Old Mr. Tredgold

But the rush of little parties and festivities about Christmas, when all the sons and brothers were at home, into which she was half forced by the solicitations of her neighbours, and half by her own forlorn longing to see and speak to somebody, made a not unwelcome change. The ladies in Sliplin, especially those who had sons, had always been anxious to secure the two Miss Tredgolds, the two heiresses, for every entertainment, and there was nothing mercenary in the increased attention paid to Katherine. She would have been quite rich enough with half her father’s fortune to have fulfilled the utmost wishes of any aspirant in the village. The doctor and the rector had both thought of Katherine before there was any change in her fortunes—at the time when it was believed that Stella would have the lion’s share of the money, as well as, evidently, of the love. In that they were quite unlike the city suitors, who only found her worth their while from the point of view of old Tredgold’s entire and undivided fortune. Indeed, it is to be feared that Sliplin generally would have been overawed by the greatness of her heiresshood had it grasped this idea. But still nobody believed in the disinheriting of Stella. They believed that she would be allowed to repent at leisure of her hasty marriage, but never that she would be finally cut off. The wooing of the rector and that of the doctor had only reached an acuter stage because now Katherine was alone. They felt that she was solitary and downcast, and wanted cheering and a companion to indemnify her for what she had lost, and this naturally increased the chances of the fortunate man who should succeed.

Mr. Stanley would (perhaps) have been alarmed at the idea of offering the position of stepmother to his children to Mr. Tredgold’s sole heiress; although he would not, perhaps, have thought that in justice to his family he could have asked her to share his lot had it not been evident that she must have her part of her father’s fortune. He was a moderate man—modest, as he would himself have said—and he had made up his mind that Katherine in Stella’s shadow would have made a perfect wife for him. Therefore he had been frightened rather than elated by the change in her position; but with the consciousness of his previous sentiments, which were so disinterested, he had got over that, and now felt that in her loneliness a proposal such as he had to make might be even more agreeable than in other circumstances. The doctor was in something of the same mind. He was not at all like Turny and Company. He felt the increased fortune to be a drawback, making more difference between them than had existed before, but yet met this difficulty like a man, feeling that it might be got over. He would probably have hesitated more if she had been cut off without a shilling as Stella was supposed, but never believed, to be.

Neither of these gentlemen had any idea of that formula upon which Mr. Tredgold stood. The money on the table, thousand for thousand, would have been inconceivable to them. Indeed, they did not believe, notwithstanding the experience of Sir Charles Somers, that there would be much difficulty in dealing with old Tredgold. He might tie up his money, and these good men had no objection—they did not want to grasp at her money. Let him tie it up! They would neither of them have opposed that. As to further requirements on his part they were tranquil, neither of them being penniless, or in the condition, they both felt, to be considered fortune-hunters at all. The curious thing was that they were each aware of the other’s sentiments, without hating each other, or showing any great amount of jealousy. Perhaps the crisis had not come near enough to excite this; perhaps it was because they were neither of them young, and loved with composure as they did most things; yet the doctor had some seven years the advantage of the rector, and was emphatically a young man still, not middle-aged at all.

It was partly their unconscious influence that drew Katherine into the way of life which was approved by all around her. The doctor persuaded her to go to the ambulance class, which she attended weekly, very sure that she never would have had the courage to apply a tourniquet or even a bandage had a real emergency occurred. “Now, Stella could have done it,” she said within herself. Stella’s hands would not have trembled, nor her heart failed her. It was the rector who recommended her to join the Mutual Improvement Society, offering to look over her essays, and to lend her as many books as she might require. And it was under the auspices of both that Katherine appeared at the University Extension Lectures, and learned all about the Arctic regions and the successive expeditions that had perished there. “I wish it had been India,” she said on one occasion; “I should like to know about India, now that Stella is there.”

“I don’t doubt in the least that after Christmas we might get a series on India. It is a great, a most interesting subject; what do you think, Burnet?”

Burnet entirely agreed with him. “Nothing better,” he said; “capital contrast to the ice and the snow.”

