Dolores (10 page)

“I do not think it
of any avail”
broke in Dr Cassell, leaning forward.

“Well, it is all the same in
practice,
doctor,” said Mr Blackwood. “And it is
practice
we have to think of. Now, Mr Billing, what
I
believe is, that little by little the whole world will be evangelized, and that the gospel will be preached in every corner of it, as we are told in the Bible. That is what
I
believe; and that is what I think we
ought
to believe. I have no sympathy with this living for
oneself,
and not thinking of one's duty to one's fellow-creatures myself. I think—”

“If I had sympathy with that course, I do not think I should give all my spare time to—preaching the gospel to—and otherwise working for the good of—my fellow - creatures,” said Dr Cassell; just glancing at Mr Blackwood to make this rather bitterly-voiced observation; and then turning to Mr Billing, as though unable to refrain longer from putting his case for himself. “I regard it as impossible—I think I may say
know
it is impossible, from scriptural sources—to materially benefit the world—in its spiritual aspect—or to arrest its ultimate downfall; beyond endeavouring to—increase the number of the elect by evangelistic work. I think the true Christian should stand apart from the world.”

“Ruskin's view—with religion in the place of letters and the arts,” said Mr Hutton, in a very low and somewhat caustic tone.

“Well,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, with a
mingling of sadness and bitterness, “I am a Conservative myself, and so is my hus-band. Our fam-i-lies have been Conservative from the earliest times. Of course, we both come of such very old fam-i-lies. Lord Loftus was saying to me only yesterday, ‘My dear Mrs Merton-Vane, if every one held the opinions of
your husband,
the world would be a different place.' That is what he said, Mr Hut-ton.”

“But—er—how do you suggest, Dr Cassell,” said Mr Billing, “that the necessary work in other matters, the work needful for the welfare of the nation, should be carried on, if no—er—righteous person must take part in it? Should we not all do our duty in the political system of our country, that the existing scheme may answer as well as possible? What of the practical results if everybody stood aside?”

Dr Cassell leaned forward, looking somewhat ruffled. He had so long interpreted a conversation as a didactic utterance by himself, that argument on equal terms struck him as deliberate baiting. “I base,” he said, in a tone at once huffy and impressive, “all my actions and all—my opinions—as far as in me lies—upon scriptural grounds. The Bible—and nothing but the Bible—is my authority for them. I am answerable to no man for them.”

Poor Mr Billing fidgeted, and looked as if he would like to apologise, if he could call to mind a
definite ground for apology; and was much relieved by an appeal from his hostess.

“Mr Billing, I really cannot agree with Dr Cassell in his view that Christians should stand apart from the world. It seems to me that they ought to mingle in the world, and do their best to lift it to a higher plane, and hasten the day when the gospel shall be known amongst all nations. You know all really great men have felt in that way. Socrates and Dr Johnson, and so many people like that, found their greatest pleasure in mingling with men. You know, Socrates would have saved his life if he had consented to go away from Athens—the city he loved. I think that standing apart from the world is the very last thing for a Christian.”

Mr Billing looked his appreciation and uncertainty how to express it; and Dr Cassell, after a moment's pause, leaned forward with a clearing brow.

“Do you know the reply—Mrs Blackwood—that Dr Johnson made, on being asked to take a walk in the country?”

“No, doctor, no; let us hear it,” said Mr Blackwood in an easy tone.

“His reply was,” said Dr Cassell, “‘Sir, when you have seen one green field, you have seen all green fields. Sir, I like to look upon men. Let us walk down Cheapside.'”

“How very interesting,” said Mr Blackwood, “and how like Dr Johnson! I think he would have been such an interesting man to know, do not you, Mr Billing? Boswell's ‘Life of Johnson' is such an illuminating biography—the best biography I have read, I think; and I have always been so fond of biography as a form of literature. Do you not admire it, Mr Billing?”

