An English Squire. Coleridge Christabel Rose
were beating in her own heart now?
“There is not much fun in it,” she said. “No. As for Dick, I don’t think much of him. Poor old Roland was worth a dozen of him. I don’t care what people do as long as they are something. But Dick has no fine feelings.”
“Ruth,” said Virginia, “I think I was not taught better for nothing. I am sure papa is very unhappy; he thinks how wrong everything is. Poor papa! Grandpapa was such a bad father for him. I cannot make friends with Dick, and Harry will go back to school. Indoors I have nothing to do; but I am going to ask Uncle James, and then if I go to the cottages and get the children together a little, perhaps it may be better than nothing. Old nurse says they all grow up bad. Poor things, how can they help it!”
“Well, Queenie,” said Ruth dubiously, “I don’t think the people are very fit for you to go to. I don’t think Uncle Seyton would like it.”
“I should not be afraid of them,” said Virginia. “It would be doing something for papa, and doing good besides.”
To think of her father as an involuntary victim to the faults of others was the one refuge of Virginia’s heart; his graceful, melancholy gentleness had caught her fancy, and she was filled with a pity which, however strange from a child to a father, vibrated in every tender string of her nature. On the other hand, all her notions of right were outraged by the more obvious evils prevailing at Elderthwaite, and she went through in those first weeks a variety of emotions, for which action seemed the only cure. She felt as if the sins of generations lay on her father’s shoulders, and she wanted to pull them on to her own – wanted to stand in the deadly breach with the little weapon that her small experience had put into her hand. She wanted to teach a few poor children, a thing that might only be a pleasant occupation or the most commonplace of duties. But it was turning her face right round on the smooth slope the Seytons were treading, and trying to make a step up hill.
Ruth did not think that first step would be easy, and would have liked to see Virginia go downstairs in a somewhat less desperate humour, to find her uncle chatting to Miss Seyton in the drawing-room.
“Ha, ha, Miss Ruth! Come North just in time to make a conquest of the fine Frenchman at Oakby.”
“I thought he was a Spaniard, uncle,” said Ruth.
“Eh, pretty much of a muchness, aren’t they? I’ve got a card for a grand ball to go and see him. Ha, ha! I’d sooner see him with a red coat on at Ashrigg meet next Thursday.”
“But you must go to the ball, uncle, and dance with me,” said Ruth.
“That’s a bargain,” said the jolly parson, striking his hands together. “Any dance I like?”
“To be sure.”
“Ah, mind you look out, then. When you’re sitting quiet with the Frenchman you’ll see your old uncle round the corner.”
“I never dance with any one who doesn’t know the trois temps, uncle.”
“Bless my soul! My favourite dance is the hornpipe, or old Sir Roger – kiss the girls as you pop under. That’s an old parson’s privilege, you know.”
All this time Virginia had been standing apart, working up her courage, and now, regardless of the unities of conversation, and with a now-or-never feeling, she began, her fresh young voice trembling and her colour rising high.
“Uncle James, if you please. I wanted to tell you I shall be very glad to do anything to help you, if you will allow me.”
“Help me, my dear? Teach me the troy tong, or whatever Ruth calls it?”
“To help you in the parish, uncle.”
“Parish? Ha, ha! Do they have the pretty girls to read prayers in the grand Ritualistic places nowadays?”
“I thought I might perhaps teach some of the children,” faltered poor Virginia through her uncle’s peal of laughter.
“Teach? We don’t have many newfangled notions here, my dear. Do your wool-work, and dance your troy tong, and mind your own business.”
“I have always been accustomed to do something useful,” said Virginia, gaining courage from indignation.
“Now look here, Virginia,” said Parson Seyton emphatically. “Don’t you go putting your finger into a pie you know nothing of. There’s not a cottage in the place fit for a young lady to set her foot in. There’s a vast deal too much of young women’s meddling in these days; and as for Elderthwaite, there’s an old Methody, as they call him, who groans away to the soberer folks, and comforts their hearts in his own fashion. What could a chit of a lass like you do for them? Go and captivate the Frenchman with your round eyes – you’ve a grand pair of them – and give me a kiss.”
Parson Seyton put out his hand and drew her towards him.
“But, uncle,” she stammered, yielding to the kiss in such utter confusion of mind that she hardly knew what she was doing – “But, uncle, do you like that Methodist to – to attract the people?”
“Bless your heart, child, people must have their religion their own way. They’d stare to hear me convicting them of their sins. ‘What’s the parson done with his own?’ they’d ask. But it comforts them like blankets and broth, and it’s little they get of either,” with a side glance at his sister; “so I take good care to keep out of the way. I told Cherry Lester I should go and hear him some Sunday afternoon. ‘Hope it would do you good, parson,’ says he, coolly. Eh, he’s a fine lad. What a confounded fool old Lester must think himself to have this foreign fellow ready to step into his place.”
“Are you and Cheriton as great friends as ever, uncle?” asked Ruth.
“Friends! Oh, he’s like Virginia here. Wants to teach me a lesson now and then. Got me over last year to their grand meeting of clergy and laity for educational purposes, and there I was up on the platform with the best of them.”
“Did you make a speech, uncle?” asked Ruth.
“I did, my lass, I did! When they had quarrelled and disputed, and couldn’t by any means agree, some one asked my opinion, and I said, ‘My lord,’ – Lord – was there, you know, – ‘and my reverend brethren, having no knowledge whatever of the subject, I have no opinion to give.’ And old Thorold – he comes from the other side of the county, mind you, – remarked that ‘Mr Seyton’s old-fashioned wisdom might find followers with advantage.’ Ha – ha – you should have seen Cherry’s blue eyes down below on the benches when I gave him a wink! ‘Old-fashioned wisdom,’ Miss Virginia; don’t you despise it.”
“Hallo, uncle!” shouted Harry, putting his head in, “here’s a fellow come tearing up to say the wedding’s waited an hour, and if the parson isn’t quick they’ll do without him.”
“Bless my soul, I forgot all about ’em. Coming – coming – and I’ll give ’em a couple of rabbits for the wedding dinner. Virginia’ll never ask me to marry her, that’s certain.” And off strode the parson, while poor Virginia, scandalised and perplexed as she was, was fain, like every one else, to laugh at him.
Chapter Ten.
The Old Parson
“He gave not of that text a pulled hen
That saith that hunters ben not holy men.”
Perhaps no amount of angry opposition to her wishes could so have perplexed Virginia as her uncle’s nonchalance, which, whether cynical or genial, seemed to remove him from the ranks of responsible beings, and to make him a law unto himself. When we read of young high-souled martyrs, we are apt to fancy that their way was plain before them; that however hard to their flesh, it was at least clear to their spirit; that Agnes or Cecilia, however much afflicted by the wickedness of their adversaries, were never perplexed by anything in them that was perhaps not wicked. Virginia Seyton was full of desires as pure, wishes as warm to lead the higher life, was capable of as much “enthusiasm of humanity” as any maiden who defied torture