Mrs Maddern Takes Tea

2

Mrs Maddern Takes Tea

    It had long been the ambition of Mrs Patty Maddern’s life to see her daughters respectably settled. But after hearing the saga of Dorothea Parkinson’s marriage to the late Captain Donald O’Flynn, she was exceeding glad after all that none of her girls had shown the least disposition to favour that young man or any of his cronies when he’d visited his uncle, and Mrs Parkinson’s neighbour, Mr Liam O’Flynn, at his house in Tunbridge Wells. And poor Mr O’Flynn—such a respectable man! The debts he’d had to settle after Captain O’Flynn’s merciful death at Waterloo! And that wasn’t all! Far from it. Mrs Maddern reflected it was a lucky chance that had taken her girls out walking the very afternoon that Mrs Parkinson should have driven up in her carriage.

    “My dear! Not really!” she gasped sympathetically as Mrs Parkinson sniffed lachrymosely into her black-edged handkerchief. –Scarcely out of mourning for the late Mr Parkinson when she’d had to go into it again for Captain O’Flynn.

    “Yes,” said Mrs Parkinson dolefully. “But dearest Mr O’Flynn has done everything! Naturally one was tempted to send the creature packing—well, with dear Dorothea widowed with a babe in arms!”—Mrs Maddern nodded sympathetically.—“But Mr O’Flynn has been most generous and I believe has settled her respectably somewhere on his estates in Ireland.” She nodded, and blew her nose.

    “Has he got estates in Ireland?” asked Mrs Maddern, immediately diverted from the subject in hand—no doubt the influence of her shared heritage with Harry Ainsley.

    “Oh, yes, my dear. Of course!” she tittered.

    Mr Liam O’Flynn was a respectable and most gentlemanly man but he was much too old for Dorothea, even widowed—and Mrs Parkinson had no other daughters. Surely she couldn’t be thinking— No, absurd, she was past fifty!

    “Quite extensive lands, I believe. But no house,” added Mrs Parkinson on a regretful note.

    “No?” She must be thinking of Dorothea’s child’s inheritance! Yes, that would be it.

    Mrs Parkinson embarked on an involved explanation of how there once had been a house there but it had burned down many years ago. But as she knew little about history, let alone Anglo-Irish history, the details were not clear. But this didn’t matter, Mrs Maddern didn’t know anything about history either and in any case she wasn’t listening. How old was Mr O’Flynn, exactly? Now she came to think of it she very much doubted he could be fifty yet. Perhaps... forty-five? And the baby was only a girl, would he want to see his whole estate go to the girl child of a scapegrace nephew? Mrs Maddern could not but feel it would be most unnatural in him to do so.

    She rang for Bateson to remove the tea things and, since her guest did not look precisely refreshed, asked her kindly if she would care for a fresh pot. Mrs Parkinson conceding gratefully that she would, Mrs Maddern conveyed this message. Bateson bobbed and exited carefully, bearing the huge silver tray with some difficulty. The tray and the silver tea service had been a wedding present from Mr Maddern’s elderly Uncle Hildebrand, and every time the widowed Mrs Maddern used it she felt positively hopeful about Uncle Hildebrand. Hopeful. It was a Sign.

    There was no way in which at this juncture Mrs Maddern could acquire information from her guest about Mr Liam O’Flynn’s age. She did think fleetingly of mentioning that they always sent Uncle Hildebrand a remembrance for his birthday, and no doubt Dorothea and Mrs Parkinson did the same, and when was dear Mr O’Flynn’s birthday—? But dismissed the thought as soon as it was formulated: Mrs Parkinson would see through it immediately.

    Instead she said kindly: “And how are Mrs O’Flynn and the baby?”

    Mrs Parkinson sighed. “Very well, I’m glad to say.”

    Mrs Maddern looked dubiously at her.

    “My dearest Patty,” she said leaning forward: “I feel I can convey this to you! After all, how long have we known each other?” She gave a small, mirthless titter. “Since we were mere girls! My, my! Well, my dear, the thing is, Dorothea will not make an effort!” She nodded impressively. “I fear she may be going into a decline.”

    “Oh, dear.”

    “She just sits at home and mopes all day, and when I tell her she must make an effort to get out, to renew her old acquaintance, all she will say is: ‘I have much to blame myself for, Mamma.’”

    “She!” cried Mrs Maddern roundly, momentarily forgetting she was a lady. “Why, she hasn’t the least thing in the world to blame herself for, poor innocent lamb!”

    “No,” said Mrs Parkinson, a flush of gratification rising to her large, pallid cheeks: “that is exactly what I try to tell her, and I’m very glad to hear you say so, my dearest Patty!”

    “If anyone’s to blame— Well, never mind that, the man’s dead,” said Mrs Maddern grimly, folding her lips up very tightly. “I suppose we shouldn’t speak ill of him.”

    “I wish she’d never met him!” cried Mrs Parkinson, suddenly breaking out into a fresh storm of tears and having new recourse to the black-edged handkerchief.

    “Oh, hush! My dear Wilhelmina! Pray do not distress yourself in this way! At least he’s dead, he can’t do her any more harm,” ended the practical-minded Mrs Maddern frankly.

    “No,” agreed Mrs Parkinson on a dubious note, sniffing. “But she seems to have got it into her head that if she’d been a better wife to him he wouldn’t have—have gone to the dogs like he did!”

    “Rubbish: the man was an out-and-out scoundrel, he’d have gone to the dogs if he’d been married to an archangel!” declared Mrs Maddern forcefully.

    “Yes, he was past redeeming,” agreed Mrs Parkinson mournfully.

    Mrs Maddern bit her lip. She was a florid woman but her plump cheeks got even redder as she leaned forward, put a sympathetic hand on her old friend’s black silk knee and said in a very low voice: “My dearest Wilhelmina, if there is anything more you should wish to tell me about dearest Dorothea’s state of—of health, pray do not hesitate to speak.”