And naturally Katherine was bound to attend the new series which had been so generously got up for her. There were many pictures and much limelight, and everybody was delighted with the change.

“What we want in winter is a nice warm blazing sun, and not something colder than we have at home,” cried Mrs. Shanks.

And Katherine sat and looked at the views and wondered where Stella was, and then privately to herself wondered where James Stanford was, and what he could be doing, and if he ever thought now of the old days. There was not very much to think of, as she reflected when she asked herself that question; but still she did ask it under her breath.

“Remember, Miss Katherine, that all my books are at your service,” said the rector, coming in to the end of the drawing-room where Katherine had made herself comfortable behind the screens; “and if you would like me to look at your essay, and make perhaps a few suggestions before you send it in–”

“I was not writing any essay. I was only writing to—my sister,” said Katherine.

“To be sure. It is the India mail day, I remember. Excuse me for coming to interrupt you. What a thing for her to have a regular correspondent like you! You still think I couldn’t be of any use to say a word to your father? You know that I am always at your disposition. Anything I can do–”

“You are very good, but I don’t think it would be of any use.” Katherine shivered a little, as she always did at the dreadful thought of anyone hearing what her father said.

“I am only good to myself when I try to be of use to you,” the rector said, and he added, with a little vehemence, “I only wish you would understand how dearly I should like to think that you would come to me in any emergency, refer to me at once, whatever the matter might be–”

“Indeed, Mr. Stanley, I understand, and I do,” she said, raising her eyes to his gratefully. “You remember how I appealed to you that dreadful time, and how much—how much you did for us?”

“Ah, you sent Burnet to me,” he said, “that’s not exactly the same. Of course, I did what I could; but what I should like would be that you should come with full confidence to tell me anything that vexes you, or to ask me to do anything you want done, like–”

“I know,” she said. “Like Charlotte and Evelyn. And, indeed, I should, indeed I will—trust me for that.”

The rector drew back, as if she had flung in his face the vase of clear water which was waiting on the table beside her for the flowers she meant to put in it. He gave an impatient sigh and walked to the window, with a little movement of his hands which Katherine did not understand.

“Oh, has it begun to snow?” she said, for the sky was very grey, as if full of something that must soon overflow and fall, and everybody had been expecting snow for twenty-four hours past.

“No, it has not begun to snow,” he said. “It is pelting hailstones—no, I don’t mean that; nothing is coming down as yet—at least, out of the sky. Perhaps I had better leave you to finish your letter.”

“Oh, there is no hurry about that. There are hours yet before post-time, and I have nearly said all I have to say. I have been telling her I am studying India. It is a big subject,” Katherine said. “And how kind you and Dr. Burnet were, getting this series of lectures instead of another for me—though I think everybody is interested, and the pictures are beautiful with the limelight.”

“I should have thought of it before,” said the rector. “As for Burnet, he wanted some scientific series about evolution and that sort of thing. Medical men are always mad after science, or what they believe to be such. But as soon as I saw how much you wished it–”

“A thing one has something to do with is always so much the more interesting,” Katherine said, half apologetically.

“I hope you know that if it were left to me I should choose only those subjects that you are interested in.”

“Oh, no,” cried Katherine, “not so much as that. You are so kind, you want to please and interest us all.”

“Kindness is one thing; but there are other motives that tell still more strongly.” The rector went to and from the window, where Katherine believed him to be looking out for the snow, which lingered so long, to the table, where she still trifled with her pen in her hand, and had not yet laid it down to put the flowers which lay in a little basket into water. The good clergyman was more agitated than he should have thought possible. Should he speak? He was so much wound up to the effort that it seemed as if it must burst forth at any moment, in spite of himself; but, on the other hand, he was afraid lest he might precipitate matters. He watched her hands involuntarily every time he approached her, and then he said to himself that when she had put down the pen and begun to arrange the flowers, he would make the plunge, but not till then. That should be his sign.

