Dolores (25 page)

“Well,
Vicar!”
said Mr Blackwood; “I am glad to see you here with all your flock. And a fine flock it is, too—as fine as my own; and I couldn't say more to please—to please any one you please. I couldn't indeed.”

Mr Hutton's eyes sought the available chairs, rather than Mr Blackwood's face; and his reply seemed lost in a heavy taking of a seat, though his expression was well disposed.

“Well, you are a fine pair of girls!” said Mr Blackwood, taking the hands of Sophia and Evelyn. “I shall be proud of having one of you for my daughter-in-law. I shall indeed. I shouldn't mind if I was to have you both——”

“Herbert, come dear,” said Mrs Blackwood, in her half-reproving, conjugal tones; “here is Mrs Merton-Vane.”

“I am
glad
to see you, Mrs Merton-Vane,” said Mr Blackwood, very loudly, as though in amend for his involuntary disregard. “How are you?”

“I am pret-ty well, thank you, Mr Blackwood,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, implying that her qualified words had allusion to her widow's weeds. “I felt I
could
not refuse your kindness, though I feel inclined to shut myself up, away from ev-er-y-one. But it does not do to give way to feelings like that
too
much, does it?”

“No, no, it doesn't do, Mrs Merton-Vane; it doesn't do,” said Mr Blackwood.

“How do you do, Mrs Cassell?” said Mrs Blackwood. “We were all beginning to wonder if anything had prevented your coming.”

“How do you know we were, mother? We have none of us said so,” said Elsa.

“Oh, no,
thank
you, Mr Blackwood. It was John; he
would
be so long dressing,” said Mrs Cassell, throwing an arch look at her husband, which he ignored with no failing in goodwill.

“Well,
doctor!”
said Mr Blackwood, advancing. “Well,
doctor,
how are you?”

“I am—well, thank you,” said Dr. Cassell.

“Why, Mr
Soulsby!
” said Mr Blackwood; “I am glad to see
you
here. I am glad to see you here at last; I am indeed. Come, find a seat. Do not treat us as strangers, I beg of you, after
our having been neighbours at intervals for all these years.”

“Come up to the fire, Mr Soulsby,” said Mrs Blackwood.

“Why, Soulsby? Still at your old tricks of unpunctuality?” said Mr Hutton, knowing himself regarded as accosting the friend of his early days.

“I—I—you are most kind. No, no, no; this place is—is what I should choose, thank you,” said Soulsby; managing to glance round the room, rest his eyes on Dolores, and push his fingers through his hair, in the second before he took his seat.

“Why, Mr Soulsby, I hear that you and Mr Hut-ton were boys to-geth-er,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, leaning forward.

“Yes; yes, yes. At least—that is to say, we were at Oxford at the same time,” said Soulsby.

“Now, Mr Soulsby, what do you think of this double wedding we are all going foolish over?” said Mr Blackwood; indicating the four young people concerned, with confidence in their hold upon any man's interest. “Brother and sister, to brother and sister. A pretty thing, won't it be?”

“Brother and sister, to brother and sister?” broke in Dr Cassell. “Brother and sister, to sister and brother, I believe?”

“Ah, yes, doctor; ah, yes, that's the coupling,” said Mr Blackwood. “Well, what do you think of it, Mr Soulsby?”

“Oh—certainly—a very—a very pleasant arrangement,” said Soulsby; throwing one swift glance at Elsa and Evelyn, as though feeling definite scrutiny a discourtesy, and clasping and unclasping his hands.

Dolores, who was watching Bertram, saw him make a gesture as though in response to a sign; and Elsa suddenly rose, and confronted her father.

“You can leave Bertram and me out of Mr Soulsby's ‘pleasant arrangement,' father,” she said, in a reckless voice with a quiver of laughter. “We have fulfilled our part early, to save so much complication.”

Mr Blackwood looked easily uncomprehending; but Mrs Blackwood leaned forward.

“What do you mean, Elsa? Say what you mean plainly, and at once.”

“Oh, Elsa, Elsa, you hussy, what now, what now?” said the Reverend Cleveland.

“Remember that you are speaking to Mrs Hutton, if you please, Uncle Cleveland,” said Elsa.