    “Oh, my dear! Dearest Mr O’Flynn mentioned that, too, imagine! The embarrassment and the—the shame of having to do so nearly killed the poor man! But no, I have had my own doctor to Dorothea and as well have taken her to London to see a very eminent physician on Mr O’Flynn’s advice, and she is physically quite, quite well—because if you want to know, Patty,” she burst out, momentarily forgetting she was a lady: “the horrid pig never even came near her after he found she was increasing! And completely ignored her after the babe was born! Completely! Never even asked to see his own child!”

    “Good,” said Mrs Maddern grimly.

    Mrs Parkinson gave a startled little laugh. “Yes—I suppose it is good! But my poor dear Dorothea, will she ever stop moping and be her own dear self again?”

    “It’s early days yet, my dear. Only a few months since his death, after all.”

    “Yes; it just seems longer.” Mrs Parkinson blew her nose with an air of finality and put the handkerchief away. “Baby will have her first birthday next month, imagine!”

    “Really? Doesn’t time fly!” Mrs Maddern, for all the genuine good-will she bore her old friend, was quite unable to prevent herself doing sums in her head. That meant, as she’d thought, that Dorothea must have conceived the child as near her wedding night as made no difference and that Captain O’Flynn must have deserted her more or less straight after the honeymoon. Yes, well, good riddance.

    Mrs Parkinson told Mrs Maddern a lot more, some of which she’d already said, about the horrid cheap lodgings the gallant Captain had forced his wife to live in whilst he gambled her dowry away, and the positive hovel she’d been living in in Ostend while the gallant Captain had enjoyed himself at the balls and parties in Brussels, and the delightful English lady who had rescued Dorothea and baby Catherine from the hovel and written to her mother and— So forth.

    Mrs Maddern didn’t listen much. She was wondering if Dorothea would have Mr O’Flynn after all. Because when a girl had been through something like that she did sometimes turn to an older man. In spite of the age difference it would really be quite suitable.—And Dorothea wouldn’t need to change the monograms on her linen!—But it was a pity, because if he was only fortyish he would be quite suitable for Mrs Maddern’s own Christabel.

    The Madderns’ house was situate near a small village not very many miles from Tunbridge Wells. Its proximity to that metropolis was, indeed, the reason for Mrs Wilhelmina Parkinson’s retiring thither with her daughter on the occasion of her husband’s demise. They were, of course, those Parkinsons who had rented the Ainsleys’ house in town, and it was, precisely, the connection with Patty Ainsley Maddern that had led to their hiring the house. The late Mr Parkinson had been a gentlemanly man of very gentle manners and since his wife had no great ambition to cut a fashionable dash it had never mattered to her that her husband’s father had been in trade. His death had left the widow, with one son and one daughter, very comfortably off indeed, but she had retired to a smaller town because, as she confessed to her daughter, the heart had gone out of her and every single thing in the London house reminded her of her dear Tom! The gentle Dorothea had not raised any objections, so they had gone.

    Hilary Parkinson, who was in Holy Orders, and a man several years older than his sister Dorothea, had attempted to point out gently to his mamma that after the first shock of bereavement was over she might regret the move. But Mrs Parkinson had been adamant. Hilary Parkinson was a man of some principle, who would never have dreamed of attempting to force his will on another human being—unless of course their soul or physical person were actually in danger—so he had kissed his mamma’s hand with tender grace and acquiesced in her decision. Mrs Parkinson, murmuring something disjointed about being blessed in her bereavement by the most loving and handsomest children in the world—at this a flush had risen to Hilary’s high cheekbones, for his astounding good looks were an embarrassment to him—had forthwith ordered the packing of every single thing in the London house.

    She had not regretted the move to Tunbridge Wells in the way Hilary had meant, for she had quickly formed a circle of agreeable acquaintance. But she had had time deeply to regret the day that her daughter Dorothea set eyes on the dashing nephew of their new neighbour. And, indeed, the day that she herself had—for Mrs Parkinson had been even more swayed by Captain O’Flynn’s dashing appearance and charmingly eager, boyish manner than had her daughter. The ignoble triumph of marrying a daughter before her dear old friend did had also entered in no small degree into the matter. Dorothea, biddable as ever, and clearly bowled over by the Captain, had needed little urging from her mother to accept his offer. Mr O’Flynn knew nothing of his nephew’s profligacy: the Captain, in the expectation of being made his uncle’s heir, had taken care to keep his true character a secret. So the Captain had got Dorothea’s handsome dowry and incidentally Dorothea, and the stunned Hilary Parkinson, whom his superiors had slated to rise in the Church, had returned from a prolonged visit to the Church in Ulster to find his sister about to celebrate her nuptials with a man of whom the family really knew nothing. Except that he was popular with his comrades and had ingratiating manners!

    Dorothea had sobbed her heart out at the thought of putting off the wedding date; and certainly Mr O’Flynn was well known and highly respected in the neighbourhood, so— There had really been nothing the Reverend Hilary could do, short of forbidding the banns. And there did not seem any valid reason to do so, except for the instinctive dislike he’d taken to the fellow on first setting eyes on him. So that had been that.

    Subsequently Hilary Parkinson had blamed himself with deep bitterness for the mess, and his bishop had had to speak to him severely on the sin of pride: that sort of pride which saw itself as responsible for misfortunes of other persons’ making. So now Hilary had the sin of pride to reproach himself with as well. He was a truly devout man but he was quite unable to repress the feeling of joyous thanks to his Saviour that welled in his breast every time he recalled the fact that his brother-in-law was no more.

    After some hesitation his bishop, who was reluctant to see his favourite give up the rapid rise which he had planned for him (and of which Hilary knew nothing, being genuinely humble as well as genuinely devout), had agreed that he should take over the vacant living in the village near to the Madderns’ home, to be near his mother and sister for a time. So Hilary had lately come to live in the local vicarage, whence he could easily ride over to Tunbridge Wells to see his relatives at any time he pleased.

