptions are more clear.
“But there are people coming to dinner to-morrow,” Lady Jane said. There was something in the little nod she gave, of satisfaction and knowingness, which Katherine did not understand or attempt to understand. No idea of Dr. Burnet was associated with Steephill. She was not aware that he was on visiting terms there—he had told her that he attended the servants’ hall—so that it was with a little start of surprise that,raising her eyes from a book she was looking at, she found him standing before her, holding out his hand as the guests gathered before dinner. The party was from the neighbourhood—county, or, at least, country people—and when Dr. Burnet was appointed to take Katherine in to dinner, that young lady, though she knew the doctor so well and liked him so much, did not feel that it was any great promotion. She thought she might have had somebody newer, something that belonged less to her own routine of existence, which is one of the mistakes often made by very astute women of the world like Lady Jane. There was young Fortescue, for instance, a mere fox-hunting young squire, not half so agreeable as Dr. Burnet, whom Katherine would have preferred. “He is an ass; he would not amuse her in the very least,” Lady Jane had said. But Sir John, who was not clever at all, divined that something new, though an ass, would have amused Katherine more. Besides, Lady Jane had her motives, which she mentioned to nobody.
Dr. Burnet did the very best for himself that was possible. He gave Katherine a report of her father, he told her the last thing that had transpired at Sliplin since her departure, he informed her who all the people were at table, pleased to let her see that he knew them all. “That’s young Fortescue who has just come in to his estate, and he promises to make ducks and drakes of it,” Dr. Burnet said. Katherine looked across the table at the young man thus described. She was not responsible for him in any way, nor could it concern her if he did make ducks and drakes of his estate, but she would have preferred to make acquaintance with those specimens of the absolutely unknown. A little feeling suddenly sprang up in her heart against Dr. Burnet, because he was Dr. Burnet and absolutely above reproach. She would have sighed for Dr. Burnet, for his quick understanding and the abundance he had to say, had she been seated at young Fortescue’s side.
After dinner, when she had talked a little to all the ladies and had done her duty, Lady Jane caught Katherine’s hand and drew her to a seat beside herself, and then she beckonedto Dr. Burnet, who drew a chair in front of them and sat down, bending forward till his head, Katherine thought, was almost in Lady Jane’s lap. “I want,” she said, “Katherine, to get Dr. Burnet on our side—to make him take up our dear Stella’s interests as you do, my dear, and as in my uninfluential way I should like to do too.”
“How can Dr. Burnet take up Stella’s interests?” cried Katherine, surprised and perhaps a little offended too.
“My dear Katherine, a medical man has the most tremendous opportunities—all that the priest had in old times, and something additional which belongs to himself. He can often say a word when none of the rest of us would dare to do so. I have immense trust in a medical man. He can bring people together that have quarrelled, and—and influence wills, and—do endless things. I always try to have the doctor on my side.”
“Miss Katherine knows,” said Dr. Burnet, trying to lead out of the subject, for Lady Jane’s methods were entirely, on this occasion, too straightforward, “that the medical man in this case is always on her side. Does not Mrs. Swanson, Lady Jane, sing very well? I have never heard her. I am not very musical, but I love a song.”
“Which is a sign that you are not musical. You are like Sir John,” said Lady Jane, as if that was the worst that could be said. “Still, if that is what you mean, Dr. Burnet, you can go and ask her, on my part. He is very much interested in you all, I think, Katherine,” she added when he had departed on this mission. “We had a talk the other day—about you and Stella and the whole matter. I think, if he ever had it in his power, that he would see justice done her, as you would yourself.”
“He is very friendly, I daresay,” said Katherine, “but I can’t imagine how he could ever have anything in his power.”
“There is no telling,” Lady Jane said. “I think he is quite a disinterested man, if any such thing exists. Now, we must be silent a little, for, of course, Mrs. Swanson is going to sing; she is not likely to neglect an opportunity. She has agood voice, so far as that goes, but little training. It is just the thing that pleases Sir John. And he has planted himself between us and the piano, bless him! now we can go on with our talk. Katherine, I don’t think you see how important it is to surround your father with people who think the same as we do about your poor sister.”