It was a long time before this happened. Katherine held her pen as if it had been a shield, though she was not at all aware of the importance thus assigned to it. She had a certain sense of protection in its use. She thought that if she kept up the fiction of continuing her letter Mr. Stanley would go away; and somehow she did not care for him so much as usual to-day. She had always had every confidence in him, and would have gone to him at any time, trusting to his sympathy and kindness; but to be appealed to to do this, as if it were some new thing, confused her mind. Why, of course she had faith in him, but she did not like the look with which he made that appeal. Why should he look at her like that? He had known her almost all her life, and taught her her Catechism and her duty, which, though they may be endearing things, are not endearing in that way. If Katherine had been asked in what way, she would probably have been unable to answer; but yet in her heart she wished very much that Mr. Stanley would go away.

At last, when it seemed to her that this was hopeless—that he would not take the hint broadly furnished by her unfinished letter—she did put down the pen, and, pushing her writing-book away, drew towards her the little basket of flowers from the conservatory, which the gardener brought her every day. They were very waxen and winterly, as flowers still are in January, and she took them up one by one, arranging them so as to make the most of such colour as there was. The rector had turned at the end of his little promenade when she did so, and came back rapidly when he heard the little movement. She was aware of the quickened step, and said, smiling, “Well, has the snow begun at last?”

“There is no question of snow,” he said hurriedly, and Katherine heard with astonishment the panting of his breath, and looked up—to see a very flushed and anxious countenance directed towards her. Mr. Stanley was a handsome man of his years, but his was a style which demanded calm and composure and the tranquillity of an even mind to do it justice. He was excited now, which was very unbecoming; his cheeks were flushed, his lips parted with hasty breathing. “Katherine,” he said, “it is something much more important than—any change outside.” He waved his hand almost contemptuously at the window, as if the snow was a slight affair, not worth mentioning. “I am afraid,” he said, standing with his hand on the table looking down upon her, yet rather avoiding her steady, half-wondering look, “that you are too little self-conscious to have observed lately—any change in me.”

“I don’t know,” she said faltering, looking up at him; “is there anything the matter, really? I have thought once or twice—that you looked a little disturbed.”

It flashed into her mind that there might be something wrong in the family, that Bertie might have been extravagant, that help might be wanted from her rich father. Oh, poor Mr. Stanley! if his handsome stately calm should be disturbed by such a trouble as that? Katherine’s look grew very kind, very sympathising as she looked up into his face.

“I have often, I am sure, looked disturbed. Katherine, it is not a small matter when a man like me finds his position changed in respect to—one like yourself—by an overmastering sentiment which has taken possession of him he knows not how, and which he is quite unable to restrain.”

“Rector!” cried Katherine astonished, looking up at him with even more feeling than before. “Mr. Stanley! have I done anything?”

“That shows,” he cried, with something like a stamp of his foot and an impatient movement of his hand, “how much I have to contend with. You think of me as nothing but your clergyman—a—a sort of pedagogue—and your thought is that he is displeased—that there is something he is going to find fault with–”

“No,” she said. “You are too kind to find fault; but– I am sure I never neglect anything you say to me. Tell me what it is—and I—I will not take offence. I will do my very best–”

“Oh, how hard it is to make you understand! You put me on a pedestal—whereas it is you who– Katherine! do you know that you are not a little girl any longer, but a woman, and a—most attractive one? I have struggled against it, knowing that was not the light in which I can have appeared to you, but it’s too strong for me. I have come to tell you of a feeling which has existed for years on my part—and to ask you—if there is any possibility, any hope, to ask you—to marry me–” The poor rector! his voice almost died away in his throat. He put one knee to the ground—not, I need not say, with any prayerful intention, but only to put himself on the same level with her, with his hands on the edge of her table, and gazed into her face.

“To– What did you say, Mr. Stanley?” she asked, with horror in her eyes.