    It was towards this very vicarage that the Maddern girls had directed their steps on the fine afternoon that Mrs Parkinson had chosen to call on their mamma. There was a chill in the air, but they were wrapped up cosily and they were country girls, used to being out in much more inclement weather than this, so they walked along briskly enough.

    However, for once in their lives the five Maddern sisters were not chattering.

    Finally Amabel said nervously: “Will he be in, do you think?”

    “Will he listen to us, if he is?” returned Marybelle in a hollow voice.

    Florabelle, the youngest, retorted immediately: “Well, he won’t listen to you, at all events!”

    “No,” said the gentle Amabel anxiously: “I meant, will he listen to Christa?”

    They all looked anxiously at Christabel.

    Christabel, as the eldest of the Maddern children, was used to being looked up to. She replied with a tightening of her lips: “He’ll have to.”

    “Why?” said Hildegarde bluntly. –The name broke the pattern: but Mrs Maddern, at the time despairing of ever producing another son, after a daughter followed by two sons and then two more daughters in succession, had been thinking of rich old Uncle Hildebrand. It had been the nearest she could get, in a girl’s name. This was just as well, as after Hildy she was to produce only Marybelle and Floss. It had been a great mistake not to have named either Hal or Tom “Hildebrand”. In Mrs Maddern’s opinion. Not, rather understandably, in Hal’s or Tom’s.

    “Because it’s not a frivolous matter, Hildy. It is his sister’s welfare we want to see him about,” explained Christabel.

    “He’ll say we’re sticking our noses in,” predicted Marybelle glumly. People did say this rather often of Marybelle’s nose, even though it was not by any means an obtrusive nose, being short and rather snub. But then, Marybelle was only fifteen, and it was generally considered that her nose had no business at all in adult affairs. Hildegarde had pointed out logically in her deep, funny voice that if Marybelle didn’t poke her nose into adult affairs she would never learn about adult life at all, but no-one but the kind-hearted Amabel had listened to this: Hildy was always coming out with that sort of odd remark.

    “No, he won’t: not if Christa speaks to him!” said Amabel loyally, taking her sister’s arm.

    Christabel sighed. “I’m afraid he may, Amabel. Never mind: it’s our duty to speak to him.”

    They proceeded along the lane in silence.

    Finally Hildy said abruptly: “I wish Dr Rogers hadn’t died!”

    The late incumbent of the parish had been a gentle, scholarly man. An odd friendship had sprung up between him and the gruff Hildy, and to the family’s unmitigated astonishment Dr Rogers had taken on not only the drumming of some Latin and Greek into the boys’ heads before they went to school, but, voluntarily, assuring the puzzled Mrs Maddern that it would be his pleasure, the teaching of Hildegarde. Hildy now knew an awful lot of Latin and Greek but had been adjured on pain of death by Mrs Maddern not to mention the fact to any gentleman. When she was younger she had connected this injunction in a confused way with some of the ruder stories the blissfully unconscious Dr Rogers, who was the sort of scholar who gets utterly involved in the matter at hand to the exclusion of every other consideration including food and drink, had allowed his pupil to peruse. But now that she was nineteen and grown up—though not out, as Mrs Maddern hadn’t yet been able to afford to bring a third girl out—Hildy understood that her mother had only meant it would put the gentlemen off, they’d think she was a bluestocking and not make her an offer.

    Unfortunately, having understood the motives behind it, Hildy now thoroughly despised her mother for the injunction. This was very unfair: Mrs Maddern was merely following the customs of her times and she did not, in any case, have the intellectual capacity to rise above them, even had she possessed the social temerity. But then, Hildegarde Maddern was a rather all-or-nothing person. And not as wise as the attaining of the advanced age of nineteen had led her to assume.

    “Yes, dear, we know,” said Christabel kindly.

    “Mm,” murmured Amabel, looking at her with big, sympathetic amber eyes.

    Hildy glared. “Not that, you imbeciles!”—Her sisters blinked.—“No, if it was him, he could give us the right advice!”

    Not arguing with her on this point, Christabel said firmly: “Hildy, dear, if it was old Dr Rogers, we’d hardly be going to see him about Dorothea’s problems, would we?”

    “No, ’cos he isn’t—her—bro—ther!” agreed Marybelle, hopping a bit. “Is it ‘is’ or ‘was’ when a person’s—dead?” she asked, hopping again.

    “Stop hopping like that,” said Christabel repressively.

    “Logically, it would have to be ‘was’,” decided Hildy.

    “Wasn’t her brother, then,” agreed Marybelle.

    “Only, funnily enough, that sounds wrong,” added Hildy, frowning.

    “Is—was! Is—was!” chanted Florabelle, skipping.

    “Floss, if you can’t behave you will have to go home: this is serious business,” said Christabel sternly,

    Floss stopped skipping. “Sorry. Is Mr Parkinson a dragon, Hildy?”

    There was a short silence.

    “How would she know?” said Christabel weakly. “She’s only seen in him in church, like the rest of us.”

    “Like a young god,” sighed Marybelle.

    “Marybelle Maddern! You’re lucky I don’t send you straight home to wash your mouth out with soap! That’s blasphemous!” gasped Christabel in outrage.

    “Marybelle, dear,” Amabel reproached her, her sweet round face puckered in distress.

    Behind—or rather, behind, over, above, and amongst—her freckles, Marybelle’s face was puce. “He is!” she said stoutly, pouting. “Anyway I don’t even know what it MEANS!” she cried desperately as her two oldest sisters opened their mouths again.

    “No, she doesn’t, she’s ignorant,” agreed Hildegarde. “It means taking the name of the Lord in vain. Specifically, you compared a man to a god. And you did it in the context of the man’s actually standing in a church in the pulpit. I can see why they thought it was blasphemous. It’s not, of course,” she added detachedly.

    “Hildegarde!” gasped Christabel, outraged.

    “Well, it isn’t. Marybelle was talking in a pagan context. He is like a god, he’s like the Apollo Belvedere. I’ve seen an engraving of him. Of a statue, I mean.”