“No,” said Katherine, “it has not occurred to me; my father is not very open to influence.”
“Then do you give up Stella’s cause? Do you really think it is hopeless, Katherine?”
“How could I think so?” cried the girl with a keen tone in her voice which, though she spoke low, was penetrating, and to check which, Lady Jane placed her hand on Katherine’s hand and kept it there with a faint “shsh.” “You know what I should instantly do,” she added, “if I ever had it in my power.”
“Dear Katherine! but your husband might not see it in that light.”
“He should—or he should not be—my husband,” said Katherine with a sudden blush. She raised her eyes unwillingly at this moment and caught the gaze of Dr. Burnet, who was standing behind the great bulk of Sir John, but with his face towards the ladies on the sofa. Katherine’s heart gave a little bound, half of affright. She had looked at him and he at her as she said the words. An answering gleam of expression, an answering wave of colour, seemed to go over him (though he could not possibly hear her) as she spoke. It was the first time that this idea had been clearly suggested to her, but now so simply, so potently, as if she were herself the author of the suggestion. She was startled out of her self-possession. “Oh,” she cried with agitation, “I like her voice! I am like Sir John; let us listen to the singing.” Lady Jane nodded her head, pressed Katherine’s hand, and did what was indeed the first wise step she had taken, stepped as noiselessly as possible to another corner, where, behind her fan, she could talk to a friend more likely to respond to her sentiments and left Dr. Burnet to take her place.
“Is this permitted? It is too tempting to be lost,” he said in a whisper, and then he too relapsed into silence and attention. Katherine, I fear, did not get any clear impression of the song. Her own words went through her head, involuntarily, as though she had touched some spring which went on repeating them: “My husband—my husband.” Her white dress touched his blackness as he sat down beside her. She drew away a little, her heart beating loudly, in alarm, mingled with some other feeling which she could not understand, but he did not say another word until the song was over, and all the applause, and the moment of commotion in which the singer returned to her seat, and the groups of the party changed and mingled. Then he said suddenly, “I hope you will not think, Miss Katherine, that I desired Lady Jane to drag me in head and shoulders to your family concerns. I never should have been so presumptuous. I do trust you will believe that.”
“I never should have thought so, Dr. Burnet,” said Katherine, faltering with that commotion which was she hoped entirely within herself and apparent to no one. Then she added as she assured her voice, “It would not have been presumptuous. You know so much of us already, and ofher, and took so much part——”
“I am your faithful servant,” he said, “ready to be sent on any errand, or to take any part you wish, but I do not presume further than that.” Then he rose quickly, as one who is moved by a sudden impulse. “Miss Katherine, will you let me take you to the conservatory to see Lady Jane’s great aloe? They used to say it blossomed only once in a hundred years.”
“But that’s all nonsense, you know,” said Mr. Montgomery the tutor; “see them all about the Riviera at every corner. Truth, they kill ’emselves when they’re about it.”
“Which comes to the same thing. Will you come?” said Dr. Burnet, offering his arm.
“But, my dear fellow, Miss Tredgold has seen it three or four times,” said this very unnecessary commentator.
“Never mind. She has not seen what I am going to show her,” said the doctor with great self-possession. Lady Jane followed them with her eyes as they went away into the long conservatory, which was famous in the islands and full of lofty palms and tropical foliage. Her middle-aged bosom owned a little tremor; was he going to put it to her, then and there? Lady Jane had offered assistance, even co-operation, but this prompt action took away her breath.
“I should like to see the aloe, too,” said the lady by her side.
“So you shall, presently,” said Lady Jane, “but we must not make a move yet, for there is Lady Freshwater going to sing. Mr. Montgomery, ask Lady Freshwater from me whether she will not sing us one of her delightful French songs. She has such expression, and they are all as light as air of course, not serious music. Look at Sir John, he is pleased, but he likes it better when it is English, and he can make out the words. He is a constant amusement when he talks of music—and he thinks he understands it, poor dear.”