“Oh, Elsa, how naughty of you! “said Mrs Blackwood, mingling the feminine attributes of swift comprehension and shrill tearfulness. “Now you have spoilt it all—the double
wedding and everything. You never think of any one but yourself. You never have been anything but a disappointment to us from your babyhood. I shall be ashamed to tell any one. I shall never be able to speak of it. And my eldest daughter's marriage too! It is too bad. But I suppose it is all my fault, for allowing you and Bertram to be about so much alone. If you had had another mother.…”

“Oh, my darling, come, come. Young people will do foolish things sometimes. Why, you and I were on the point of doing something very much like it, about sixty years ago, if you remember. But it
will
be a bad thing, if
you
are going to fret about it. Come, come, now.” Mr Blackwood crossed over to his wife, and awaited further revelations with his arm round her shoulders.

“Sixty years ago!” said Mrs Cassell, looking round with a smile. “Well, it isn't
quite
so long ago, that we were nearly culprits in the same way, is it, John?”

“Bertram, my son, should not the explanation come from you?” said Mr Hutton, as the doctor's voice gave no sign of breaking the silence.

“Yes, sir, certainly,” said Bertram, going to Elsa and taking her hand. “It is just as—as my wife has said. We have no excuse to make; except that young people, as my father-in-law
has observed, will do foolish things sometimes. We must plead that we are not—are not considered to be—mature.” Bertram spoke with a faint note of cynical bitterness.

“You are instead—considered to be”—said Dr Cassell, leaning forward and smiling, “a little pre-mature.”

“Ah! So I am a father-in-law. So I am. I had not thought of that,” said Mr Blackwood, as though taking some personal credit.

“Oh, de-ars!” said Mrs Merton-Vane. “How
could
you do such a naughty thing? De-ar, de-ar!”

“They may not be mature; but they are—universally agreed to be—a little pre-mature,” said Dr Cassell, a little more urgently, arresting no eye but Mrs Cassell's.

“Cannot we have a coherent account of the thing?” said Herbert. “Evelyn and I would like some hints how these matters are managed.”

“Oh, Herbert, do not joke about it,” said Mrs Blackwood.

“My
darling,
you are upset,” said Mr Blackwood, so loudly that Soulsby looked at him with uneasy question.

“There is no account to give. We simply did it, and there is an end of it. I am sure that is coherent. We will not thrust the whens and wherefores upon you, as my mother finds the subject so distasteful,” said Elsa.

“Oh, my de-ar!” said Mrs Merton-Vane.

“Shall we go in to supper, mother,” said Lettice, implying that the subject was of a kind to be dropped as soon as possible.

“Yes, yes, Letty, my
darling.
You take the bottom of the table, and relieve your mother,” said Mr Blackwood, ending in a resonant whisper, which he seemed to consider audible to his daughter, but not to the ear against his moustache.

The supper-table afforded bare accommodation for the party to be seated; but Mr Blackwood was fortunate in not seeing this condition a ground for discomfiture. He pointed his guests to seats, with a loud geniality, and an easy consciousness of ushering them to the excellent, which in no degree failed him, even at the end of his efforts, when Soulsby was found to be standing in helpless survey of the spaceless rows, as a result of persistent passing on of the places pointed out to him.

“Oh, Mr Souls-by!” said Mrs Merton-Vane. “How self-ish we all are! Re-al-ly, I feel quite ashamed.”

Soulsby took the seat that by some impenetrable process was put at his disposal, with some nervous words and gestures, which, as they came from himself, were perfectly dignified; and found relief in aiding the passing of the plates; which Mr Blackwood was issuing from the head
of the table, without exaggerated heed to their destination.

“Well,” said that genial host in tones of some triumph, pausing with the carving knife and fork in his hands; “this is a nice thing! This is a nice thing, upon my word—upon my word it is! Ah, Elsa, you may well sit there, looking so innocent! You may, indeed, you monkey. As if we had not had enough trouble with you!”

“I—I suppose you were surprised to find that your sister was married?” said Soulsby to Lettice; finding this his best in the way of the urbane intercourse incumbent on a guest.

“Yes, I was very surprised,” said Lettice, implying that surprise was one of the mildest of her sentiments.

“Lettice would never have done such a thing,” said Mrs Blackwood. “She is very shocked; and I do not wonder.”

“Neither do I, mother,” said Elsa. “My power of wondering at Letty's being shocked at things, has been worn out with overwork long ago.”