    Florabelle sniggered.

    “That will be quite enough,” said Christabel, taking a deep breath. Conversations often got totally out of hand in this fashion when Hildy was present. It was all the fault of that Latin and Greek, giving her an education like a boy’s. “If Marybelle does not wish to have this matter mentioned to Mamma, she will be utterly silent on the topic and not repeat her remark. Or refer to it in any way!” she added firmly, and rather loudly.

    Marybelle pouted.

    “And now, may I enquire,” said Christabel on a steely note, “why Hildy is presumed to know whether the Reverend Parkinson is a dragon or not?”

    Everybody had thought this small point had been overlooked. Amabel and Marybelle looked anxiously at Hildy. Floss gave a smothered snigger.

    “Florabelle Maddern, if you do not stop that silly sniggering this instant, you will go home!” said Christabel, starting off steely and ending up very loud. But not looking at Floss at all, it was most impressive.

    Floss subsided, reddening.

    “I’ve met him,” said Hildy, scowling.

    “Where?” asked Christabel instantly.

    No answer.

    “Where?”

    “Very well, if you must know, it was at Old Tom’s!” she cried.

    “Hildy!” gasped Amabel in distress.

    Christabel had stopped short—perforce hauling Amabel to a halt, too, as she was still clutching her arm. “You’ve been strictly forbidden to go anywhere near that filthy old man’s hut,” she said in a trembling voice.

    “I don’t CARE! He’s SICK and he’s got NO-ONE! And he’s my FRIEND!” she shouted.

    Amabel released Christabel’s arm and went over to Hildy. She put an arm round her shoulders. “It’s all right, darling,” she said gently. Over her sister’s bent head she said to Christabel: “Mrs Jenkins from the village was saying the old man’s dying, Christa.”

    “Oh,” she said, taken aback.

    “Don’t cry, Hildy, darling,” said Amabel gently as Hildy sniffed angrily.

    “I’m NOT!” she shouted. Amabel’s gentle sympathy was unfortunately enough to make all but the most hardboiled cry, and Hildy was furiously aware that she was about to.

    “She can’t possibly come to any harm there now, Christa,” said Amabel.

    “No—I suppose not,” she conceded.

    “I never would have, anyway!” said Hildy fiercely.

    “Hildy, he’s been up before the magistrates times innumerable. What about the time Mrs Lobben accused him of—of attacking her?” said Christabel, swallowing. Florabelle sniggered yet again, but she managed to ignore this.

    “He jumped out from behind a bush and gave her a fright, that’s all,” said Hildy sulkily.

    “Pooh!” cried Marybelle in disbelief.

    “That will be enough out of you,” said Christabel, sighing. “l suppose if he’s dying, Mamma can have no further objection to your visiting him, Hildy.”

    “No. And was the Reverend Parkinson there?” asked Amabel, drawing her gently on.

    “Yes,” said Hildy, sniffing. “I think he’s witless.”

    “Why?” asked Marybelle and Floss in chorus. –Christabel sighed.

    “Well, I was just coming out of Tom’s hut. And he was going to come in. And he gave a sort of stupid laugh and said: ‘What have we here, a ministering angel?’”

    There was a short silence.

    “That was pretty witless,” conceded Floss. –Christabel bit her lip.

    “I expect he was taken aback—did you almost bump into him, dear?” said the kindly Amabel.

    “Um—well, yes. Well, I did, actually. He nearly dropped his basket.”

    “Well, what did he say next?” demanded Floss.

    “Nothing. I said ‘Not within the meaning of the Christian celestial hierarchy’, and he looked as if the roof had fallen on him.”

    “No wonder!” said Marybelle with feeling.

    “Yes—um—that was a little rude, dear, when the poor man was only trying to— Well, I mean, didn’t you even apologize for bumping into him, Hildy?” asked Amabel weakly.

    “No. It was his fault as much as mine. Well, actually it was an accident, there was no reason to apologize.”

    “Except for manners!” cried Christabel.

    “Manners are meaningless. And he didn’t try to apologize, either.”

    There was yet another short silence. Christabel knew she ought to reprove her sister in some way but couldn’t think exactly how. Amabel was wondering if she ought to say anything more: everything she said seemed to make it worse.

    Finally Marybelle rushed in. “Was that all?”

    “No, then he said: ‘How is the poor old fellow?’ and I said: ‘Dying, why else are you here?’”

    “Hildegarde Maddern!” gasped Christabel, outraged.

    “Hildy, how could you!” gasped Amabel, also truly outraged, as much as one of her temperament could be.

    Floss and Marybelle just gulped.

    No-one said anything more, so Hildy stuck her pointed chin out and said loudly: “Anyway, he didn’t think I was rude!”

    “Much,” said Marybelle in a hollow voice, wondering if it was too late to withdraw from the whole expedition with honour.

    “Well, he didn’t, because he only said: ‘I’m here because he’s a fellow human in need of Christian charity. Isn’t that why you’re here, too?’”

    “He must be a truly Christian gentleman!” gasped Amabel.

    “Yes, he’s a vicar,” said Floss, genuinely puzzled by the remark.

    “Just be quiet a minute, everybody,” ordered Christabel. They all looked at her expectantly. “Think carefully before you answer this, Hildegarde Maddern,” she warned her. Hildy looked sulky. “What did you say to him then?”

    “Surely—” began Amabel.

    “Just be quiet, Amabel!” said Christabel sharply. “Well?” she said on a bitter note to the culprit.

    The culprit stuck her chin out. “I said: ‘I’m here because he’s my friend and he needs me, not because of any inflated notions of the virtues of charity, Christian or otherwise.’”

    “I knew it!” she cried in the voice of Cassandra.

    “Oh, Hildy!” wailed Amabel.

    Marybelle and Floss just gulped again.

    “You can apologize to him the instant we get there: the instant!” declared Christabel, breathing deeply.

    Hildy looked mutinous.