She kept talking until she had watched Lady Freshwater to the piano, and heard her begin. And then Lady Jane felt herself entitled to a little rest. She kept one eye on the conservatory to see that nobody interrupted the botanical exposition which was no doubt going on there. Would he actually propose—on the spot, all at once, with the very sound of the conversation and of Lady Freshwater’s song in their ears? Was it possible that a man should go so fast as that? Now that it had come to this point Lady Jane began to get a little compunctious, to ask herself whether she might not have done better for Katherine than a country doctor, without distinction, even though he might have a wealthy uncle and a family place at his back? Old Tredgold’s daughter was perhaps too great a prize to be allowed to drop in that commonplace way. On the other hand, if Lady Jane had exerted herself to get Katherine a better match, was it likely that a man—if a man of ourmonde—would have consented to such an arrangement about Stella as Dr. Burnet was willing to make? If the fortunehad been Stella’s, Lady Jane was quite certain that Charlie Somers would have consented to no such settlement. And after all, would not Katherine be really happier with a man not too much out of her ownmonde, fitted for village life, knowing all about her, and not likely to be ashamed of his father-in-law? With this last argument she comforted her heart.
And Katherine went into the conservatory to see the aloe, which that malevolent tutor declared she had already seen so often, with her heart beating rather uncomfortably, and her hand upon Dr. Burnet’s arm.
Butthough Lady Jane had so fully made up her mind to it, and awaited the result with so much excitement, and though Katherine herself was thrilled with an uneasy consciousness, and Dr. Burnet’s looks gave every sanction to the idea, he did not on that evening under the tall aloe, which had begun to burst the innumerable wrappings of its husk, in the Steephill conservatory, declare his love or ask Katherine to be his wife. I cannot tell the reason why—I think there came over him a chill alarm as to how he should get back if by any accident his suit was unsuccessful. It was like the position which gave Mr. Puff so much trouble in theCritic. He could not “exit praying.” How was he to get off the stage? He caught the eyes of an old lady who was seated near the conservatory door. They were dull eyes, with little speculation in them, but they gave a faint glare as the two young people passed; and the doctor asked himself with a shudder, How could he meet their look when he came back if——? How indeed could he meet anybody’s look—Lady Jane’s, who was his accomplice, and who would be very severe upon him if he did not succeed, and jolly Sir John’s, who would slap him on the shoulder and shout at him in his big voice? His heart sank to his boots when he found himself alone with the object of his affections amid the rustling palms. He murmured something hurriedly about something he wanted to say to her, but could not here, where they were liable to interruption at any moment, and then he burst into a display of information about the aloe which was very astounding to Katherine. She listened, feeling the occasionmanqué, with a sensation of relief. I think it quite probable that in the circumstances, and amid the tremorof sympathetic excitement derived from Lady Jane, and the general tendency of the atmosphere, Katherine might have accepted Dr. Burnet. She would probably have been sorry afterwards, and in all probability it would have led to no results, but I think she would have accepted him that evening had he had the courage to put it to the touch; and he, for his part, would certainly have done it had he not been seized with that tremor as to how he was to get off the stage.
He found it very difficult to explain this behaviour to Lady Jane afterwards, who, though she did not actually ask the question, pressed him considerably about the botanical lecture he had been giving.
“I have sat through a Frenchcafé chantantsong in your interests, with all the airs and graces,” she said with a look of disgust, “to give you time.”
“Yes, I know,” said Dr. Burnet—it was at the moment of taking his leave, and he knew that he must soon escape, which gave him a little courage—“you have done everything for me—you have been more than kind, Lady Jane.”
“But if it is all to come to nothing, after I had taken the trouble to arrange everything for you!”
“It was too abrupt,” he said, “and I funked it at the last. How was I to get back under everybody’s eyes if it had not come off?”
“It would have come off,” she said hurriedly, under her breath, with a glance at Katherine. Then, in her usual very audible voice, she said, “Must you go so early, Dr. Burnet? Then good-night; and if your mare is fresh take care of the turning at Eversfield Green.”
