Wood and Stone (7 page)

“Thank you—thank you. I fear my question was impertinent; but in return for the solemn oath you exacted from me, I think I deserved some
reward
, don’t you? But seriously, Mrs. Seldom, I
do not think that any of these less desirable fates will befall our dear child. I think she will marry a pillar of the aristocracy, and remain herself a pillar of the Anglican Church! I trust she will not,
whatever
happens, lose her regard for her old Catholic friend.”

He rose as he spoke and held out his hand. Mrs. Seldom took it in her own and held it for a moment with some emotion. Had he been a real Monsignor, he could not have looked more calm, more tolerant, more kind, than he looked at that moment. He wore the expression that high ecclesiastics must come to wear, when devoted but somewhat troublesome daughters of the church press close to kiss the
amethystine
ring.

A few minutes later he was passing out of the vicarage gate. The new brood of warblers that flitted about the tall bushes at that spot heard—with perfect unconcern—a mysterious Latin
quotation
issue from that restrained mouth. They could hardly be blamed for not understanding, even though they had migrated to these fields of heresy from more classic places, that the plain English interpretation of the dark saying was that all things are lawful to him whose motive is the “Potestas Civitatis Dei!”

He crossed the dusty road and was proceeding towards his own house, which was hardly more than a hundred yards away, when he saw through a wide gap in the hedge a pleasant and familiar sight. It was a hay-field, in the final stage of its “making,” surrendering to a great loose stack, built up beneath enormous elm-trees, the last windrows of its
sweet-scented
harvest.

Pausing for a moment to observe more closely this pleasant scene—for hay-making in Dorsal Field amounted to a village ritual—Mr. Taxater became aware that among the figures scattered in groups about the meadow were the very two whose relation to one another he had just been discussing. Vennie and the young clergyman were engaged in an
animated
conversation with three of the farm-boys.

Mr. Taxater at once climbed through the gap, and crossing the field approached the group unobserved. It was not till he was quite close that Vennie caught sight of him. Her pale, pinched little face, under its large hat, flushed slightly as she held out her hand; but her great steady grey eyes were full of friendly welcome.

Mr. Clavering too was effusive and demonstrative in his greeting. They chatted a little of indifferent matters, and the theologian was introduced to the shy farm-boys, who stared at him in rustic wonder.

Then Hugh Clavering said, “If you’ll pardon me for a moment, I think I ought to go across and speak to John Goring,” and he indicated the farmer’s figure bending over a new gleaning-machine, at the opposite end of the field. “Don’t go away, please, Mr. Taxater, till I come back. You will keep him, won’t you, Miss Seldom?”

He strode off; and the boys drifted away after him, leaving Mr. Taxater and the girl together, under the unfinished hay-stack. “I was so much wanting to speak to you,” began Vennie at once. “I very nearly ran in to the Gables; but I saw Mrs. Watnot over the wall, and she told me you were out. I am in serious need of advice upon a thing
that is troubling me, and you are the only person who can really help.”

The expression of Mr. Taxater’s face at that
moment
was so sympathetic, and yet so grave, that one would hardly have been surprised to hear him utter the conventional formula of a priest awaiting
confession
. Though unuttered, the sacred formula must have been telepathically communicated, for Vennie continued without a pause, holding her hands behind her back, and looking on the ground. “Ever since our last serious conversation—do you remember?—after Easter, I have been thinking so much about that phrase of yours, referring to the Pope, as the eternal living defender of the idea of Love as the secret of the universe. Mr. Clavering talks to me about love—you know what I mean,” she smiled and blushed prettily, with a quick lifting of her head, “but he never gives me the feeling of something real and actual which we can approach on earth—
something
personal, I mean. And I have been feeling so much lately that this is what I want. Mr. Clavering is very gentle with me when I try to explain my difficulties to him; but I don’t think he really
understands
. The way he talks is beautiful and inspiring—but it somehow sounds like poetry. It does not give me anything to lay hands on.” And she looked into Mr. Taxater’s face with a pathetic wide-eyed appeal, as if he were able to call down angels from heaven.