    “Yes, Hildy, or maybe he won’t listen to us!” urged Marybelle.

    “Oh,” she said, looking disconcerted. “Oh, all right, then. But don’t expect me to mean it, Christa!” she added fiercely.

    “No, the mere form will satisfy me in this instance, thank you,” Miss Maddern replied grimly.

    Suddenly Hildy grinned. “All right! The form it is! At least you’re recognizing the hypocrisy of it!”

    Christabel, however, strode on, still looking grim.

    They hurried after her. After some time Marybelle ventured: “What happened next?”—in a sort of hiss.

    “Please do not whisper in public, Marybelle Maddern,” said Christabel through her teeth.

    “Um—well, actually, he sort of smiled at me,” Hildy admitted, looking sideways at Christabel.

    “What?” gasped Marybelle.

    “Ooh, he must be witless, all right!” discovered Floss with a sort of awe.

    Christabel strode on very fast. She shut her eyes for a split second, breathing deeply.

    “Yes. Only I ran away, so I’m not sure if it was a nice smile or not,” said Hildy on a very odd note that all of her sisters missed.

    “You ran away!” gasped Amabel in distress. “Oh, Hildy, what shall we do with you?”

    “That’ll be when your bracelet fell off,” noted Floss keenly.

    “Um—probably,” she growled, reddening.

    “Not in the woods?” gasped Amabel . “The gold one that Great-Uncle Hildebrand gave you? Oh, Hildy!”

    “I know where it is,” she said, pouting. “I can get it any time.”

    “Yes, if Old Tom’s dying at least he won’t pinch it,” noted Floss.

    “That will do, Florabelle Maddern; please do not use that expression,” said Christabel awfully.

    Floss subsided. The rest of the walk to the vicarage was accomplished in silence.

    Hilary Parkinson had not, as the Maddern sisters had assumed, been struck primarily by Hildegarde’s rudeness on the occasion of that encounter on the threshold of Old Tom’s smelly hut. Nor did he, as they did, having known her all her life, see her as just funny old Hildy, the odd one out of the family. What he had seen was—well, a ministering angel, yes. But actually she had struck him more as a nymph: a slender, sweet-faced creature with huge grey-green eyes and a pointed chin, dressed as a nymph should be in a leaf-green garment above which her rioting dark auburn curls glowed eerily in a shaft of sun striking down from above the tall old trees that surrounded Old Tom’s clearing.

    It was not until quite some time later that the Vicar had wondered what had become of her hat. Or if she had ever worn one.

    He had had a vision of the lovely creature slipping out of her house with her basket in her hand, forgetting about such unnecessary social niceties as a bonnet in her eagerness to succour her old friend. Actually Hildy had got up very early, snuck downstairs and stolen a large quantity of food and drink before Cook was up. Then, grabbing Amabel’s pelisse because her own was still wet after an expedition the previous day in which she’d been caught in a storm, she had slid out unobserved of her relatives.

    Hildegarde’s manner to the new vicar had been so aggressive partly because—though she herself did not recognize the fact—she was missing her old friend Dr Rogers and was challenging the new vicar to display some of Dr Rogers’s intelligence and intellectual toughness. And partly because Mr Parkinson was an extraordinarily handsome man.

    It was unlikely that any man of twenty-nine could have measured up to Dr Rogers’ standards of intellectual toughness and of course Hilary Parkinson had not. He had been just as taken aback as Hildy by the encounter, the more so as it was the first time in his life a nymph had hurled herself against his chest; and being, in spite of his twenty-nine years and his astonishing physical beauty, a shy man, simply hadn’t known what to say. He’d felt himself to be foolish when he’d made the “ministering angel” remark, but even more so at Hildy’s response to it. He had only just begun to gather his wits and recognize that she was an unusually intelligent and educated girl, and to experience considerable amusement at her abrupt style, for he was not lacking in a sense of humour and had no inflated ideas of his own importance, when she’d run away.

    Against his will the image of her, the sensation of her colliding with him, and the challenge in her bright eyes had remained with him. Hilary had fought against it, but had had a couple of sleepless nights since and had had great difficulty in settling down to his sermon this week. He had repressed the hope that he might meet her again in one of the genteel houses of the neighbourhood. Even if he did meet her he was determined not to show her any particular attention. This was not because he’d registered that she was very young or because his affections were given to another. No, it was because Hilary Parkinson believed earnestly in a celibate clergy.

    He had therefore suffered considerably in the wake of the encounter, and was determined to put her out of his mind. That so far he had not, showed what a weak, unworthy vessel he was, he thought gloomily, staring out of his study a wintry view of dank shrubbery, his half-written sermon before him.

    He jumped when there came a tap at the door and his housekeeper, Mrs Meek, entered, apologizing for disturbing him but the Miss Madderns were here to see you, Vicar.

    Mrs Meek had been the previous vicar’s housekeeper and her name belied her. She had not approved of Miss Hildegarde Maddern’s coming over to see Dr Rogers every day, though she had not voiced her opinion to the old gentleman, and she did not approve of young ladies who came to call on an unmarried vicar. This latter fact had been plainly written all over her scrawny form as she’d shown them into the parlour.

    “Oh? Oh—Mrs Maddern’s girls! They’re friends of my sister,” he said, smiling. “Thank vou. Mrs Meek, I’ll be there directly.”

    “Very well, Vicar.” She paused. “Would you care for me to bring tea?”

    “Mm? Goodness, is that the time?” Hilary gave her his lovely smile again.—When Hilary smiled you thought the heavens had poured forth a paen of pure song, just for you. Even the flint-hearted Mrs Meek went quite wobbly at the knees when her new employer smiled at her. Though naturally she did not allow this fact to become apparent.—“Yes, that would be lovely, thank you, Mrs Meek,” he agreed.

    “Very good, Vicar,” she said in a repressive voice, going out.

