"What do they want me to do?" he inquired, with that air of resignation which is in reality no resignation at all.
"Well," said Mrs. Agar volubly, "it appears that Arthur spoke to Dora at Hurlingham, and for some reason she said No. I can"t understand it at all. I am sure she has always appeared to like him very much. It may have been some pa.s.sing fancy or something, you know. When she is told that it would please us all, perhaps she will change her mind. Poor Arthur is terribly cut up about it. Of course a man in his position does not quite expect to be treated cavalierly like that."
Mr. Glynde smiled. Behind the parson there was somewhat even better; there was a just and honest English gentleman, which, in the way of human species, is very hard to beat.
"I am afraid Arthur will have to manage such affairs for himself. When a girl is settling a question involving her whole life she does not usually pause to consider the position of the man who asks her to be his wife. He would have no business to ask her had he no position, and the rest is merely a matter of degrees."
"Then you don"t care about the match?" said Mrs. Agar, to whose mind the earliest rudiments of logic were incomprehensible.
"I do not say that," replied the Rector, with the patience of a man who has had dealings with women all his life; "but I should like it to be understood that Dora is quite free to choose for herself. I am willing to tell her that the match would be satisfactory to me. Arthur is a gentleman, which is saying a good deal in these days. He is affectionate, and, so far as I know, a dutiful son. I have little doubt he would make a good husband."
Mrs. Agar wiped away an obvious tear, which ran off Mr. Glynde"s mental epidermis like water off the back of the proverbial fowl. This also he had learnt in the course of his dealings with the world.
"He has been a good son to me," sniffed the fond and foolish mother.
Neither of these persons was capable of understanding that "goodness" is not all we want in husband or wife. These good husbands--heaven help their wives!--break as many hearts as those who are labelled by the world with the black ticket.
"Then I may tell Arthur that you will help him?" said Mrs. Agar, with a sudden access of practical energy.
"You may tell him that he has my good wishes, and that I will point out to Dora the advantages of--acceding to his desire. There are, of course, advantages on both sides, we know that."
As usual, Mrs. Agar overdid things. The airiness of her indifference might have deceived a child of eight, provided that its intellect was not _de premiere force._
"Ye-es," she murmured, "I suppose Dora would bring her little--eh--subscription towards the household expenses. Sister Cecilia gave me to understand that there was a little something coming to her under her mother"s marriage settlement."
Mrs. Agar was not clever enough to see that she had made a mistake. The mention of Sister Cecilia"s name acted on the Rector like a mental douche. He was just beginning to give way to expansiveness--probably under the suave influence of the brown sherry--and the name of Sister Cecilia pulled him together with a jerk. The jerk extended to his features; but Mrs. Agar was one of those cunning women whom no man need fear. She was so cunning that she deceived herself into seeing that which she wished to see, and nothing else.
"All that," said the Rector gravely, "can be discussed when Arthur has persuaded Dora to say Yes."
He was in the position of an unfortunate person who, having come into controversy with the police, is warned that every word he says may be used in evidence against him. He had been reminded that every detail of the present conversation would be repeated to Sister Cecilia, with embellishments or subtractions as might please the narrator"s fancy or suit her purpose.
"A dangerous woman" he called Sister Cecilia in his most gloomy voice, and a parson must perforce fear dangerous women. That is one of the trials of the ministry.
Mrs. Agar laughed in a forced manner.
"Of course," she said--she had a habit of beginning her remarks with these two words--"of course, we need not think of such questions yet. I am sure all _I_ want is the happiness of the dear children."
"Umph!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mr. Glynde, who was not always a model of politeness.
"That, I am sure," continued Mrs. Agar, with a dabbing pocket-handkerchief, "is the dearest wish of us all."
"When does the boy come home?" inquired the Rector.
"Oh, in a week. I am so longing for him to come. He has to go to town to get some clothes, which will delay his return by one night."
"Is he doing any good this term?"
Mrs. Agar looked slightly hurt.