“Don’t be hasty, for the sake of heaven! Don’t condemn me unheard. I know all the disparities, all the– But, Katherine, my love for you is more than all that. I have been trying to keep it down for years. I said, to marry me—to marry me, my dear and only–”

“Do you mean that you are on your knees to me, a girl whom you have catechised?” cried Katherine severely, holding her head high.

The rector stumbled up in great confusion to his feet. “No, I did not mean that. I was not kneeling to you. I was only– Oh, Katherine, how small a detail is this! God knows I do not want to make myself absurd in your eyes. I am much older than you are. I am—but your true lover notwithstanding—for years; and your most fond and faithful– Katherine! if you will be my wife–”

“And the mother of Charlotte and Bertie!” said Katherine, looking at him with shining eyes. “Charlotte is a year younger than I am. She comes between Stella and me; and Bertie thinks he is in love with me too. Is it that you come and offer to a girl, Mr. Stanley? Oh, I know. Girls who are governesses and poor have it offered to them and are grateful. But I am as well off as you are. And do you think it likely that I would want to change my age and be my own mother for the sake of—what? Being married? I don’t want to be married. Oh, Mr. Stanley, it is wicked of you to confuse everything—to change all our ways of looking at each other—to–” Katherine almost broke down into a torrent of angry tears, but controlled herself for wrath’s sake.

The rector stood before her with his head down, as sorely humiliated a man as ever clergyman was. “If you take it in that light, what can I say? I had hoped you would not take it in that light. I am not an old man. I have not been accustomed to—apologise for myself,” he said, with a gleam of natural self-assertion. He, admired of ladies for miles round—to the four seas, so to speak—on every hand. He could have told her things! But the man was digne; he was no traitor nor ungrateful for kindness shown him. “If you think, Katherine, that the accident of my family and of a very early first marriage is so decisive, there is perhaps nothing more to be said. But many men only begin life at my age; and I think it is ungenerous—to throw my children in my teeth—when I was speaking to you—of things so different–”

“Oh, Mr. Stanley,” cried Katherine, subdued, “I am very, very sorry. I did not mean to throw—anything in your teeth. But how could anyone forget Charlotte and Bertie and Evelyn and the rest? Do you call them an accident—all the family?” Katherine’s voice rose till it was almost shrill in the thought of this injury to her friends. “But I only think of you as their father and my clergyman—and always very, very kind,” she said.

The flowers had never yet got put into the water. She had thrown them down again into the basket. The empty vase stood reproachfully full and useless, reflecting in its side a tiny sparkle of the firelight; and the girl sitting over them, and the man standing by her, had both of them downcast heads, and did not dare to look at each other. This group continued for a moment, and then he moved again towards the window. “It has begun at last,” he said in a strange changed tone. “It is snowing fast.”

And the rector walked home in a blinding downfall, and was a white man, snow covered, when he arrived at home, where his children ran out to meet him, exclaiming at his beard which had grown white, and his hair, which, when his hat was taken off, exhibited a round of natural colour fringed off with ends of snow. The family surrounded him with chatterings and caresses, pulling off his coat, unwinding his scarf, shaking off the snow, leading him into the warm room by the warm fire, running off for warm shoes and everything he could want. An accident! The accident of a family! He submitted with a great effort over himself, but in his heart he would have liked to push them off, the whole band of them, into the snow.

CHAPTER XXV

It will perhaps be thought very unfeeling of Katherine to have received as she did this unlooked for elderly lover. All Sliplin, it is true, could have told her for some time past that the Rector was in love with her, and meant to make her an offer, and Miss Mildmay believed that she had been aware of it long before that. But it had never occurred to Katherine that the father of Charlotte and Gerard was occupied with herself in any way, or that such an idea could enter his mind. He had heard her say her catechism! He had given Charlotte in her presence the little sting of a reproof about making a noise, and other domestic sins which Katherine was very well aware she was intended to share. In the douceurs which, there was no denying, he had lately shed about, she had thought of nothing but a fatherly intention to console her in her changed circumstances; and to think that all the time this old middle-aged man, this father of a family, had it in his mind to make her his wife! Katherine let her flowers lie drooping, and paced up and down the room furious, angry even with herself. Forty-five is a tremendous age to three-and-twenty; and it was the first time she had ever received a proposal straight in the face, so to speak. Turny and Company had treated with her father, but had retreated from before her own severe aspect when she gave it to be seen how immovable she was. And to think that her first veritable proposal should be this—a thing that filled her with indignation! What! did the man suppose for a moment that she, his daughter’s friend, would marry him? Did all men think that a girl would do anything to be married?—or what did they think?

