Abington Abbey: A Novel

by Archibald Marshall

Nor did Caroline or Beatrix wish to be made the subject of discussion. They were quite capable of staving off inconvenient advances, and preferred to do it by lighter methods than those used by Young George, and to get some amusement out of it besides. Caroline laughed, and said: "My darling infant, if we get measles or chicken-pox you might catch them too, and then you wouldn't have to go back to school so soon."

Young George had made his protest, and it had cost him something to do it. His traditions included politeness towards a guest, and he would only have broken them under strong provocation. So, although he was still feeling a blind hatred against this one, he did not reply that his objection was not influenced by the fear of infectious disease, but mumbled instead that he did not want to miss the first days of the summer half.

The Vicar had somewhat recovered himself. His self-conceit made it difficult for him to accept a snub, however directly administered, if it could be made to appear in any way not meant for a snub. "Well, it is true that one has to be a little careful about infection sometimes," he said. "But I know of none anywhere about at present. I have to risk it myself in the course of my duty, but I am always careful about it for others. I had to warn Mollie off certain cottages, when she first came here. She has been such a willing little helper to me since the beginning, and one has to look after one's helpers, you know."

He had quite recovered himself now. Mollie, who had been so pleased to be asked to do what he would like these girls to do, and was obviously not to be criticised, in his position, for asking them to do, was a great stand-by. "I really don't know how I got on before Mollie came," he said. "And Mrs. Mercer feels just the same about her. She has been like a daughter to us."

"She's a dear," said Beatrix. "She has half promised to come and see us in London, when we go up. She has actually hardly ever been to London at all."

"It's most kind of you to take such an interest in her," said the Vicar. "But you mustn't spoil her, you know. I'm not sure that she wouldn't be rather out of place in the sort of life that you lead in London. She isn't used to going about, and hasn't been brought up to it. If you are kind to her when you are down here, and ask her to come and see you now and then, but don't let her make herself a burden on you, you will be doing her a great kindness, and all that can be required of you."

There was a slight pause. "We look upon Mollie as our friend," said Miss Waterhouse, "and one does not find one's friends a burden."

They sat on round the tea-table, and conversation languished. The Vicar made tentative advances towards a stroll round the garden, but they were not taken up. Young George was dying to get away to his activities, but did not like to make a move, so sat and fidgeted instead, his distaste for the Vicar growing apace.

At last the Vicar got up to take his leave. Young George accompanied him to the gate which led from the garden into the road, and opened it for him. "Well good-bye, my young friend," said the Vicar, his hand again on the boy's shoulder. "I hope you'll have an enjoyable holiday here. We must do all we can to make it amusing for you."

"Thank you, sir," said young George, looking down on the ground, and the Vicar took himself off, vaguely dissatisfied, but not blaming himself at all for any awkwardness that had peeped through during his visit.