Short Stories 1895-1926 (77 page)

Three others.

The last of a Spaniard:

To the living:

The briefest of all, upon a dark vault, ancient and gaping, without date or name: ‘O Aprille month!' A great house for such a little body.

It is a faithful servant of the seasons, this untended graveyard. In spring the almond and the resinous elder hang over against the grave of the natural, with an extraordinary alertness, like an archer with bow bent; in summer the wine-sweet wild rose, the echoing cry of the bird; and so to autumn and winter-brown leaves, and twigs, and snow. Time will efface all record soon. Its narrow wall is ruinous, scarce hindering even now the wandering sheep from trespass, and surely no obstacle to pucks and gnomes that hoot and squeal above its recumbent stones. Perhaps, but for its abundance and its solitary tower, it will presently be at one again with the wild and broomy moor.

The Rejection of the Rector

The Rejection of the Rector
1

Mr Wilmot was of too indolent a temperament to be an acute observer of Nature; indeed Nature was the more active of the pair, and influenced him in her various moods more intimately than he himself imagined or would have cared to confess. April was come with lilac and chestnut, and as the Rector returned at evening to his solitude, a serene melancholy took possession of his mind, bending his thoughts on two matters similar yet remote. He was in spirit gone back to the youthful days of the past and to the memory of his first love, yet at the same time he was considering the present also in the matter of taking a wife. The sentiments were strangely in harmony one with the other, the one perhaps as befitted his age (a very practical thing), the other deep-rooted and intense beyond decline.

Fortune favours the ductile as well as the strong, and after many years of difficulty and effort she had steered him into a tranquil haven. He had faced laborious days with placid courage, but without zeal, so intent had been his rather weak desire for ease; and now that his desire was attained, he was able to enjoy it to the full.

His living was not affluent, yet ample for a man of moderation and solitary habits. The poor of his parish were few and docile; the wealthy equable and staid. His churchwardens were meritorious institutions, whom Time would remove only when successors should be rife. The little town was built on the incline of a hill; on its elevated outskirts stood the houses of the wealthier members of his congregation, amid green trees and orchards, in imperturbable somnolency. It seemed the children of these families must be merely importations by request. It is true a sleeping infant in its fleecy bassinet might sometimes be seen along the sunny chestnut walks, and in June boys would be met with in the fields; else the daughters of the place were for the amelioration of invalid widowers, and its young men rather ladylike. It was a parish where it seemed always afternoon, where the six week-days were but a torpid preparation for a demure Sabbath.

The Rector was a tall, slender man, not yet quite grey, somewhat dainty of speech, yet not insipid of matter; a writer of pleasing verse, a preacher who deemed his congregation of more importance than his prejudices, a graceful listener when in the company of men of the world; and beside these things, he was gifted as only Genius and Indifference and Felinity are gifted – he was almost unconsciously erudite in the sex.

He opened his gate and entered his garden. Its walks lay along between daffodils and tulips. A lofty pear-tree was the punctual resort of a thrush. All the swift magic of spring was in that quick budding garden of flower and fruit tree. He had debated the eligible spinsters, one and all, with his customary hesitation, and now resumed what was rather a mood than a memory – the memory of the days of his youth, of his first wife Hannah.

Notwithstanding the discretion of his parishioners, gossip had long been busy with the former subject. His poorer matrons found in it tattle ever new and animating. His crabbed sexton shook a crazy head. And the little clean girls of the Sunday-school looked pleased and askance, and each talked over the chances of her particular teacher, with sneers for every rival. Quite young and somewhat anaemic girls fretted with wildest daydreams, and quaked with stifled heart at his approach. Of these Rebecca Mills adored him candidly, without fear, retaining meanwhile a butcher in her service, quite unjealous, and slaughtering busily for the sake of a wife and home. Strangely enough it was she who most quickly perceived the secrets of her elderly and patrician rivals. She had them one and all by rote, and every detail of her passion, prospects and prosperity. She was love's most obedient weathercock, nor ever wavered in pointing whither his influence bade. Moreover, she was the eldest and favourite pupil of Miss Alice Seymour, and her allegiance and ardour were beyond reproach. It was her desire and assurance that since herself was fated butcherwards, Miss Seymour should become the Rector's second wife.

