PERHAPS the village society into which Katherine was now thrown was not much more elevating than the Turnys, &c.; but it was different. She had known it all her life, for one thing, and understood every allusion, and had almost what might be called an interest in all the doings of the parish. The fact that the old Cantrells had grown so rich that they now felt justified in confessing it, and were going to retire from the bakery and set up as private gentlefolks while their daughter and son-in-law entered into possession of the business, quite entertained her for half an hour while it was being discussed by Miss Mildmay and Mrs. Shanks over their tea. Katherine had constructed for herself in the big and crowded drawing-room, by means of screens, a corner in which there was both a fireplace and a window, and which looked like an inner room, now that she had taken possession of it. She had covered the gilded furniture with chintzes, and the shining tables with embroidered cloths. The fire always burned bright, and the window looked out over the cliff and the fringe of tamarisks upon the sea. The dual chamber, the young ladies’ room, with all its contrivances for pleasure and occupation, was shut up, as has been said, and this was the first place which Katherine had ever had of her very own.
She did not work nearly so much for bazaars as she had done in the old Stella days. Then that kind of material occupation (though the things produced were neither very admirable in themselves nor of particular use to anyone) gave a sort of steady thread, flimsy as it was, to run through her light and airy life. It meant something if not much. Elle fait ses robes—which is the last height of the good girl’s excellence in modern French—would have been absurd; and to make coats and cloaks for the poor by Stella’s side would have been extremely inappropriate, not to say that such serious labours are much against the exquisite disorder of a modern drawing-room, therefore the bazaar articles had to do. But now there was no occasion for the bazaars—green and gilt paper stained her fingers no more. She had no one to keep in balance; no one but herself, who weighed a little if anything to the other side, and required, if anything, a touch of frivolity, which, to be sure, the bazaars were quite capable of furnishing if you took them in that way. She read a great deal in this retreat of hers; but I fear to say it was chiefly novels she read. And she had not the least taste for metaphysics. And anything about Woman, with a capital letter, daunted her at once. She was very dull sometimes—what human creature is not?—but did not blame anyone else for it, nor even fate. She chiefly thought it was her own fault, and that she had indeed no right to be dull; and in this I think she showed herself to be a very reasonable creature.
Now that Lady Jane’s large landau never swept up to the doors, one of the most frequent appearances there was that convenient but unbeautiful equipage called the midge. It was not a vehicle beloved of the neighbourhood. The gardener’s wife, now happily quite recovered from the severe gunshot wound she had received on the night of Stella’s elopement, went out most reluctantly, taking a very long time about it, to open the gate when it appeared. She wanted to know what was the good of driving that thing in, as was no credit to be seen anywhere, when them as used it might just as well have got out outside the gate and walked. The ladies did not think so at all. They were very particular to be driven exactly up to the door and turned half round so that the door which was at the end, not the side of the vehicle, should be opposite the porch; and they would sometimes keep it waiting an hour, a remarkable object seen from all the windows, while they sat with poor Katherine and cheered her up. These colloquies always began with inquiries after her sister.
“Have you heard again from Stella? Where is she now, poor child? Have you heard of their safe arrival? And where is the regiment to be quartered? And what does she say of the climate? Does she think it will agree with her? Are they in the plains, where it is so hot, or near the hills, where there is always a little more air?”
Such was the beginning in every case, and then the two ladies would draw their chairs a little nearer, and ask eagerly in half-whispers, “And your papa, Katherine? Does he show any signs of relenting? Does he ever speak of her? Don’t you think he will soon give in? He must give in soon. Considering how fond he was of Stella, I cannot understand how he has held out so long.”
Katherine ignored as much as she could the latter questions.
“I believe they are in quite a healthy place,” she said, “and it amuses Stella very much, and the life is all so new. You know she is very fond of novelty, and there are a great many parties and gaieties, and of course she knows everybody. She seems to be getting on very well.”
“And very happy with her husband, I hope, my dear—for that is the great thing after all.”
“Do you expect Stella to say that she is not happy with her husband, Jane Shanks? or Katherine to repeat it if she did? All young women are happy with their husbands—that’s taken for granted—so far as the world is concerned.”
“I think, Ruth Mildmay, it is you who should have been Mrs. Shanks,” cried the other, with a laugh.
“Heaven forbid! You may be quite sure that had I ever been tempted that way, I should only have changed for a better, not a worse name.”
“Stella,” cried Katherine to stop the fray, “seems to get on capitally with Charlie. She is always talking of him. I should think they were constantly together, and enjoying themselves very much indeed.”