Mr Billing's honesty was spared by the announcement that the vicarage trap was at the door. The Reverend Cleveland rose without pause, and stood with his eyes on the floor, frankly awaiting his wife's movement for departure. When this was made, he shook hands in silence with his fellow-guests, showing Mrs Cassell and Mrs Merton-Vane some courtliness, and Dr Cassell and Mr Billing some coldness. He then observed to Mrs Blackwood, “We have to thank you for an exceedingly pleasant evening”; and took up his stand near the door, in waiting for the ladies of his family to precede him from the room. Mrs Blackwood escorted her sister and Dolores upstairs; leaving Dr Cassell to enlightenment of Mr Billing, whose attitude did not henceforth waver from the gratefully receptive; and a sisterly talk enlivened the assumption of wrappings.

“So Cleveland and Bertram are going to walk on, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood.

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Hutton. “They leave
the trap to us feminine creatures. It does not hold more than two.”

“When we lived at Hallington,” said Mrs Blackwood, “we had a trap that only had room for one besides the man; and when Herbert and I went out, he used to wait to put me into it before he started himself. He used to say he felt so worried, when he thought of me clambering into it alone in the dark.”

“Oh, that was such a dangerous trap,” said Mrs Hutton. “It really was hardly safe.”

“Oh, no, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood; “it could not have been safer; it was only Herbert's nervousness about me.”

“Ah, those were your early married days,” said Mrs Hutton, adjusting her hood before the glass.

“Oh, but Herbert has not altered in the least since then,” said Mrs Blackwood, her voice becoming a little higher pitched. “He fidgets so about me, that sometimes in company he makes me feel quite foolish.”

Mrs Hutton pulled out her strings without sign of accepting this statement; and Mrs Blackwood felt urged to its elaboration.

“I always think it is such a wrong theory that husbands are different after they are married. I think that as they begin, so they go on. You see Herbert worries about me just as much as ever; and Cleveland never has been
anxious about you, has he? He does not let things like that disturb him.”

“My dear Carrie, it is rather absurd to talk about
Herbert's
being worried,” said Mrs Hutton. “I do not remember seeing him worried in his life.”

“Oh, you do not understand him, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood. “He does not show his feelings on the surface. I often think what a sad thing it would have been for him, if he had married some one who did not believe in anything that was not under her eyes. I am so thankful that we were brought together.”

“Thankfulness on that point is a needless self-exaction, dear,” said Mrs Hutton. “As you were cousins, special providential arrangements to bring you together were not required.”

“My dear, our grandparents were second cousins,” said Mrs Blackwood. “People connected in that degree very often never meet. I always feel that Herbert and I were given to each other.”

“I remember you so well when you were engaged,” said Mrs Hutton, with a little laugh.

“I remember it too,” said Mrs Blackwood; “and how I used to pity you, for having no chance of getting married, though you were the elder sister. Girls are so amusing in the way they look at things.”

“I never can understand how women can
marry boys,” said Mrs Hutton, surveying her reflection in the mirror.

“My dear, when a woman marries as young as I did, she naturally marries a young man,” said Mrs Blackwood. “Of course a man is getting on in years when he has one life behind him.”

“I meant I could not understand a woman's accepting a man younger than herself,” said Mrs Hutton; “as though she would secure a husband at any cost.”

“My dear Sophia, Herbert is only a few months younger than I am. He was asking the other day which of us was the elder. The difference is so small, that he never remembers which way it is.”

“Is it really so small as that?” said Mrs Hutton. “It hardly seems possible, does it? Well, we must be going down, dear. Our menfolk must be nearly home. We have had such a pleasant evening. It has been quite a break for Dolores after her term's work.”

In the drawing-room Dr Cassell was found seated on the edge of his chair, and leaning towards Mr Billing, with hand upraised; his wife's eyes fastened on his face, and the Blackwood family listening in the background—that is to say, Lettice listening; Elsa exposing his mannerisms with silent mimicry; and Mr Blackwood twirling his moustache as an effort against
sleepiness. Dolores and her stepmother drove to the parsonage in silence; and parted on the threshold for the night, the latter to win the Reverend Cleveland to some difficult mirth, by her sallies at the expense of her kindred.

