“I don’t see why you aren’t contented here,” said Bernard, bending to his work again.
“I dare say not,” retorted Dolly, pacing the shed. “You’re phlegmatic. You’re content with the rind of life. Bitter or sweet, I mean to taste the core.”
“I expect, you know, you’ll come to awful grief.”
“Perhaps. But so I’ve lived my life first, I’ll not complain.”
“Well,” said Bernard, “I never saw you in heroics before, and I guess I don’t care if I never do again.”
Then he returned to his work, and drowned Dolly’s aspirations in the harsh duet of squeaking saw and dissentient wood.
V
SHE GOES ON SUNDAY TO THE CHURCH
Eumenes Fane’s marriage had been both more respectable and more romantic than his kind enemies believed: living in Paris, he had eloped with a handsome, wilful French girl of noble family. Her relations swallowed the match as a bitter pill, his did not exist; and the married lovers lived in isolation far away in Brittany until death cut short their long honeymoon. Eumenes returned to England embittered; he had always been disagreeable. The relations between him and his children were eccentric. He lived with them, he had taught them, yet he lavished satire upon their boorishness and stupidity; he had been devoted to the mother, yet for the children he had no feeling but unamiable contempt. They, on their part, repaid him with indifference. Bernard at eighteen, on his own initiative, took control of the farm and made it pay; Dolly managed the dairy and the household. Their lives were isolated equally from their father and from the world. Bernard was not much of a reader, and never strayed far from his Shakespeare and his farming journals, with excursions into Tennyson; but Dolly was insatiable. She had read and digested every book in their heterogeneous library. Unfortunately, the collection was not representative; the modern French novelists were there arranged in full tale, and fresh volumes were added as they appeared, but it had no single work of English fiction later than the date of the admirable Sir Charles Grandison. Both Bernard and Dolly could read and speak French as easily as English, though they did not know the worth of their accomplishment; and from their study of fin-de-siècle literature they had gained an innocently lurid knowledge of the world which hardly fitted in with the conditions of English country life, and was particularly inappropriate as applied to the blameless households at the vicarage, the surgery, or The Lilacs. When young Merton of The Hall brought home a pretty bride, Dolly seriously looked for the appearance of Tertium Quid. He delayed his coming for a year, and then arrived in the cradle. Dolly was surprised; but she ascribed this breach of custom to the fact that Merton senior’s money was made in soap. Only the true aristocrats indulge in a friend of the house.
After Farquhar’s visit Dolly made a dress for herself. It was then the fashion to wear a bodice opening at the sleeves and in front to show a lighter under-dress, which also appeared beneath the skirt, as the corolla of a flower beneath the calyx. Dolly’s gown of dark chestnut matched her hair; the colour of the vest was white. She was more skilful in the dairy than with her needle, but she gave her mind to this, and in the end her work was crowned with fair success.
“I guess that colour, what they call, suits you,” said Bernard, whom she called in to assist at the full-dress rehearsal.