"Well, he always works very hard, I am only afraid that he should overdo it. You know, I suppose, that he did not get through his examination this term. Of course it is no good _my_ saying anything, but I am quite convinced that they are not dealing fairly by him. I have seen some of those examination papers, and some of the questions are simply spiteful.
They do it on purpose, I know. And Sister Cecilia tells me that that _does_ happen sometimes. For some reason or other--because they have been snubbed, or something like that--the masters, the examiners, or whatever they are called, make a dead set at some men, and simply keep them back.
They don"t give them the marks that they ought to have. Why should Arthur always fail? Of course the thing is unfair."
This theory was not quite new to the Rector. He had given up arguing about it, and usually took refuge in flight. He did so on this occasion.
But as he walked home across the park, smoking a cigarette, he reflected that to the owner of Stagholme such a small matter as a college career was, after all, of no importance. These broad acres, the stately forests, the grand old house, raised Arthur Agar above such considerations, indeed above most considerations. And Mr. Glynde made up his mind to put it very strongly to Dora.
CHAPTER XXI
ALONE
The name of the slough was Despond.
When Dora returned to Stagholme a fortnight later she was relieved to find that Arthur had not yet come down from Cambridge.
It is a strange thing that in the spring-time those who are happy--_pro tempore_, of course, we know all that--are happier, while those who carry something with them find the burden heavier. Stagholme in the spring came as a sort of shock to Dora. There were certain adjuncts to the growth of things which gave her actual pain. After dinner, the first night, she walked across the garden to the beechwood, but before long she came back again. There is a scent in beech forests in the spring which is like no other scent on earth, and Dora found that she could not stand it.
Her father and mother were sitting in the drawing-room with open windows, for it was a warm May that year. She came in through the falling curtains, and something warned her to keep her face averted from the furtive glance of her mother"s eyes. She had learnt something of the world during her brief season in town, and one of the lessons had been that the world sees more than is often credited to it.
"The worst," she said cheerfully, "of a season in town is that it makes one feel aged and experienced. Middle age came upon me suddenly, just now, in the garden."
Mr. Glynde was looking at her almost critically over his newspaper.
"How old are you?" he asked curtly.
"Twenty-five."
In some indefinite way the question jarred horribly. Dora was conscious of a faint doubt in the infallibility of her father"s judgment. She knew that in a worldly sense he was more experienced, more thoughtful, cleverer than her mother, but in some ways she inclined towards the maternal opinion on questions connected with herself.
At this moment Mrs. Glynde was called from the room, and went reluctantly, feeling that the time was unpropitious.
Mr. Glynde"s life had been eminently uneventful. Prosperous, happy in a half-hearted, almost negative, way, somewhat selfish, he had never known hardship, had never faced adversity. It is such men as this who love what they call a serious talk, summoning the subject thereof with exaggerated gravity to a study, making a point of the _mise en scene_, and finally saying nothing that could not have been spoken in course of ordinary conversation.
Dora detected the odour of a serious talk in the atmosphere, and she found that something had taken away the awe which such conversations had hitherto inspired. It may have been the season in town, but it was more probably that confidence which comes from the knowledge of the world.
There were things in life of which she consciously knew more than her father, and one of these was sorrow. There is nothing that gives so much confidence as the knowledge that the worst possible has happened. It raises one above the petty worries of daily existence.
Dora knew that her acquaintance with sorrow was more intimate, more thorough, than that of her father, who sat looking as if the hangman were at the door. She awaited the serious talk with some apprehension, but none of that almost paralysing awe which she had known in childhood.
"I am getting an old man," he said, with supreme egotism, "and you cannot expect to have me with you much longer."
"But I do expect it," replied Dora cheerfully. "I am sorry to disappoint you, papa, but I do expect it most decidedly."
This rather spoilt the lugubrious gravity of the situation.
"Well, thank Heaven! I am a hearty man yet," admitted the Rector rather more hopefully; "but still you cannot expect to have your parents with you all your life, you know."