Before you is a room whose innocence of toy or draping holds it with the figures within it in subtle sympathy. Within it are some women who in some way stay your glance; who carry in their bearing some suggested discord with convention—a something of greater than the common earnestness and ease. Those who are laughing give unchecked heart to their laughter. The one who is distributing cups of some beverage, does it as the unobtrusive service of a comrade.

The scene has a meaning which marks it a scene of its day. It is the common room of the teaching staff in a college for women.

The dispenser of the beverage is crossing the room with movements of easy briskness. She is a woman of forty, older at a glance; with a well-cut, dark - skinned face, iron - grey hair whose waving is conquered by its drawing to the knot in the neck, and dark eyes keen under thick, black brows. That is Miss Cliff, the lecturer in English literature.

The companion to whom she is handing a cup—the lecturer in classics, Miss Butler,—and who takes it with a word in a vein of pleasantry, is a small, straight woman, a few years younger; whose parted hair leaves the forehead fully shown, and whose hazel eyes have humour in their rapid glancing.

“I cannot but see it as ungenerous to brew the coffee with such skill,” she is saying; “in purposed contrast to my concoction of last week.”

“A meanly revengeful comment on my general manner of brewing it,” said Miss Cliff. “Well, you may put its success down to my being out of practice. It is the only reason I can think of for it.”

“I remember the last time you made it,” said a genial, guttural voice at the side of Miss Butler—the voice of Miss Dorrington, the lecturer in German, and a strong illustration of the power of moral attractiveness over the physical opposite; which in her case depended on uncouth features, an eruptive skin, and general ungainliness. “It was that week when you kept getting ill, and at the end I had to make it for you.”

“Hoist with your own petard?” said Miss Butler, smiling at Miss Cliff.

“I think it is a great accomplishment to make good coffee,” said Miss Cliff, in a consciously demure tone; “a very seemly, womanly accomplishment. I cannot feel justified in relaxing my
efforts to acquire it, if you will all be generous. Cookery, you know, is the greatest attainment for a woman.”

A short, quaint - looking, middle - aged lady, with a pathetic manner which somehow was comical in its union with her calling of mathematical teacher, looked up with a slow smile. “I fear we are but a boorish set, if that be true,” she said.

“Oh, I know it is true, Miss Greenlow,” said Miss Cliff, meeting Miss Butler's eyes. “I read it in a book, so of course it was true.”

“Of course,” said Miss Dorrington, in her breathless guttural, no genial quality unsuggested in her face and voice.

“Do any of you remember when you first realised that things in books need not be true?” said Miss Cliff, with the half - philosophising interest in her kind, which was one of her characteristics. “Do you remember feeling the ground you were used to walk upon, slipping from under your feet, and a mist of scepticism rising around you?”

A lady who was standing apart came forward to join in the talk. She was a Frenchwoman, over fifty, with a sallow, clever face, and sad brown eyes which lighted with her smile; who had led a difficult life in the land of her forced adoption, and lived with its daughters, feeling that she owed it no gratitude.

“I imagine most of us had that experience at an early stage for such power of metaphor to be born,” she said.

“I did not mean the metaphors to be quoted from childish reflections,” said Miss Cliff. “I was putting a childish experience into unchildish language. But I remember the experience itself so well. It marks off a chapter in my life for me.”

“Yes; we have so much faith as children,” said the remaining member of the band. “I daresay we could all mark off the chapters in our lives by loss of faith in something. We have to guard against losing faith in too many things.”

The speaker was Miss Adam, the lecturer in history—younger than the others, and young for her youth; with her zeal for the world where she had her life, not untempered by a wistfulness on the world outside, and her faith in the creed of her nurture as untouched by any of the usual shattering forces, as by her special knowledge of its growth.

“It seems we can mark age by steps in scepticism,” said Miss Lemaître. “It would be a help to our curiosity on both, to remember they correspond.”

“It would be a very good way of guessing people's ages,” said Miss Greenlow, with her inappropriate plaintiveness. “We should simply have to start some disputed topics; and having
discovered the doubted points, calculate the chapters marked off.”