“Dear child,” said the diplomatist, “I know only too well what you mean. Yes, that is the
unfortunate
and necessary limitation of a heretical church. It can only offer mystic and poetic consolations. It
has lost touch with the one true Vine, and
consequently
the full stream of life-giving sap cannot flow through its veins.

“But I have felt so strengthened,” said Vennie mournfully, “by the sacrament in our Church; so strengthened and inspired! It seems dreadful that it should all be a sort of mockery.”

“Do not speak like that, dear child,” said Mr. Taxater. “God is good; and in his knowledge of our weakness he permits us to taste of his mystery even in forbidden cups. The motive in your heart, the faith in your soul, have been pure; and God has given to them some measure, though but an
imperfect
one, of what he will grant to your complete obedience.”

Vennie bent down and picking up a swathe of sweet-scented hay twisted it thoughtfully in her fingers. “God has indeed been working miracles on your behalf,” continued Mr. Taxater. “It must have been your guardian angel that led me to speak to you as I did at that time. For in future, I regret to say, I shall be less free. But the good work has been done. The seed has been sown. What follows must be at your own initiative.”

Vennie looked at him, puzzled, and rather alarmed. “Why do you say you will be less free? Are we going to have no more lovely conversations at the bottom of our orchard? Are you going to be too busy to see me at all?”

Mr. Taxater smiled. “Oh no, it isn’t as bad as that,” he said. “It is only that I have just
faithfully
promised your mother not to convert you to Catholicism.”

“Mother had no right to make you give any such promise,” cried the girl indignantly.

“No,” responded the diplomatist, “she had no such right. No one has a right to demand promises of that kind. It is one of the worst and subtlest forms of persecution.”

“But you did not promise? You surely did not promise?”

“There was no escaping it,” replied Mr. Taxater. “If I had not done so she would have given you no peace, and your future movements would have been mercilessly watched. However,” he went on,
smilingly
, “a promise exacted under that kind of
compulsion
must be interpreted in a very large and liberal way. Relatively I must avoid discussing these things with you. In a higher and more
absolute
sense we will combine our thoughts about them, day and night, until we worship at the same altar.”

Vennie was silent. The noble and exalted sophistry of the subtle scholar puzzled and bewildered her. “But I have no idea of what to do next,” she
protested
. “I know no Catholics but you. I should feel very nervous on going to the priest in
Yeoborough
. Besides, I don’t at all like the look of him. And the people here say he is often drunk. You wouldn’t send me to a man like that, would you? Oh, I feel so angry with mother! She had no right to go to you behind my back.”

Francis Taxater laid his hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. “There is no reason for haste,” he said. “There is no cause to agitate yourself. Just remain quietly as you are. Say nothing to your mother. It would only cause her unnecessary distress. I
never promised not to lend you books. All my shelves are at your service. Read, my dear Vennie, read and think. My books will supply the place of my words. Indeed, they will serve the purpose much better. In this way we shall at once be obeying your earthly mother, and not disobeying your
heavenly
mother, who is now—Ave Maria gratiae plena!—drawing you so strongly towards her.

“Shall I say anything to Mr. Clavering?”

“Not a word! not a word! And enter as little as possible into argument with him. If he fancies, from your silence, that he has quelled your doubts, let him fancy so. The mistake will be due to his own pride and not to any deception. It is wrong to lie—but we are not called upon to dispel illusions arising from the self-conceit of others.”

“But you—will—think—of me?” pleaded little Vennie. “I may know that you have not deserted me? That you are always ready—always there?”

Mr. Taxater smiled benignly. “Of course I shall be ready, dear child. And you must be ready. That is why I only ask you to read and think. God will answer your prayers if you show patience. He has taught his church never to clamour for hurried
conversions
. But to wait, with all her reservoirs of
mysteries
, till they come to her of their own accord. You will come, Vennie, you will come! But it will be in God’s hour and not in ours.”