He did not know what this warning meant, and neither I believe did she, though it was a nasty turning. And then he drove away into the winter night, with a sense of having failed, failed to himself and his own expectations, as well as to Lady Jane’s. He had not certainly intended to take any decisive step when he drove to Steephill, but yet he felt when he left it that the occasion wasmanqué, and that he had perhaps risked everything by his lack of courage. This is not a pleasantthought to a man who is not generally at a loss in any circumstances, and whose ways have generally, on the whole, been prosperous and successful. He was a fool not to have put it to the touch, to be frightened by an old lady’s dull eyes which probably would have noticed nothing, or the stare of the company which was occupied by its own affairs and need not have suspected even that his were at a critical point. Had he been a little bolder he might have been carrying home with him a certainty which would have kept him warmer than any great-coat; but then, on the other hand, he might have been departing shamed and cast down, followed by the mocking glances of that assembly, and with Rumour following after him as it followed the exit of the Rector, breathing among all the gossips that he had been rejected; upon which he congratulated himself that he had been prudent, that he had not exposed himself at least so far. Finally he began to wonder, with a secret smile of superiority, how the Rector had got off the scene? Did he “exit praying”?—which would at least have been suitable to his profession. The doctor smiled grimly under his muffler; he would have laughed if it had not been for Jim by his side, who sat thinking of nothing, looking out for the Sliplin lights and that turning about which Lady Jane had warned his master. If it had not been for Jim, indeed, Dr. Burnet, though so good a driver, would have run the mare into the bank of stones and roadmakers’ materials which had been accumulated there for the repair of the road. “Exit praying”?—no, the Rector, to judge from his present aspect of irritated and wounded pride, could not have done that. “Exit cursing,” would have been more like it. The doctor did burst into a little laugh as he successfully steered round the Eversfield corner, thanks to the observation of his groom, and Jim thought this was the reason of the laugh. At all events, neither the praying nor the cursing had come yet for Dr. Burnet, and he was not in any hurry. He said to himself that he would go and pay old Tredgold a visit next morning, and tell him of the dinner party at Steephill and see how the land lay.
I cannot tell whether Mr. Tredgold had any suspicion of the motives which made his medical man so very attentive to him, but he was always glad to see the doctor, who amused him, and whose vigorous life and occupation it did the old gentleman good to see.
“Ah, doctor, you remind me of what I was when I was a young man—always at it night and day. I didn’t care not a ha’penny for pleasure; work was pleasure for me—and makin’ money,” said the old man with a chuckle and a slap on the pocket where, metaphorically, it was all stored.
“You had the advantage over me, then,” the doctor said.
“Why, you fellows must be coining money,” cried the patient; “a golden guinea for five minutes’ talk; rich as Creosote you doctors ought to grow—once you get to the top of the tree. Must be at the top o’ the tree first, I’ll allow—known on ‘Change, you know, and that sort of thing. You should go in for royalties, doctor; that’s the way to get known.”
“I should have no objection, Mr. Tredgold, you may be sure, if the royalties would go in for me; but there are two to be taken into account in such a bargain.”
“Oh, that’s easily done,” said the old man. “Stand by when there’s some accident, doctor—there’s always accidents; and be on the spot at the proper time.”
“Unless I were to hire someone to get up the accident—— Would you go so far as to recommend that?”
Old Tredgold laughed and resumed the former subject. “So you took my Katie in to dinner? Well, I’m glad of that. I don’t approve of young prodigals dangling about my girls; they may save themselves the trouble. I’ve let ’em know my principles, I hope, strong enough. If I would not give in to my little Stella, it stands to reason I won’t for Kate. So my Lady Jane had best keep her fine gentlemen to herself.”
“You may make your mind quite easy, sir,” said the doctor; “there were nothing but county people, and very heavy county people into the bargain.”
“County or town, I don’t think much of ’em,” said old Tredgold; “not unless they can table their money alongside of me; that’s my principle, Dr. Burnet—pound for pound, or you don’t get a daughter of mine. It’s the only safe principle. Girls are chiefly fools about money; though Stella wasn’t, mind you—that girl was always a chip o’ the old block. Led astray, she was, by not believing I meant what I said—thought she could turn me round her little finger. That’s what they all think,” he said with a chuckle, “till they try—till they try.”