    Hilary wondered vaguely what he could have done to offend her. But by this time he had discovered that Mrs Meek apparently lived in a permanent state of offence with the world, so he didn’t let it worry him. He went out, sighing a little at the thought of having to make polite conversation with the daughters of his mother’s old friend. And trying to remember if he’d ever met them. No, he didn’t think so. Well, some silly party of Dorothea’s came to mind, when she’d been about nine and he’d been about eighteen, but no, not since then, he didn’t think.

    In the parlour Marybelle had said with a certain gloomy relish: “Well, one dragon down, one to go!”

    “Ssh!” Christabel had hissed. “And just remember, Hildy: I’ll introduce us all, and then you apologize!”

    Hildy had nodded glumly.

    After that no-one had said anything.

    Hilary came in smiling a forced smile rather than the lovely one, and saying: “Miss Maddern, is it?” He stopped dead when he saw Hildy. A tide of red rushed up his neck and flooded his face. Then it faded, leaving him very pale.

    The Reverend Mr Parkinson was a tall man. Possibly not all the details of his musculature corresponded with that of the Apollo Belvedere. But his wide shoulders and long limbs would have been enough to ensure the approval of most members of the opposite sex. In addition, however, he had a very beautiful face. It was certainly a male enough face, if you analysed it, but there was something just a little eerie about such perfect beauty in a man. He had high cheekbones and a slender nose that had just the slightest hint of aquiline but that not his worst enemy could have called hooked. His hair was thick and an unremarkable light brown, and his wide-set eyes were also light brown, not a remarkable shade either. But their shape was extraordinary: long and oval, a true almond, but not at all Oriental. This combined with the remarkable tenderness of his sweetly bowed mouth made you feel rather as if a faun was looking at you out of a man’s face when Hilary glanced your way. With all that, his chin was firm and rather pointed and his jaw was wide and winged. No doubt this bone-deep beauty would remain with him all his life. He was very like his maternal grandmother, who at seventy-five was still a remarkably beautiful old lady.

    Hilary had never found his beauty anything but a curse to him in his chosen profession. Though he was not at all vain he was not totally naïve, and he was aware that the avid attention of his lady parishioners when he preached owed little to the content of his sermon.

    Only Amabel, alone of the Maddern girls, noticed that the almond eyes were glued to Hildy’s face as the Vicar flushed and paled, or that Hildy also went very red. Amabel herself was appreciative of the Vicar’s looks but perhaps because she was very, very pretty herself, was not overly impressed by them. She found him rather too tall—she was a short woman. And there was something about men of the cloth that had never appealed to her. So while the two younger girls frankly goggled and Christabel girded up her loins, took a deep breath and entered the fray with a low-voiced, cultured: “How do you do, Mr Parkinson? I’m Miss Maddern,” Amabel noted with terrific interest and sympathy that darling Hildy had an admirer! How wonderful!

    Hilary greeted them all dazedly, barely registering their names, except that his nymph was called Hildegarde—how quaint.

    “Well—well, it’s lovely to see you all,” he said lamely. “Er—please, Miss Maddern, do sit down.”

    “Just a moment, if you don’t mind, Mr Parkinson,” she said firmly. –Terrifying woman, Hilary noted by the way: “Hildy has something to say to you.”

    One of the young, freckly ones gave his nymph a push and she went very red, stumbled forward and said in her funny, deep little voice that went right through Hilary Parkinson and out his neat boots: “Yes. I’m sorry, Vicar.”

    “Sorry for what, Miss Hildegarde?” he croaked.

    “For being rude,” she said, swallowing.

    “What?” he said in bewilderment. “Oh—at the old fellow’s hut? Er—” He glanced at her older sister and saw that Miss Maddern was still looking extremely grim. “You weren’t rude!” he said with a smile.—His nymph glanced away nervously.—“We just gave each other a bit of a fright, didn’t we?” he said gently.

    “Yes. That’s what I tried to tell them,” she muttered.

    “I’m afraid it was my fault entirely, Miss Maddern: I should have knocked, but of course I didn’t expect anyone to be with the old man,” he said, smiling at the sister.

    “No, of course, Vicar. But Hildy should not have spoken to you as she did.”

    “No. Do you accept my apology?” she demanded abruptly.

    “Uh—of course!” Hilary said with a startled laugh. “But there’s really no need!”

    “Yes, there is, Christabel said I had to.”

    Hilary’s beautiful mouth twitched. “I see.”

    Suddenly she looked up at him and said: “Do you think of yourself as a man of God first, or a gentleman?”

    He was aware of the paralyzed horror of her sisters. But he said gently: “As a man of God. That would always come a long way first, with me.”

    “What if it conflicted with what the world says a gentleman should do?” she demanded.

    “Then the world would lose out,” said Hilary lightly.

    “Are you sure?”

    “Hildy!” said the blonde one faintly, putting her hand to her mouth.

    “Yes,” he said seriously. “I’m not denying it might be very difficult. But yes—I’m quite sure.”

    “Dr Rogers said a man who wanted to impress with his integrity would reply to that question by saying what you did,” she said detachedly.

    “I see,” he murmured. He looked at the closed, watchful face. “How did he say a man of true integrity would reply, Miss Hildegarde?”

    “The same way. It makes it very difficult, doesn’t it?” she returned calmly.

    The two older sisters gasped in horror, but suddenly Hilary gave a shout of laughter. “Indeed it does! He must have been a remarkable personality, your Dr Rogers! I wish I’d known him.”

    “Yes,” she said, smiling: “he was. You couldn’t shock him! His mind was entirely tough. Sort of... stringy. Like old tarred rope.”

    “I see. My grandmother is a little like that. A wonderful old lady,” he murmured. Aware of the disapproval emanating from the sisters, he added smoothly: “Have you met her, I wonder? Mrs Kernohan, my mother’s mother. She lives in Bath.”

    “No. I think Christabel has, haven’t you?”

    “Yes,” agreed Miss Maddern, smiling. “Mamma and I went to see her with your mamma quite recently, Mr Parkinson. She is, indeed, a wonderful old lady.”

