“A cross word, indeed!” said Kate; “that would be unpardonable—and she such a darling. He ought to be proud of having a mother like that. I am very fond of her myself.”
“He’s as proud as Punch, miss,” said Lizzie, “and missis she’s proud of him. When he’s at home he’s always by to walk wi’ her and talk with her. Master, he’s that learned ye never know what to make of him. They say as he’s the biggest scholard in all Huntingshire. It aint to be expected as he would just take his little walks, and make it pleasant like a common man.”
“And what does Mrs Mitford do when Mr John is away?” said Kate, a little doubtful of the propriety of asking so many questions, but too curious to let the opportunity slip.
“Oh, miss! it’s dreadful, that is,” cried Lizzie. “It’s enough to make you cry just to look at her face. Some days she’ll go across to the school as many as three times—and down to the village among all the poor folks. Mother aint Church like me, miss,” the girl continued, with a little apologetic curtsy; “she was born like in Zion, she says, and she can’t make up her mind not to leave it; and it aint to be expected as poor missis should be fond of Zion folks. But when any of the lads are in trouble she never minds church nor chapel. Mother says she’s a bit proud as her own lad is one as never gets into no trouble—and the like of him haven’t got the same temptations, mother says. But I always say as it’s kind of missis, all the same.”
“I should think so, indeed,” cried Kate, “and I think your mother must be——” she was going to say a disagreeable old woman, but stopped in time—“rather hard upon other people,” she went on, diplomatically; “but then if Mr John goes away altogether, I am afraid Mrs Mitford will break her heart.”
“Oh, miss, don’t you be afeared,” cried Lizzie, with bright confidence—“he aint going away. It sounds funny, but he’s going to be the new curate, is Mr John.”
“Oh!!” Kate gave a little cry of disappointment and dismay. “Is he a clergyman? I never thought of that.”
“Not yet, miss,” said Lizzie, “but they say as he’s going up to the bishop at Michaelmas or thereabouts, and then we’ll have him here for curate, and missis will be as glad as glad.”
“I am sure I am not glad,” said Kate to herself, pouting over this unlooked-for piece of news. Not that she cared for John. She had never seen him, how could she care? He had saved her life, people said, but then that was the most fantastic beginning of an acquaintance, like a thing in a novel, and she would rather have seen no more of him ever after, had that been all. But Kate had become interested in my John by dint of hearing his step, and receiving his roses, and knowing him to be her natural victim. And that he should be a clergyman spoilt all. Curates, of course, are always fair game—but then an effective young sportswoman like Kate Crediton can bag curates with so little trouble. Facility, let us say, after the fashion of the copybooks, breeds contempt. And, on the other hand, light-minded as she was, she felt that a clergyman, as distinct from a curate, was a thing that called for respect—and felt herself suddenly pulled up and brought to a pause in all her projects for amusement. How provoking it was! if he had been going to be a soldier, or a barrister, or an—anything except a clergyman! She could not, for Mrs Mitford’s sake, treat him on the ground of simple curatedom; nor would she beguile him from his serious intentions, and wound his mother, who had been so good to her. A clergyman! a being either ready to fall a too ready victim, or a martyr, whom to interfere with would be sacrilege. Kate was thoroughly contrariée. She felt that fortune was against her, and that this was a climax to the misfortunes which hitherto had sat so very lightly upon her. To be thrown from her horse and half-killed—to find herself an inmate of a strange house which she had never heard of before—to be introduced into a new world altogether, with the most delicious sense of novelty and strangeness—and all to find herself at last face to face with a clergyman! Kate could not understand what could be meant by such a waste of means for so miserable an end. “I might have been killed,” she said to herself, “and he only a clergyman all the time!” She was, in short, disgusted at once with her ill fortune and her foolish dreams. She talked no more to Lizzie, but fell back on her pillows, and pushed the roses away with her hand. Mrs Mitford had deceived her, John had deceived her. To think she should really have been getting up a little romance on the subject, and he to turn out only a clergyman after all! When John’s mother returned to the room, after giving him a full account of her patient, along with his breakfast, and reanimating by her son’s interest her own warm glow of sympathy for the invalid, she was quite disturbed by the pucker on Kate’s brow. “Dear me! I am afraid you have been doing too much,” she said, anxiously, bending over the bed. “I have a little headache, that is all,” said Kate, whose temper was affected. And Mrs Mitford shook her head, and took immediate action. She had the blinds all drawn down again which Lizzie had drawn up, and sprinkled eau-de-Cologne all over Kate, and laid aside her own work, which required light, and with her knitting in her hand instead, placed herself in the shade, and said “hush” to every word her patient addressed to her. “Quiet and darkness,” she said, softly; “hush, my dear—there is nothing like darkness and quiet—I always find them effectual.” Poor Kate had to make the best of it. Instead of going on with her new novel, and chattering to her heart’s content, she had to lie silent and shut her eyes, and be content with the eau-de-Cologne; which, after all, though he was but a clergyman, was less interesting than John.
It was a great event to Kate, and also to the kitchen at Fanshawe Regis, when “Miss Parsons” came from Camelford with her young mistress’s “things.” Kate had never been ill in her life before, and she had not been very ill or suffering much even now, so that the feeling of state and dignity and superiority to the rest of the world was unmixed by any severe reminiscence of pain. It gave her quite a thrill of pleasure to see her pretty dresses again. She had been allowed to get up to lie on the sofa by the window, and look out at the roses, but only in her dressing-gown, which was very pretty, no doubt, and very cool, but not so pleasant as all those fresh summer costumes with their floating ribbons. She lay on her sofa, and watched Parsons unpack them with lively interest. “But I should like to know what you mean me to do with them all,” she said. “Here are enough for all the summer; and how long do you suppose I am going to stay? Perhaps a week—there are a dozen gowns at least.”