“You see it is difficult to know until they do try,” said Dr. Burnet; “and if you will excuse me saying it, Mr. Tredgold, Miss Stella had every reason to think she could turn you round her little finger. She had only to express a wish——”
“I don’t deny it,” said the old man with another chuckle—“I don’t deny it. Everything they like—until they come to separatin’ me from my money. I’ll spend on them as much as any man; but when it comes to settlin’, pound by pound—you’ve heard it before.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard it before,” the doctor said with a half groan, “and I suppose there are very few men under the circumstances——”
“Plenty of men! Why there’s young Fred Turny—fine young fellow—as flashy as you like with his rings and his pins, good cricketer and all that, though I think it’s nonsense, and keeps a young fellow off his business. Why, twice the man that Somers fellow was! Had him down for Stella to look at, and she as good as turned him out of the house. Oh, she was an impudent one! Came down again the other day, on spec, looking after Katie; and bless you, she’s just as bad, hankering after them military swells, too, without a copper. I’m glad to know my Lady Jane understands what’s what and kept her out of their way.”
“There were only county people—young Fortescue, who has a pretty estate, and myself.”
“Oh, you don’t count,” said old Mr. Tredgold; “we needn’t reckon you. Young Fortescue, eh? All land, no money. Land’s a very bad investment in these days. I think I’ll have nothing to do with young Fortescue. Far safer money on the table; then you run no risks.”
“Young Fortescue is not a candidate, I believe,” said Dr. Burnet with a smile much against the grain.
“A candidate for what?—the county? I don’t take any interest in politics except when they affect the market. Candidate, bless you, they’re all candidates for a rich girl! There’s not one of ’em, young or old, but thinks ‘That girl will have a lot of money.’ Why, they tell me old Stanley—old enough to be her father—has been after Katie, old fool!” the old man said.
Dr. Burnet felt himself a little out of countenance. He said, “I do not believe, sir, for a moment, that the Rector, if there is any truth in the rumour, was thinking of Miss Katherine’s money.”
“Oh, tell that to the—moon, doctor! I know a little better than that. Her money? why it’s her money everybody is thinking of. D’ye think my Lady Jane would pay her such attention if it wasn’t for her money? I thought it was all broken off along of Stella, but she thinks better luck next time, I suppose. By George!” cried the old man, smiting the table with his fist, “if she brings another young rake to me, and thinks she’ll get over me—— By George, doctor! I’ve left Stella to taste how she likes it, but I’d turn the other one—that little white proud Katie—out of my house.” There was a moment during which the doctor held himself ready for every emergency, for old Tredgold’s countenance was crimson and his eyes staring. He calmed down, however, quickly, having learned the lesson that agitation was dangerous for his health, and with a softened voice said, “You, now, doctor, why don’t you get married? Always better for a doctor to be married. The ladies like it, and you’d get on twice as well with a nice wife.”
“Probably I should,” said Dr. Burnet, “but perhaps, if the lady happened to have any money——”
“Don’t take one without,” the old man interrupted.
“I should be considered a fortune-hunter, and I shouldn’t like that.”
“Oh, you!” said Mr. Tredgold, “you don’t count—that’s another pair of shoes altogether. As for your young Fortescue, I should just like to see him fork out, down upon the table, thousand for thousand. If he can do that, he’s the man for me.”