    “Mm, is she not?” He hesitated and then said in a low voice: “I don’t suppose you persuaded my sister to accompany you on the visit, did you, Miss Maddern?”

    “No. Um—actually,” she said uneasily, “that’s really what we’ve come to see you about, Mr Parkinson. If—if you don’t deem it a gross impertinence, we—we should like to discuss dear Dorothea with you.”

    “Yes,” agreed the pretty blonde one, Miss… Amabel, that was it, coming up to her sister’s side. “We’re very worried about dearest Dorothea, Mr Parkinson.”

    “Yes, so am I,” he said with a sigh. “Please—Miss Maddern, Miss Amabel, young ladies—please do sit down.”

    They all sat down and Mrs Meek brought the tray of tea. She declined, in a self-effacing manner, to pour for him but the Vicar now expected this. He asked Miss Maddern to do the honours, which she did competently.

    Miss Hildegarde asked thoughtfully as a cup was passed to the Vicar: “Why can’t a man pour his own tea?”

    To which Miss Maddern replied repressively: “Don’t be silly, Hildy dear.”

    “No, it’s odd. –Don’t you think?” she demanded of him abruptly.

    “Yes, indeed I do. Many of our social conventions are extremely odd, don’t you find?”

    “Yes,” she said, giving him a suspicious look.

    Hilary had now realized that, as well being possessed of remarkable intelligence and a most inquiring turn of mind, she was very young and—it was easy to recognize it in her because he suffered so much from it himself—very shy. “In China I believe the men wear gowns and the women wear breeches,” he said.

    One of the two younger ginger-haired girls had a sniggering fit.

    “That would be odd,” said the rather more freckled one.

    “No, it would depend on what you were used to!” said the nymph scornfully.

    “Yes, exactly. We need to ask ourselves, what is truly normal and natural, and what is merely a social habit which has no natural law to support it,” he said.

    “Nothing is truly normal,” said the nymph.

    “Apart from life and death,” he murmured.

    “Night and day,” said the freckly one.

    “What about love?” ventured Miss Amabel. “The tender emotions, Vicar,” she said, smiling at him.

    “In some societies—” The nymph broke off.

    “All creatures love their young, surely?” he said.

    “Cats love their kittens,” agreed Miss Amabel with a smile.

    The nymph said immediately: “Pigs don’t always love their litters: Mr Jenkins at Home Farm was saying—”

    “That will do, Hildegarde,” said Miss Maddern, wincing. “I dare say there are exceptions to every rule. We really came to discuss dear Dorothea, Mr Parkinson, if—if you wouldn’t mind.”

    “Yes,” said the freckly one, looking anxious. “That time Christa and Mamma went to see your grandmamma in Bath, Dorothea wouldn’t go, so Amabel stayed to keep her company, and she said she would hardly talk to her at all. That’s right, isn’t it, Amabel?”

    “Yes,” she said, her gentle face filled with distress. “Dorothea and I have been very close in the past, Mr Parkinson, and—and I…” Her voice faltered. “She seems... almost weary of life,” she said, very faintly.

    “Except—” began the freckly one.

    “Please, Marybelle!” said Miss Maddern loudly. “I’m sorry, Vicar, we had to bring the children, they haven’t been getting much exercise with this wet, windy weather lately and—er—Mamma thought they needed a walk.”

    “She doesn’t know we’ve come,” said Miss Hildegarde simply, looking up into his face with her huge grey-green eyes.

    “I see,” he said limply, as his senses whirled. When came to the youngest one was saving something about a doll. He looked at her blankly.

    She went very red but continued gamely: “Amabel said you were so kind when the bad boys cut her doll’s head off: you fixed her, just like new!”

    “Hush, Floss, darling,” said Miss Amabel, rather flushed but smiling. “Yes, I remembered your kindness to a little girl, Mr Parkinson, when you were a very grand young man home from your College for the holidays; and I thought you wouldn’t mind if we spoke to you about Dorothea.”

    “No—no, of course,” he said disjointedly. “I’m as worried about Dorothea as you are. But what can we do? Is there anything to do but wait until she—she recovers her spirits?” His voice shook a little.

    The Maddern sisters all looked at Christabel.

    However, it was Hildegarde who broke the silence. “Old Mrs Lobben was just the same when Tibby died.”

    “Yes?” he said faintly.

    “Darling Hildy, it’s hardly the same,” murmured Amabel.

    “Yes, it is: that cat was the only thing she had in the world to love! Well, no-one could love young Mrs Lobben, and anyway she isn’t her own daughter, only her daughter-in-law.”

    “Hildy made her better,” said Florabelle earnestly.

    “Yes,” said Hildegarde, reddening. “I got her a kitten. I only lied a little bit, I said it was a kitten that some bad boys had been trying to drown,” she assured the Vicar. “But actually it was one of Mrs Spofford’s kittens.”

    Hilary’s lips twitched. “I see. Did—er—did Mrs Spofford miss it?” –Must be an outlying cottage: he hadn’t heard the name locally.

    “Oh, she mewed for a bit. But she soon forgot it.”

    Hilary’s beautiful mouth had opened in shock. Now he gave a laugh and said: “I see! Mrs Spofford is a cat!”

    “Yes. She looks like a Mrs Spofford. She’s got a spotty tummy,” said Florabelle earnestly.

    Hilary bit his lip, shoulders shaking.

    “You can laugh,” Floss told him generously, “but if you saw Mrs Spofford you’d have to admit she just is!”

    At this the proper Mr Parkinson broke down and laughed helplessly.

    When he recovered he saw that all three of the older ones were smiling at him. “Lovely!” he said. “I’d love to meet Mrs Spofford! And her sp-spotty tummy!”

    “Do you like cats?” asked Marybelle earnestly.

    “Very much,” Hilary assured her, eyes twinkling.

    “Good,” she said in relief.

    “I think that’s enough about cats, we seem to have wandered off the subject; poor Mr Parkinson must be wondering what he’s struck,” said Miss Maddern firmly.