“Ah, it is early days,” Miss Mildmay said, with a shake of her head. “And India is a very dissipated place. There are always things going on at an Indian station that keep people from thinking. By-and-by, when difficulties come—— But you must always stand her friend and keep her before your father’s eyes. I don’t know if Jane Shanks has told you—but the news is all over the town—the Cantrells have taken that place, you know, with the nice paddock and garden; the place the doctor was after—quite a gentleman’s little place. I forget the name, but it is near the Rectory—don’t you know?—a little to the right; quite a gentleman’s house.”
“I suppose Mr. Cantrell considers himself a gentleman now,” Katherine said, glad of the change of subject.
“Why, he’s a magistrate,” said Mrs. Shanks, “and could buy up the half of us—isn’t that the right thing to say when a man has grown rich in trade?”
“It is a thing papa says constantly,” said Katherine; “and I suppose, as that is what has happened to himself——”
“O my dear Katherine! you don’t suppose that for one moment! fancy dear Mr. Tredgold, with his colossal fortune—a merchant prince and all that—compared to old Cantrell, the baker! Nobody could ever think of making such a comparison!”
“It just shows how silly it is not to make up your mind,” said Miss Mildmay. “I know the doctor was after that house—much too large a house for an unmarried man, I have always said, but it was not likely that he would think anything of what I said—and now it is taken from under his very nose. The Cantrells did not take long to make up their minds! They go out and in all day long smiling at each other. I believe they think they will quite be county people with that house.”
“It is nice to see them smiling at each other—at their age they were just as likely to be spitting fire at each other. I shall call certainly and ask her to show me over the house. I like to see such people’s houses, and their funny arrangements and imitations, and yet the original showing through all the same.”
“And does George Cantrell get the shop?” Katherine asked. She had known George Cantrell all her life—better than she knew the young gentlemen who were to be met at Steephill and in whom it would have been natural to be interested. “He was always very nice to us when we were little,” she said.
“Oh, my dear child, you must not speak of George Cantrell. He has gone away somewhere—nobody knows where. He fell in love with his mother’s maid-of-all-work—don’t you know?—and married her and put the house of Cantrell to shame. So there are no shops nor goodwills for George. He has to work as what they call a journeyman, after driving about in his nice cart almost like a gentleman.”
“I suppose,” said Miss Mildmay, “that even in the lower classes grades must tell. There are grades everywhere. When I gave the poor children a tea at Christmas, the carpenter’s little girls were not allowed to come because the little flower-woman’s children were to be there.”
“For that matter we don’t know anything about the doctor’s grade, Ruth Mildmay. He might be a baker’s son just like George for anything we know.”
“That is true,” said the other. “You can’t tell who anybody is nowadays. But because he is a doctor—which I don’t think anything of as a profession—none of my belongings were ever doctors, I know nothing about them—he might ask any girl to marry him—anybody——”
“Surely, his education makes some difference,” Katherine said.
“Oh, education! You can pick up as much education as you like at any roadside now. And what does that kind of education do for you?—walking hospitals where the worst kind of people are collected together, and growing familiar with the nastiest things and the most horrible! Will that teach a man the manners of a gentleman?” Miss Mildmay asked, raising her hands and appealing to earth and heaven.
At this point in the conversation the drawing-room door opened, and someone came in knocking against the angles of the furniture. “May I announce myself?” a voice said. “Burnet—Dr., as I stand in the directory. John was trying to catch the midge, which had bolted, and accordingly I brought myself in. How do you do, Miss Katherine? It is very cold outside.”
“The midge bolted!” both the ladies cried with alarm, rushing to the window.
“Nothing of the sort,” cried Mrs. Shanks, who was the more nimble. “It is there standing as quiet as a judge. Fancy the midge bolting!”
“Oh, have they got it safe again?” he said. “But you ladies should not drive such a spirited horse.”
“Fancy——” Mrs. Shanks began, but the ground was cut from under her feet by her more energetic friend.
“Katherine,” she said, “you see what a very good example this is of what we were saying. It is evident the doctor wants us to bolt after the midge—if you will forgive me using such a word.”
“On the contrary,” said the doctor, “I wish you to give me your advice, which I am sure nobody could do better. I want you to tell me whether you think the Laurels would be a good place for me to set up my household gods.”
“The Laurels! oh, the Laurels——” cried Mrs. Shanks, eager to speak, but anxious at the same time to spare Dr. Burnet’s feelings.
“The Cantrells have bought the Laurels,” said Miss Mildmay, quickly, determined to be first.
“The Cantrells—the bakers!” he cried, his countenance falling.
“Yes, indeed, the Cantrells, the bakers—people who know their own mind, Dr. Burnet. They went over the house yesterday, every corner, from the drawing-room to the dustbin; and they were delighted with it, and they settled everything this morning. They are going to set up a carriage, and, in short, to become county people—if they can,” Miss Mildmay said.
“They are very respectable,” said Mrs. Shanks. “Of course, Ruth Mildmay is only laughing when she speaks of county people—but I should like to ask her, after she has got into it, to show me the house.”