Katherine could not realise that Mr. Stanley to the Rector was not at all the same person that he was to her. The Rector thought himself in the prime of life, and so he was. The children belonged to him and he was accustomed to them, and did not, except now and then, think them a great burden; but himself was naturally the first person in his thoughts. He knew that he was a very personable man, that his voice was considered beautiful, and his aspect (in the pulpit) imposing. His features were good, his height was good, he was in full health and vigour. Why shouldn’t he have asked anybody to marry him? The idea that it was an insult to a girl never entered his mind. And it was no insult. He was not even poor or in pursuit of her wealth. No doubt her wealth would make a great difference, but that was not in the least his motive, for he had thought of her for years. And in his own person he was a man any woman might have been proud of. All this was very visible to him.

But to Katherine it only appeared that Mr. Stanley was forty-five, that he was the father of a girl as old as herself, and of a young man, whom she had laughed at, indeed, but who also had wished to make love to her. What would Gerard say? This was the first thing that changed Katherine’s mood, that made her laugh. It brought in a ludicrous element. What Charlotte would say was not half so funny. Charlotte would be horrified, but she would probably think that any woman might snatch at a man so admired as her father, and the fear of being put out of her place would occupy her and darken her understanding. But the thought of Gerard made Katherine laugh and restored her equilibrium. Strengthened by this new view she came down from her pinnacle of indignation and began to look after the things she had to do. The snow went on falling thickly, a white moving veil across every one of the windows; the great flickering flakes falling now quickly, now slowly, and everything growing whiter and whiter against the half-seen grey of the sky. This whiteness shut in the house, encircling it as with a flowing mantle. Nobody would come near the house that afternoon, nobody would come out that could help it—not even the midge was likely to appear along the white path. The snow made an end of visitors, and Katherine felt herself shut up within it, condemned not to hear any voice or meet with any incident for the rest of the day. It was not a cheering sensation. She finished her letter to Stella, and paused and wondered whether she should tell her what had happened; but she fortunately remembered that a high standard of honour forbade the disclosure of secrets like this, which were the secrets of others as well as her own. She had herself condemned from that high eminence with much indignation the way in which other girls blazoned such secrets. She would not be like one of them. And besides, Stella and her husband would laugh and make jokes in bad taste and hold up the Rector to the laughter of the regiment, which would not be fair though Katherine was so angry with him. When she had finished her letter she returned to the flowers, and finally arranged them as she had intended to do long ago. And then she went and stood for a long time at the window watching the snow falling. It was very dull to see nobody, to be alone, all alone, for all these hours. There was a new novel fresh from Mudie’s on the table, which was always something to look forward to; but even a novel is but a poor substitute for society when you have been so shaken and put out of your assiette as Katherine had been by a personal incident. Would she have told anyone if anyone had come? She said to herself, “No, certainly not.” But as she was still thrilling and throbbing all over, and felt it almost impossible to keep still, I cannot feel so sure as she was that she would not have followed a multitude to do evil, and betrayed her suitor’s secret by way of relieving her own mind. But I am sure that she would have felt very sorry had she done so as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

She had seated herself by the fire and taken up her novel, not with the content and pleasure which a well-conditioned girl ought to exhibit at the sight of a new story in three volumes (in which form it is always most welcome, according to my old-fashioned ideas) and a long afternoon to enjoy it in, but still with resignation and a pulse beating more quietly—when there arose sounds which indicated a visit after all. Katherine listened eagerly, then subsided as the footsteps and voices faded again, going off to the other end of the house.