The Rector had been not quite so sure as he seated himself in his ivied arbour. His bow had many strings: only polygamy would secure him from all sympathetic regret. The purple silks of Miss Pugh, her cheerful, spectacled countenance, and perennial banter; Miss Minto, pale, austere, antique, fine in wit, elegant in mien, caustic in criticism; Miss Daw, a little round widow, like a dove in her pleasant house: all were variously excellent – one only of these ladies, alas! was allowable. Moreover, all were similarly excellent in the primary matter of means. The Rector was not a mercenary man, but the one passionate and tragic influence in his life had dulled his eyes and secluded his heart from all other remembrance of romance. He was intended to be a duteous and cockerel husband: it was his vague intention to take a suitable lady to wife.

Miss Seymour lived rather beyond her neighbours and their gardens, a lonely and somewhat sequestered life. She might walk over her little garden bridge across a brook into a great wood of primroses, and here she would seat herself these warm spring mornings to work or to read or to muse. She was unaccustomed, perhaps would have deemed it a somewhat vain and vulgar act, to analyse her emotions. She was content rather to enjoy being, than to vex herself with questions of becoming. Yet as she sat gazing with clear blue eyes, not by any means without insight, on the April prospect of green and blossom, a faint wonder was wafted through her mind, of her own strange sense of felicity. She was inclined rather to attribute it to a life mercifully suffered to be spent in compassion and patience than to any more trenchant and disturbing cause.

Rebecca Mills came through the wood gathering primroses in a little wicker basket, and in hope to find Miss Seymour there alone. She liked nothing better than to perch herself upon the margin of that perilous subject, perilous alike to herself and to Miss Seymour, less perilous, perhaps, to the dogged, thrifty butcher. To-day she soon perceived a facility in the conversation that was seldom vouchsafed her. Her words moved easily to the rhythm of her thoughts, she yearned in deep unselfishness to aid her friend and teacher to the bliss she might not share, and so turned as quickly as possible to matters cordial and ecclesiastic.

‘Tom says he wants me soon, Miss,' she remarked wistfully. ‘He's so firm I can't gainsay him having his own way.'

‘But don't you wish to be married soon, Rebecca?' inquired Miss Seymour gently.

‘It's a blow, Miss,' Rebecca answered. ‘Castles in the air is a pleasant way o' spendin' the time, but they're not for wedded wives with children to bring up. Leastways, if you never think of no one else.' She let fall one by one a handful of primroses into her basket.

‘But, my dear girl, you must not marry if you do not love your husband; it would be very wrong and very indiscreet.'

‘O, it's not that, Miss! Why, he doesn't love me neither, leastways not
love
– how could he? But when we're settled down we shall rub along nicely, I warrant. Him and me was meant to come together I do believe. I do believe every heart has its mate: only the spirit yearns.' She came rather vacantly to an end, but continued with head a little sidelong. ‘Was the Rector's first an invalid lady, Miss, because I couldn't fancy him weddin' a
robust
girl?'

‘I never met Mrs Wilmot,' Miss Seymour answered, faintly.

‘It does seem strange to think of him livin' so lonely. I do think he wants a body's care. And he wouldn't need to look far. He's just the way of seein' thro' us. I mean, Miss, he knows that where he seeks he'll find sure enough. Men's love's so different.'

‘Why, how, Rebecca?' murmured her companion without stirring.

‘They loves with the body, Miss, and ladies wi' their souls. They ax for comfort and usefulness, and just blind idolatry: but wi' women – it's like flowers.'

Rebecca sat dismayed at so strange and unconsidered a statement. She paled a little as she turned to her companion in fear of laughter or rebuke. But Miss Seymour's face was turned away, she was looking furtively into the green deeps of the silent wood. ‘What strange ideas you have, child!' she said, sharply.

‘I fancy, Miss,' continued the girl as if impelled by truth itself, ‘I fancy when a man has once loved a young woman, whomsoever it be, it has gushed out all like a water-spring, and ever after it's just mockery and make-believe. He do look so cast down at times. It would be a mercy, I'm sure, poor soul.'

Miss Seymour rose rather awkwardly and smoothed out her skirts.

