Volume Two—Chapter Seven.
The Campaigner “Carries the Fortress.”
Like a lamb to the slaughter, Herbert Pringle was led by the wily campaigner to his doom matrimonial.
When the veteran perceived that all her operations in re Tom and the gushing Carry must for a time be postponed, on account of the prostration of the principal combatant, she determined to prosecute the other enterprise to the best of her ability, and declared a sort of guerre à l’outrance against the young incumbent for the sake of her eldest daughter, the charming Laura.
Of course, she was far too strategic a campaigner to neglect the other affair altogether. She had written Tom an elegant little billet-doux after the sad contretemps of the pic-nic, telling how sorry she was for his accident, and how she had punished Mortimer, “that naughty, naughty boy,” and would remember the painful scene “to her grave:” she also caused Carry to scribble a postscript expressing her condolence, besides sending every day, like the Pringles, to enquire how he did. But she could do nothing further there at present, not at all events until Tom was able to come out again, when she had no doubt she would secure him, and oust that “odious little minx,” in spite of what she had seen at the pic-nic. She would, indeed, have said more about the matter, only that she would not for the world offend that “dear Mr Pringle,” who was “such a love of a preacher,” and “a perfect gentleman,” which she would persist in telling everyone, as if they disputed the point in the first place, and in the second, as if it was the most extraordinary thing in the world to meet with a member of the cloth who was a gentleman! The surprise on the campaigner’s part as to his being a good preacher was, however, perfectly natural: it is not every gentleman that wears a cassock who is either a fair orator, has a passable delivery, or preaches a good sermon.
Men who go into the church appear sadly ignorant of the old Latin proverb, Poeta nascitur non fit! They ascribe unto themselves two gifts which they believe that they possess, the gift of literary composition, and the gift of oratory; neither of which one man in a hundred, perhaps, possesses separately, and not one in ten thousand, together! And yet the generality of clergymen seem to think that they can not only write a good sarmon, but preach it also; hence these dismal, dreary platitudes, and over-and-over-again schoolboy-themes or truisms which set most of us to sleep every Sunday in the family pew. The short homily of the early clericals was far better than the prosy sermon, of unconscionable length, delivered by the moderns; all of whom seem to think that they were born and brought up, and mercifully ordained to be popular preachers, and nothing else!
The war waged by the campaigner against the young incumbent of Hartwood church was not one of guns of precision and bloodshed. It was a very rosy sort of campaign, all rose-coloured, fought with honied words and sugar plums, and meant to end in orange blossoms and marriage settlements; only a lawsuit in which the conflicting parties and ends were the languid Laura, and an establishment, versus the celibacy of Herbert Pringle, B.A., Oxon.
Everything favoured the campaigner’s manoeuvres. You see, she had the field clear to herself. The bait she offered was very tempting, and summer in the country is a most dangerous time for young, unmarried men. A week in rural retreats will sometimes do more in the Hymeneal line than weeks of London fashionable life: Coelebs who laughs the hook to scorn, however so delicately baited in town, may be hooked at once with a gaudy May-fly down in the country. Besides, the Reverend Herbert was by no means averse to be caught. He, with all his Oxford experiences, must have to some extent perceived the motives Lady Inskip had for so pressingly cultivating his society; but he did not seek cover as the poor, hunted fox so artfully does. He really found the languid Laura too bewitching to be resisted; so, with hardly a coy make-believe of alarm at what he was doing, he eagerly swallowed the bait, hook and all.
Ever since the pic-nic, Herbert Pringle had become the devoted cavalier of Lady Inskip’s eldest daughter.
Morning, noon, and night, the little dapple-grey animal which the young incumbent bestrode was to be seen tied up to the gateposts of Laburnum Cottage: substantial proof that Pringle was within. Of course this was during the intervals of parochial duties which were by no means heavy, as Hartwood, and Bigton too, for that matter, had no poor to speak of, the population being agricultural, living well on their weekly wage, and inhabiting comfortable looking stone houses with pleasant flower gardens in front, and vegetable compounds in the rear.
Croquet—that pleasantly flirtative game, which demands so little skill or exertion, and affords such rare opportunities for effective poses, and desultory chit-chat—was all the rage on the little lawn in front of the Inskip’s cottage, during the warm September days: croquet settled the young incumbent’s business.
Laura was afforded such nice little openings here for developing her conquest in an easy manner so suited to her nature, that she entered with some spirit in completing what the campaigner’s manoeuvres had begun. She had only to look graceful, and move about imperially, as tall women can well do, and show her exquisite profile—it looked better than her full face: by such means the mischief was done.
Pringle, like most little men, had a fancy for graceful Junos, and here he had one ready-made to his hand. Out of the pulpit he was not much of an orator; but as the languid Laura hardly ever uttered anything but an occasional interjection, they suited each other admirably. Nothing was wanting but the final declaration, and that came quite as soon as the old campaigner had planned. Two or three weeks completed the conquest, thanks to country air and scene, statuesque charms and croquet, and the praiseworthy efforts of the skilful old veteran who had charge of the campaign.