“‘You don’t count!’ What did the old beggar mean by that?” Dr. Burnet asked himself as he took the reins out of Jim’s hand and drove away. Was it contempt, meaning that the doctor was totally out of the question? or was it by any possibility an encouragement with the signification that he as a privileged person might be permitted to come in on different grounds? In another man’s case Dr. Burnet would have rejected the latter hypothesis with scorn, but in his own he was not so sure. What was the meaning of that sudden softening of tone, the suggestion, “You, now, doctor, why don’t you get married?” almost in the same breath with his denunciation of any imaginary pretender? Why was he (Burnet) so distinctly put in a different category? He rejected the idea that this could mean anything favourable to himself, and then he took it back again and caressed it, and began to think it possible.Youdon’t count. Why shouldn’t he count?Hewas not a spendthrift like Charlie Somers;hewas not all but bankrupt; on the contrary, he was well-to-do and had expectations. He was in a better position than the young military swells whom Mr. Tredgold denounced; he was far better off than the Rector. Why shouldn’t he count? unless it was meant that the rule about those pounds on the table, &c., did not count where he was concerned, that he was to be reckoned with from a different point of view. The reader may think this was great folly on Dr. Burnet’s part, but when you turn over anything a hundred times in your mind it is sure to take new aspects not seen at first. And then Mr. Tredgold’s words appeared to the doctor’s intelligence quite capable of a special interpretation. He was, as a matter of fact,a much more important person to Mr. Tredgold than any fashionable young swell who might demand Katherine in marriage. He, the doctor, held in his hands, in a measure, the thread of life and death. Old Tredgold’s life had not a very enjoyable aspect to the rest of the world, but he liked it, and did not want it to be shortened by a day. And the doctor had great power over that. The old man believed in him thoroughly—almost believed that so long as he was there there was no reason why he should die. Was not that an excellent reason for almost believing, certainly for allowing, that he might want to make so important a person a member of his family on terms very different from those which applied to other people, who could have no effect upon his life and comfort at all? “You don’t count!” Dr. Burnet had quite convinced himself that this really meant all that he could wish it to mean before he returned from his morning round. He took up the questionà plusieurs reprises; after every visit working out again and again the same line of argument: You don’t count; I look to you to keep me in health, to prolong my life, to relieve me when I am in any pain, and build me up when I get low, as you have done for all these years; you don’t count as the strangers do, you have something to put down on the table opposite my gold—your skill, your science, your art of prolonging life. To a man like you things are dealt out by another measure. Was it very foolish, very ridiculous, almost childish of Dr. Burnet? Perhaps it was, but he did not see it in that light.
He passed the Rector as he returned home, very late for his hurried luncheon as doctors usually are, and he smiled with a mixed sense of ridicule and compassion at the handsome clergyman, who had not yet recovered his complacency or got over that rending asunder of hisamour propre. Poor old fellow! But it was very absurd of him to think that Katherine would have anything to say to him with his grown-up children. And a little while after, as he drove through the High Street, he saw young Fortescue driving into the stables at the Thatched House Hotel, evidently with the intention of putting up there.
“Ah!” he said to himself, “young Fortescue, another candidate!” The doctor was no wiser than other people, and did not consider that young Fortescue had been introduced for the first time to Katherine on the previous night, and could not possibly by any rule of likelihood be on his way to make proposals to her father the next morning. This dawned upon him after a while, and he laughed again aloud to the great disturbance of the mind of Jim, who could not understand why his master should laugh right out about nothing at all twice on successive days. Was it possible that much learning had made the doctor mad, or at least made him a little wrong in the head? And, indeed, excessive thinking on one subject has, we all know, a tendency that way.
Lady Janegave Katherine a great deal of good advice before she allowed her to return home. They talked much of Stella, as was natural, and of the dreadful discovery it was to her to find that after all she had no power over her father, and that she must remain in India with her husband for the sake of the mere living instead of returning home in triumph as she had hoped, and going to court and having the advantage at once of her little title and of her great fortune.
“The worst is that she seems to have given up hope,” Lady Jane said. “I tell her that we all agreed we must give your father a year; but she has quite made up her mind that he never will relent at all.”
“I am afraid I am of her opinion,” said Katherine; “not while he lives. I hope indeed—that if he were ill—if he were afraid of—of anything happening——”
“And you, of course, would be there to keep him up in his good intentions, Katherine? Oh, don’t lose an opportunity! And what a good thing for you to have a sensible understanding man like Dr. Burnet to stand by you. I am quite sure he will do everything he can to bring your father to a proper frame of mind.”