‘My dear girl, you must not indulge these notions: they lead nowhere, they are idle. A woman has a long way to go, Rebecca, and you must make up your mind to be a true wife to your husband.'

‘O, yes, Miss,' the girl answered, opening her large eyes. ‘We shall rub along like a greased wheel: it's the leaving the other I was thinkin' on.'

‘But what other, Rebecca?' Rebecca's cheeks flamed scarlet.

‘Why, it's only my silly fashion o' talk. I'm just playin' at supposin', I do declare.'

She walked with her teacher to the brook and left her standing there, herself taking the way along the edge of the wood into the lanes.

Miss Seymour had listened to her talk, scarcely remembering the shame of it. She gazed gravely at her reflection in the gliding waters. Her sad, shamed eyes and trembling lip spoke out when herself had long equivocated. She withdrew softly, drawing her skirts tight to her side, and returned into the sunny garden. The birds' high songs were strained and mad, the fragrance of the spring flowers oppressive. She struck her cheek petulantly. Her self-deception vexed her beyond measure; her humiliation showed her herself and all things else in a bleak clear light that only truth vouchsafes to unconquerable eyes. The Rector dwindled to the elderly, refined, and rather pathetic gentleman he was; the covert gossip and glances of her neighbours were now without sting for very remorse at their justification. ‘My own pupil!' she whispered bitterly. This chit of a girl had read the man from preface to finis. All the world had perceived the comedy, the comedy of what was to her a grand treachery. Her glorious love of freedom, her glorious independence and unsullied history – no blemish or shadow of man upon it – girlishness came back to her with its swift, easy stride and lofty carriage. The Rector was then a very light thing.

She rested awhile in the afternoon, listless and rather peevish, and fell asleep. She woke overcome with ennui and took her Keble into her parlour lest red flannel for potential infants should become irksome or her fancies rebellious. To church and meeting she went as punctual and persistently as ever. She met the Rector with graciousness, quite regardless of the shameful tumult in her heart; even began to be amused at those more strenuous neighbours, and learned in all their wiles.

With this new aspect of affairs the Rector vacillated no longer. It was after a meeting of the Girls' Friendly Society that he accompanied Miss Seymour on her evening way to her house.

‘Your influence over these young girls is remarkable,' he said. Miss Seymour glanced sidelong at her companion. He was blinking his eyes rapidly and moistening his lips, as was his habit before announcing his text.

Her heart flagged like a bird in her breast. ‘They shall grow up strenuous, brave girls; the future is in their own hands,' she answered breathlessly, ‘That is what I try to impress on them.'

‘Certainly their future is in their own hands,' said the Rector. ‘It used to be in mine.' The epilogue was so melancholy and chastened, the lady battled with her distress. ‘You see, Miss Seymour, time reduces us to a timid level;' the ‘timid' might have been a word chaunted in the Psalms. ‘We push and struggle in youth for a landing-place, and there we remain until the end.'

‘The memory of the struggle is not apathy,' said his companion firmly.

‘I grant you it.' He turned swift and sure, and before the house was reached had made his proposal, and submitted gracefully to rejection.

‘I would answer yes, Mr Wilmot, if I dared,' the lady said, bravely, ‘but marriage, I think, is not a compact of convenience, nor even of affection. It is a compact of love, I feel sure. I am past the days when such a thing is possible, or – or seemly. I do not think it would be honourable to omit this explanation. You will not think me ungracious … Thank you, thank you!' She hastened awkwardly towards the house, humiliated at her haste. She sat down on a garden-seat in the still warm night. The brook filled the silence with perpetual warbling; the air was sweet and pure. She folded her gloved hands in her lap and remained motionless, until beyond the poplars rose the moon, and with the moon a chill, gentle breeze.

The Rector absently returned home, pensively enjoying the calm of the evening. It seemed the memory of an irksome duty had been lifted from his mind. This question of a second wife had troubled him more than he had supposed. Now that the question was temporarily removed he felt free and renewed – an exorcized Hamlet. Nor was this at all an affair of pride. He admired Miss Seymour very tenderly, as one admires an old friend. She had even quickened the poignancy of the past in him, had drawn it out of ways conventional. The beauty of the night inspired him. He lingered under the trees of his garden, gazing vacantly at the pale night of stars, and murmured in a strange, deep, tremulous voice –