People speak a great deal, in the press and elsewhere, of the insufficiency of public rewards and honours for distinguished services with a good deal of truth; but in all these discussions a large and praiseworthy portion of the community is entirely neglected, and its claims to honour and reward absolutely ignored. I allude to the mothers of families; how do they get their services recognised? We bind the hero’s brows with laurels; we raise the brilliant party orator to the peerage; we give the eminent professor of the law a seat on the woolsack; the soldier a medal and a bit of ribbon for his wounds in the country’s service; and we dub the worshipful alderman a knight, should he happen to be at the royal kitchen steps when a prince is born, or have invited the Grand Elector of Sauer Kraut to partake of a ham sandwich on his landing at Dover en route to visit the Palace; but the talented and skilful diplomatist—the mother of a family, who marries off her marriageable daughters all to the most eligible of partis, passes by unnoticed. She, who fights courageously a losing game, against fearful odds, who braves reproach, continually—nay, even disgrace, sometimes in furthering a praiseworthy object, and who deserves our esteem and recognition, gets no reward. Peerages in plenty for parliamentarians, titles for sycophants, knighthoods for toad eaters—but the campaigners go by without ne’er so much as a ribbon of decoration.
This should not be. In the time honoured cause of woman’s rights, this neglect must be protested against. Let us reward our royal plate cleaners and caustic partisans as much as the nation pleases, but think also of the noble women of England, and their fortune and husband-hunting claims!
Lady Inskip was one of the most skilled and to be honoured of her class. Not only did she lead Pringle up to the point—but, knowing his nervousness, she also saved him the trouble of coming to a declaration. She did it for him herself, and this is how it happened.
She could be very confidential, you know, and was well fitted to assume the maternal rôle, and “talk as a mother myself,” whenever it was required of her. She had once before done so to Pringle on Lizzie’s account, as was mentioned in a former chapter; so nothing was more easy and graceful than to assume the same rôle now in his own interests while talking to himself. She determined to make the proposal for him, as he was too shy to make it himself; although in so doing, she spoilt considerable hopes of fun at the “fast” Carry’s part, who had declared over and over again in the family circle that she “would give worlds to see the mild parson pop,” provoking a mild “how can you be so absurd, Carry!” from Laura, who yet could not prevent a feeble smile at the possibility of such a tableau, and “you ought to be ashamed of yourself, miss!” from her mother; while the young imp, Sir Mortimer, gave vent to a triumphant war whoop, and declared that it would be “awful larks! to see Pringle on his knees!” The darling, naughty boy, to be sure! When the campaigner perceived from sundry unmistakable symptoms that things had been brought to a crisis, she prepared to act.
One day, after Pringle had been more bashful and nervous than ever, although still very attentive to Laura, when there had been some weeks of intercourse between the pair since the first descent on Bigton, Lady Inskip “button-holed” him as he was on his way out, and instead of letting him mount his pony at the gate, entreated him to walk a bit down the road with her, as she had something important to say. Pringle, more bashfully still, assented, and passing the bridle of the dapple-grey through his arm, he and the campaigner sauntered off in close confab, watched from the windows of Laburnum Cottage by the young ladies and Mortimer, who seriously wondered what was “up”—one must use slang sometimes; it is so expressive in these very slangy days.
“My dear Mr Pringle,” began the wily campaigner, “I take a great interest in you, in quite a motherly way, indeed; and you will excuse me speaking on a very delicate matter to you?”
“Oh! certainly, Lady Inskip, certainly—anything you know,” he stammered, in reply, blushing a rosy red, even beneath his budding whiskers of auburn hue.
“Well, then, my dear Mr Pringle, I have to speak to you about Laura. I am her mother, and it seems strange in me to speak to you; but I look upon you as a son, and I wish I could see things arranged between you. The darling girl is getting quite thin and pale, and this prolonged suspense is more than she can bear. And I must ask you in the most—that is—my dear Mr Pringle, I think your feelings are interested, and—”
“Precisely so, Lady Inskip; just what I wanted to say, only I could not say it. Would Laura, eh?—your daughter, do you think, eh?” and he looked nervously into the campaigner’s face.
“I think she will consent. I am so glad, my dear young friend; I will speak to her for you, and it will be all arranged, if you will come in again this evening. I have long wished to see my angel Laura married to a Christian gentleman, and since I have known you, you have fulfilled everything which I could have hoped for her to find in a husband”—that he had, with regard to position and competency, besides being easily managed—“and, my dear Mr Pringle, I will tell Laura at once; and this is the happiest moment in my life!”
“Certainly, Lady Inskip, certainly!” stammered the young incumbent, as he shook hands joyfully with his future mother-in-law; and in the evening he came round again to Laburnum Cottage. Laura received him with a faint blush and a timid pressure of his hand, so it was an understood thing that they were regularly engaged.
After it was all settled, Pringle lost a good deal of his prior bashfulness; and both Carry and young Sir Mortimer regarded him as a very jolly sort of brother-in-law to have. The wedding was fixed for an early date in the following year, after a probationary engagement of some three months.
Eureka! The campaigner had carried the fortress after a series of admirable military tactics.