Abington Abbey: A Novel

by Archibald Marshall

"It may be sooner than you think," said Barbara, who was a trifle annoyed with Jimmy at the moment for having given himself airs over her in these matters. "The little man is only waiting till he grows up—say in about ten years' time."

Jimmy turned a wrathful face upon her, and Young George frowned his displeasure at this tactless humour. "You're inclined to let your tongue run away with you, Barbara," said Jimmy, with great dignity. "I need only point out that I shall be leaving school in three years, to show how absurd your speech is."

"You really do overdo it, Barbara!" expostulated Young George.

"He got a swishing last half for trying to smoke," said Barbara remorselessly. "I don't suppose he succeeded, because it would have made him sick."

Jimmy and Young George then withdrew, to concoct plans for bringing Barbara to a right sense of what was due to men of their age, and Barbara, to consolidate her victory, called out after them, "You'll find cigarettes in Dad's room, if you'd like to try again."

"Barbara darling," said Miss Waterhouse, "I don't think you should tease Jimmy so unmercifully as you do. Children of that age are apt to be sensitive."

The whole of the Pemberton family motored over in the afternoon, and Mollie's acceptance into the bosom of it left nothing to be desired in heartiness or goodwill. Old Mr. Pemberton kissed her, and said that though he'd never been more surprised in his life, he had never been more pleased. He thought that the sooner they were married the better, and he should see about getting a house ready for them the next day. Mrs. Pemberton said she had never credited Bertie with so much sense. He wasn't all that Mollie probably thought he was, but they would all be there to keep him in order if she found the task too much for her. A slight moisture of the eyes, as she warmly embraced the girl, belied the sharpness of her speech, and she talked afterwards to Mrs. Walter in a way that showed she had already taken Mollie into a heart that was full of warmth and kindness. There was no doubt about the genuineness of the pleasure expressed by Nora, Effie and Kate, who were loud and tender at the same time, and amply supported their widespread reputation as real good sorts.

Beatrix was rather ashamed of herself for the doubts she had felt as to whether the Pemberton family would think that the heir to its dignities and estates was doing well enough for himself in marrying, as they might have put it from their standpoint and in their lingo, out of their beat. But they made it plain that their beat took in all that Mollie represented in sweet and desirable girlhood as of chief account, and were rejoiced that she should tread it with them.

Mrs. Walter was almost overcome by the suddenness of the occurrence, and the strong flood of kindness and happiness that it had set in motion. She was a woman with a meek habit of mind, which her long years of servitude had not lessened. She had accepted the insinuation that had run all through the Vicar's addresses on the subject of Mollie and Bertie Pemberton—that the Pembertons were in a social position much superior to her own, though not, as it had always been implied, to his, and that in any attentions that the young man might give to her daughter there could be no design of ultimate marriage. Her dignity had not been wounded by the presentation of the Pemberton superiority, and had only asserted itself when he had seemed to hint that she might be anxious to bridge the gulf between them. But here were these people, whom she had been invited to look upon in that way, welcoming not only her daughter as a particular treasure that she was to be thanked for giving up to them, but including herself in their welcome. Old Mr. Pemberton told her that if she would like to live nearer to her daughter after her marriage he would find a little house for her too; and Mrs. Pemberton seemed anxious to assure her that they did not want to take Mollie away from her altogether, but wished her to share in all that the marriage would bring to them. Bertie was admirable with her. It was a sign of the rightness of his love for Mollie, which had changed him in so many respects, that he should be able to present himself to this mild faded elderly woman, to whom he would certainly not have troubled to commend himself before, as a considerate and affectionate son. He had already embarked upon a way of treating her—with a sort of protecting humour, compounded of mild chaff and little careful attentions—which gave her the sensation of being looked after and made much of in a way that no man had done since the death of her husband. So she was to be looked after for the rest of her life, not to be parted from her daughter, but to have a son given her in addition. She had begun the day with fears and tremors. She ended it in deep thankfulness, and happiness such as she had never thought would be hers again.

Bertie found opportunity for a little word alone with Beatrix in the course of the afternoon.