“How many days have you been married, my son?” said the Reverend Cleveland. “I do not like this living apart as husband and wife. You must take Elsa to the home you have ready for her.”

“Yes, sir; I quite agree with you. We are thinking of dispensing with a honeymoon, and
going to Manchester to settle next week,” said Bertram, his manner seeming at peculiar variance with his supposedly recent freak.

“I only have one more Sunday to go to the Wesleyan chapel,” said Elsa, with naughty complacence.

“Elsa, I hope you will make a point of attending the Wesleyan service, when you are in your own home,” said Mrs Blackwood. “I cannot bear to think of your turning aside, to become anything but a Wesleyan.”

“Oh, I have turned aside in my heart long ago, mother,” said Elsa; “ever since I heard father's lecture on the ‘Wesleyan Body, its origin and history,' in the meeting - house, when I was twelve. I am a church woman now; and you ought to be thankful, I am not a Roman Catholic, as I ought to be on any normal reactive principle. Are you not glad I am a churchwoman, Uncle Cleveland?”

“If I may say what I should feel, were I your father, I think I may admit that I am,” said Mr Hutton.

“Dear Uncle Cleveland! What a nice father you would have made!” said Elsa, not subjecting Mr Blackwood to any parental pang.

“I have been thinking, Blackwood,” said Dr Cassell, recalled by this talk of religion to his own particular pre-eminence; “of giving a series of—lectures—in the meeting-house, upon—Protestantism,
and the various causes which—threaten it. I am thinking of arranging the lectures in a course of six; and giving them once a fortnight for twelve weeks.”

“Ah, doctor, are you, are you?” said Mr Blackwood, easily sinking such matters as his children's marriages in this interest. “Well, now—how would it be now, if I were to join you
myself;
and give—say, alternate lectures with you on some other subject—say
Temperance.
That is the subject I am best up in. I believe I could make the lectures interesting; I
believe
that I could. I have had a good deal of experience in that line, as you know; and I could bring forward a good many practical examples, to give the thing a
hold
upon the people. What do you say to that, doctor?”

Dr Cassell considered with some fall of countenance.

“Well, doctor, what do you say to it?” said Mr Blackwood.

“I hardly think,” said Dr Cassell, in a rather wounded manner, “that lectures on Temperance would—alternate very well with my lectures. The subjects are hardly—kindred; and I had planned that attendance should be required only once a fortnight, with the purpose of—insuring a good audience. I—I think, I do not think well of the combination.”

“Ah, well, doctor Have it all to yourself
if you like,” said Mr Blackwood, with satisfactory compliance, but, as it seemed to his friend, a rather crude frankness.

“I suppose you will not go—will not have time to go to the lectures, Mr Hut-ton?” said Mrs Merton-Vane, inclining her head.

“No, I shall not, I fear,” said Mr Hutton, his non-committing tone leading in subtle manner to a silence; which Soulsby felt himself somehow impelled to break.

“So you have secured the post at Manchester university?” he said to Bertram. “I was glad to hear it.”

“I have to thank you most gratefully for your influence in the matter, sir,” said Bertram.

“To think that you have a son a pro-fes-sor, Mr Hutton!” said Mrs Merton-Vane. “I feel quite fright-ened, at sitting by the father of a pro-fes-sor. I suppose we must begin to call him, Pro-fes-sor Hut-ton?”

“I hope I shall not be Professor long,” said Bertram. “I have only accepted a professorship at Manchester, as a stepping-stone to some smaller post in Oxford. I am obliged to take something that carries a house and a necessary income.”

“I once knew a Professor
Long”
said Dr Cassell, brought into full form by the final relief of his dialogue with his host. “I think I may say that everything about him was
long.
His hair was long; his legs were long; his name was
‘Long'; and the only anecdote he knew—was
long.”
Dr Cassell laughed; and finding himself fairly followed, continued.

“He lived to be ninety-one; so I think we may say his life was long. In fact, shall we call him a second
Long-fellow?”

Mrs Cassell looked round, with a smile significant of power of appreciative comment.

“Ah, Mr Soulsby,” said Mr Blackwood loudly, perceiving Soulsby's eyes resting on Dr Cassell; “you don't know the
doctor,
do you? He's the one for
anecdotes,
and clever
sayings,
and information of all kinds. He
is
that, I can tell you. You will soon get to know that; I can tell you that you will.”