Vennie Seldom thanked him with a timid glance of infinite gratitude and confidence. A soft luminous happiness suffused her being, into which the scents and sounds of that felicitous hour poured their
offerings
of subtle contentment. In after years, in strange
and remote places, she never forgot the high thrilling exultation, calm, yet passionate as an indrawn wave, of that unrecurring moment.

The security that filled her passed, indeed, only too quickly away. Her face clouded and a little
anxious
frown puckered her narrow white forehead.

“There is something else I wanted to ask you,” she said hurriedly, “and I must say it quickly
because
I am afraid of Mr. Clavering coming back. It has to do with Mr. Clavering. I do not think you realize what influence you have over people, what powerful influence! Mr. Clavering adores you. He would do anything for you. He respects you as a thinker. He venerates you as a good man. Now, Mr. Taxater, please, please, use your influence with him to save him—to save him—” She stopped abruptly, and a flood of colour rushed to her cheeks.

“To save him from what, dear child? I am afraid there is no hope of Mr. Clavering coming to our way of thinking.”

“It isn’t that, Mr. Taxater! Its something else;—something to do with his own happiness, with his own life. Oh, it is so hard for me to tell you!” She clenched her hands tightly together and looked steadily away from him as she spoke. “It is that that dreadful Gladys Romer has been plaguing him so—tempting him to flirt with her, to be silly about her, and all that sort of thing. He does not really like her at all. That I
know
. But he is passionate and excitable, and easily led away by a girl like that. Oh, it all sounds so absurd, as I say it,” cried poor Vennie, with cheeks that were by this time flaming, “but it’s much, much more serious than it sounds.
You see, I know Mr. Clavering very well. I know how simple and pure-minded he is. And I know how desperately he prays against being led away—like this. Gladys does not care for him really a bit. She only does it to amuse herself; to satisfy her wicked, wicked nature! She would like to lead him as far as she possibly could, and then to turn upon him and make him thoroughly miserable. She is the kind of girl—Oh what am I saying to you, Mr. Taxater?—that men always are attracted by. Some men I believe would even call her beautiful. I don’t think she’s that at all. I think she is gross, fleshly, and horrid! But I know what a danger she is to Mr. Clavering. I know the dreadful struggle that goes on in his mind; and the horrible temptation she is to him. I know that after seeing her he always suffers the most cruel remorse. Now, Mr. Taxater, use your influence to strengthen him against this girl’s treachery. She only means him harm, I know she does! And if a person like you, whom he loves and admires so much, talked to him seriously about it, it would be such a help to him. He is so young. He is a mere boy, and absolutely ignorant of the world. He does not even realize that the village has already begun its horrid gossip about them. Do—do, do something, Mr. Taxater. It is like that young Parsifal, in the play, being tempted by the
enchantress
.

“But how do they meet?” asked the diplomatist, with unchanged gravity. “I do not see how they are ever alone together.”

“She has arranged it. She is so clever; the bad, bad girl! She goes to him for confirmation lessons.
He teaches her in his study twice a week—separately from the others.”

“But her father is a Unitarian.”

“That does not interfere. She does what she likes with Mr. Romer. Her game now is to want to be baptized into our church. She is going to be baptized first, and then confirmed.”

“And the preparation for baptism is as dangerous as the preparation for confirmation.” remarked the scholar; straightening the muscles of his mouth, after the discipline of St. Ignatius.

“The whole thing is horrible—dreadful! It frets me every hour of the day. He is so good and so innocent. He has no idea where she is leading him.”

“But I cannot prevent her wanting to be
baptized
,” said Mr. Taxater.

“You can talk to him,” answered Vennie, with intense conviction. “You can talk to him and he will listen to you. You can tell him the danger he is in of being made miserable for life.” She drew her breath deeply. “Oh the remorse he will feel; the horrible, horrible remorse!”

Mr. Taxater glanced across the hay-field. The sun, a red globe of fire, was resting on the extreme edge of Leo’s Hill, and seemed like a great blood-shot eye regarding them with lurid interest. Long cool shadows, thrown across the field by the elms in the hedge and by the stack beside them, melted magically into one another, and made the hillocks of still
ungathered
grass soft and intangible as fairy graves.