“The Cantrells—the bakers!” cried Dr. Burnet, with a despair which was half grotesque, “in my house! This is a very dreadful thing for me, Miss Katherine, though I see that you are disposed to laugh. I have been thinking of it for some time as my house. I have been settling all the rooms, where this was to be and where that was to be.” Here he paused a moment, and gave her a look which was startling, but which Katherine, notwithstanding her experience with the Turnys, etc., did not immediately understand. And then he grew a little red under his somewhat sunburnt weather-beaten complexion, and cried—“What am I to do? It unsettles everything. The Cantrells! in my house.”
“You see, it doesn’t do to shilly-shally, doctor,” said Miss Mildmay. “You should come to the point. While you think about it someone else is sure to come in and do it. And the Cantrells are people that know their own minds.”
“Yes, indeed,” he said—“yes, indeed,” shaking his head. “Poor George—they know their own minds with a vengeance. That poor fellow now is very likely to go to the dogs.”
“No; he will go to London,” said the other old lady. “I know some such nice people there in the same trade, and I have recommended him to them. You know the people, Katherine—they used to send us down such nice French loaves by the parcel post, that time when I quarrelled with the old Cantrells, don’t you remember, about——”
“I don’t think there is any other house about Sliplin that will suit you now, Dr. Burnet,” said Miss Mildmay. “You will have to wait a little, and keep on the look-out.”
“I suppose so,” he said dejectedly, thrusting his hands down to the depths of his pockets, as if it were possible that he should find some consolation there.
And he saw the two ladies out with great civility, putting them into the midge with a care for their comfort which melted their hearts.
“I should wait a little now, if I were you,” said Miss Mildmay, gripping his hand for a moment with the thin old fingers, which she had muffled up in coarse woollen gloves drawn on over the visiting kid. “I should wait a little, since you have let this chance slip.”
“Do you think so?” he said.
“Ruth Mildmay,” said Mrs. Shanks, when they had driven away. “This is not treating me fairly. There is something private between you and that young man which you have never disclosed to me.”
“There is nothing private,” said Miss Mildmay. “Do you think I’m an improper person, Jane Shanks? There is nothing except that I’ve got a pair of eyes in my head.”
Dr. Burnet went slowly back to the drawing-room, where Katherine had promised him a cup of tea. His step sounded differently, and when he knocked against the furniture the sound was dull. He looked a different man altogether. He had come in so briskly, half an hour before, that Katherine was troubled for him.
“I am afraid you are very much disappointed about the house,” she said.
“Yes, Miss Katherine, I am. I had set my heart on it somehow—and on other things connected with it,” he said.
She was called Miss Katherine by everybody in consequence of the dislike of her father to have any sign of superiority over her sister shown to his eldest daughter. Miss Katherine and Miss Stella meant strict equality. Neither of them was ever called Miss Tredgold.
“I am very sorry,” she said, with her soft sympathetic voice.
He looked at her, and she for a moment at him, as she gave him his cup of tea. Again she was startled, almost confused, by his look, but could not make out to herself the reason why. Then she made a little effort to recover herself, and said, with a half laugh, half shiver, “You are thinking how we once took tea together in the middle of the night.”
“On that dreadful morning?” he said. “No, I don’t know that I was, but I shall never forget it. Don’t let me bring it back to your mind.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. I think of it often enough. And I don’t believe I ever thanked you, Dr. Burnet, for all you did for me, leaving everything to go over to Portsmouth, you that are always so busy, to make those inquiries—which were of so little good—and explaining everything to the Rector, and sending him off too.”
“And his inquiries were of some use, though mine were not,” he said. “Well, we are both your very humble servants, Miss Katherine: I will say that for him. If Stanley could keep the wind from blowing upon you too roughly he would do so, and it’s the same with me.”
Katherine looked up with a sudden open-eyed glance of pleasure and gratitude. “How very good of you to say that!” she cried. “How kind, how beautiful, to think it! It is true I am very solitary now. I haven’t many people to feel for me. I shall always be grateful and happy to think that you have so kind a feeling for me, you two good men.”
“Oh, as for the goodness,” he said. And then he remembered Miss Mildmay’s advice, and rubbed his hands over his eyes as if to take something out of them which he feared was there. Katherine sat down and looked at him very kindly, but her recollection was chiefly of the strong white teeth with which he had eaten the bread-and-butter in the dark of the winter morning after that night. It was the only breakfast he was likely to have, going off as he did on her concerns, and he had been called out of his bed in the middle of the night, and had passed a long time by her father’s bedside. All these things made the simple impromptu meal very necessary; but still she had kept the impression on her mind of his strong teeth taking a large bite of the bread-and-butter, which was neither sentimental nor romantic. This was about all that passed between them on that day.