“If he had anything to do with it!” said Katherine a little surprised.
“A doctor, my dear, has always a great deal to do with it. He takes the place that the priest used to take. The priest you need not send for unless you like, but the doctor you must have there. And I have known cases in which it made all the difference—with a good doctor who made a point of standing up for justice. Dr. Burnet is a man ofexcellent character, not to speak of his feeling for you, which I hope is apparent enough.”
“Lady Jane! I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well,” said Lady Jane with composure, “there is no accounting for the opaqueness of girls in some circumstances. You probably did not remark either, Katherine, the infatuation of that unfortunate Rector, which you should have done, my dear, and stopped him before he came the length of a proposal, which is always humiliating to a man. But I was speaking of the doctor. He takes a great interest in poor Stella; he would always stand up for her in any circumstances, and you may find him of great use with your father at any—any crisis—which let us hope, however, will not occur for many a long year.”
Lady Jane’s prayer was not, perhaps, very sincere. That old Tredgold should continue to cumber the ground for many years, and keep poor Stella out of her money, was the very reverse of her desire; but the old man was a very tough old man, and she was afraid it was very likely that it would be so.
“I think,” said Katherine with a little heat, “that it would be well that neither Dr. Burnet nor any other stranger should interfere.”
“I did not say interfere,” said Lady Jane; “everything of that kind should be done with delicacy. I only say that it will be a great thing for you to have a good kind man within reach in case of any emergency. Your father is, we all know, an old man, and one can never tell what may happen—though I think, for my part, that he is good for many years. Probably you will yourself be married long before that, which I will rejoice to see for my part. You have no relations to stand by you, no uncle, or anything of that sort? I thought not; then, my dear, I can only hope that you will find a good man——”
“Thank you for the good wish,” said Katherine with a laugh. “I find it is a good man to look after Stella’s interests rather than anything that will please me that my friends wish.”
“My dear,” said Lady Jane with a little severity, “I should not have expected such a speech from you. I have alwaysthought a good quiet man of high principles would be far more suitable for you than anything like Charlie Somers, for example. Charlie Somers is my own relation, but I’m bound to say that if I proposed to him to secure to his sister-in-law half of his wife’s fortune I shouldn’t expect a very gracious answer. These sort of men are always so hungry for money—they have such quantities of things to do with it. A plain man with fewer needs and more consideration for others—— Katherine, don’t think me interested for Stella only. You know I like her, as well as feeling partly responsible; but you also know, my dear, that of the two I always preferred you.”
“You are very kind,” said Katherine; but she was not grateful—there was noeffusionin her manner. Many girls would have thrown themselves upon Lady Jane’s neck with an enthusiasm of response. But this did not occur to Katherine, nor did she feel the gratitude which she did not express.
“And I should like, I confess, to see you happily married, my dear,” said Lady Jane impressively. “I don’t think I know any girl whom I should be more glad to see settled; but don’t turn away from an honest, plain man. That is the sort of man that suits a girl like you best. You are not a butterfly, and your husband shouldn’t be of the butterfly kind. A butterfly man is a dreadful creature, Katherine, when he outgrows his season and gets old. There’s Algy Scott, for example, my own cousin, who admired you very much—you would tire of him in a week, my dear, or any of his kind; they would bore you to death in ten days.”
“I have no desire, Lady Jane, to try how long it would take to be bored to death by——”
“And you are very wise,” Lady Jane said. “Come and let’s look at the aloe and see how much it has unfolded sincethatnight. And is it quite certain, Katherine, that you must go to-morrow? Well, you have had a very dull visit, and I have done nothing but bore you with my dull advice. But Sir John will be broken-hearted to lose you, and you will always find the warmest welcome at Steephill. Friends are friends, my dear, however dull they may be.”
Katherine went home with her whole being in a state of animation, which is always a good thing for the mind even when it is produced by disagreeable events. The spirit of men, and naturally of women also, is apt to get stagnant in an undisturbed routine, and this had been happening to her day by day in the home life which so many things had concurred to make motionless. The loss of Stella, the double break with society, in the first place on that account, in the second because of the Rector, her partial separation from Steephill on one side and from the village on the other, had been, as it were, so many breakages of existence to Katherine, who had not sufficient initiative or sufficient position to make any centre for herself. Now the ice that had been gathered over her was broken in a multitude of pieces, if not very agreeably, yet with advantage to her mind. Katherine reflected with no small sense of contrariety and injustice of the continued comparison with Stella which apparently was to weigh down all her life. Lady Jane had invited her, not for her own attractiveness—though she did not doubt that Lady Jane’s real sentiment at bottom was, as she said, one of partiality for Katherine—but to be put into the way she should go in respect to Stella and kept up to her duty. That Stella should not suffer, that she should eventually be secured in her fortune, that was the object of all her friends. It was because he would be favourable to Stella that Lady Jane had thrust Dr. Burnet upon her, indicating him almost by name, forcing her, as it were, into his arms. Did Dr. Burnet in the same way consider that he was acting in Stella’s interests when he made himself agreeable to her sister? Katherine’s heart—a little wounded, sore, mortified in pride and generosity (as if she required to be pushed on, to be excited and pricked up into action for Stella!)—seemed for a moment half disposed to throw itself on the other side, to call back the Rector, who would probably think it right that Stella should be punished for her disobedience, or to set up an immovable front as an unmarried woman, adopting thatrôlewhich has become so common now-a-days. She would, she felt, have nobody recommended to her for her husbandwhose chief characteristic was that he would take care of Stella. It was an insult to herself. She would marry nobody at second-hand on Stella’s account. Better, far better, marry nobody at all, which was certainly her present inclination, and so be free to do for Stella, when the time came, what she had always intended, of her own accord and without intervention.
I think all the same that Lady Jane was quite right, and that the butterfly kind of man—the gallant, gay Algy or any of his fellows—would have been quite out of Katherine’s way; also that a man like Dr. Burnet would have been much in her way. But to Katherine these calculations seemed all, more or less, insulting. Why an elderly clergyman with a grown-up family should suppose himself to be on an equality with her, a girl of twenty-three, and entitled to make her an offer, so very much at second-hand, of his heart and home, which was too full already; and why, in default of him, a country practitioner with no particular gifts or distinction should be considered the right thing for Katherine, gave her an angry sense of antagonism to the world. This, then, was all she was supposed to be good for—the humdrum country life, the humdrum, useful wife of such a man. And that everything that was pleasant and amusing and extravagant and brilliant should go to Stella: that was the award of the world. Katherine felt very angry as she drove home. She had no inclination towards any “military swell.” She did not admire her brother-in-law nor his kind; she (on the whole) liked Dr. Burnet, and had a great respect for his profession and his much-occupied, laborious, honourable life. But to have herself set down beforehand as a fit mate only for the doctor or the clergyman, this was what annoyed the visionary young person, whose dreams had never been reduced to anything material, except perhaps that vague figure of James Stanford, who was nobody, and whom she scarcely knew!
Yet all this shaking up did Katherine good. If she had been more pleasantly moved she would perhaps scarcely have been so effectually startled out of the deadening routine of her life. The process was not pleasant at all, but it made herblood course more quickly through her veins, and quickened her pulses and cleared her head. She was received by her father without much emotion—with the usual chuckle and “Here you are!” which was his most affectionate greeting.
“Well, so you’ve got home,” he said. “Find home more comfortable on the whole, eh, Katie? Better fires, better cooking, more light, eh? I thought you would. These grand folks, they have to save on something; here you’re stinted in nothing. Makes a difference, I can tell you, in life.”
“I don’t think there is much stinting in anything, papa, at Steephill.”
“Not for the dinner party, perhaps. I never hold with dinner parties. They don’t suit me; sitting down to a large meal when you ought to be thinking of your bed. But Sir John puts his best foot forward, eh, for that? Saves up the grapes, I shouldn’t wonder, till they go bad, for one blow-out, instead of eating ’em when he wants ’em, like we do, every day.”