    “On the contrary, Miss Maddern, I think your sisters are delightful,” said Hilary with a genuine smile.

    Not unnaturally Miss Maddern blinked a little and smiled back, with a flustered little laugh. “Delightful or dreadful, Mr Parkinson? No—well, it sounds silly to say so, but Hildy’s cure for old Mrs Lobben did make us think that—that something of the sort might be the answer for Dorothea.”

    “Ye-es... But even Baby Catherine can’t really rouse her out of her dumps,” he said with a sigh. “Mamma is at her wits’ end. Well, I know it is not yet a year since O’Flynn’s death,” he added in a low voice, “but after all, the fellow was a scoundrel, Miss Maddern! We cannot but admit to ourselves that—that dear Dorothea is well rid of him.”

    “Yes, indeed,” she agreed with great sympathy.

    There was a short pause.

    “Go on, Christa, dearest,” urged Amabel .

    Miss Maddern cleared her throat. “Yes. Well, Amabel and I have both found, Mr Parkinson, that the only topic which seems to arouse any animation in your sister is—er—when she speaks of the kindness of the lady who rescued her from those dreadful lodgings in Ostend, and—and of that of the gentleman who escorted her back to England. The lady’s son, I believe.”

    “Yes,” he said in an odd tone. “The lady’s son. And believe me, Miss Maddern.” he added with feeling, “had I been apprised of my sister’s situation there would have been no need of any escort but myself, I do assure you!”

    “No, of course,” she said sympathetically.

    “I thought you were in Ireland?” said Floss.

    “No! That was before! Be quiet!” hissed Marybelle.

    “No, Miss Florabelle, I was not in Ireland. I was, however, in London, intent on the advancement of my miserable career, and I can only say that I deeply regret that I left it until now to follow the promptings of my heart rather than those of my ambition and seek a living where I can be near my mother and sister!” Hilary said with some bitterness. Floss goggled at him, mesmerized.

    “That’s illogical. She’d married that Captain O’Flynn by then,” said Hildegarde.

    “Ah, but had I been on hand at the time she met him, Miss Hildegarde!”

    “Well, I never met him: I’m not out. But Mamma said he was a very pretty-behaved young man, so I suppose you’d have been taken in like the rest,” she said detachedly.

    Hilary was very white. He did not respond.

    “Hildy does not perfectly understand the implications of what you have said, Mr Parkinson,” pronounced Miss Maddern. “She is just a child still, in many things.”

    “Yes, I can see that,” he said jerkily, clasping his hands very tightly together. “Pray—pray go on, Miss Maddern.”

    Miss Maddern continued nervously: “Well, as I say, dear Dorothea seems roused only by—by the remembered kindnesses received by her. Sir: don’t you think that if she were to meet this gentleman again she might—might—well, recover her old self?” she said desperately, very red.

    Hilary’s perfect mouth opened a little but no sound came out.

    “Possibly the gentleman is married— I should not have spoken,” said Miss Maddern, redder than ever.

    “No,” he said weakly. “No. Not married. I see my sister has not—has not confided fully in you, my dear Miss Maddern—Miss Amabel. I would not wish to break a confidence, but— Well, it was natural that the gentleman should ask her not to speak of his—his charitable act. However, I can see no harm in telling you.” He swallowed. “He—he was not a young gentleman, Miss Maddern. I think you may have been misled by the fact that he was visiting his mamma.”

    “Oh?” she said, as he appeared to have broken down.

    “Er—yes. The lady— It is true the lady in Ostend was his mamma. She—she has remarried, her second husband is a Belgian gentleman, I believe.”

    Miss Maddern looked very puzzled. So did Miss Amabel. Florabelle and Marybelle looked blank. Miss Hildegarde looked as if she thought Hilary should stop making a fuss over nothing and say what he meant.

    He swallowed. “We owe this gentleman more than we can ever repay him. His kindness—! You did not, I believe, see my sister until some two months after her return, Miss Maddern?” he said, swallowing again.

    “No. Well, Amabel saw her then, not I.”

    “Yes. She was very thin, sir. And—and listless, of course. But Baby was splendid!” said Amabel, beaming encouragingly at him.

    “Mm, isn’t she sweet?” he murmured. “Yes, well, ‘very thin’ puts it exactly, Miss Amabel. When this English lady rescued my sister she was very nearly starving. She had sold all her clothes but the ones on her back to buy milk for Baby. She was—I cannot put it too strongly—desperate.”

    “I see,” said Amabel gently.

    “Starving?” said Miss Hildegarde’s deep little voice.

    “Yes. Starving.” His lips trembled.

    “Hildy, darling!” whispered Amabel reproachfully.

    “I was just getting it clear. So it was pure altruism that made this gentleman aid his mamma to rescue Mrs O’Flynn, sir, not her beauty or anything like that?” she said earnestly.

    “Exactly. His motives have been the noblest throughout.”

    There was a short, puzzled silence. No-one had thought his motives could have been anything else.

    “Good,” said Hildegarde at last.

    Hilary bit his lip. “The gentleman was an Englishman, as—as I think Dorothea must have mentioned.”

    “Yes. She said it was wonderful to hear English voices again, did she not, Amabel?” agreed Miss Maddern.

    “Yes,” said Hilary faintly. “It is quite impossible for—for my sister to think of him, Miss Maddern.”

    “Well, who was he?” cried Hildy desperately.

    “Yes, was it the Prince Regent?” burst out Floss.

    “No, Miss Florabelle, but you are not far off the truth.”

    “One of the Royal dukes?” said Miss Maddern dubiously. Even in their rural fastness that did not seem likely to her.

    “No. It was the Marquis of Rockingham.”

    “Good gracious, sir!” said Miss Maddern, staring at him.

    “Yes,” he said with a twisted smile. “You see what I mean about a debt we can never repay.”

    “That would have been true whoever rescued her,” said Hildy gruffly.

    “Yes, of course, Miss Hildy!” he agreed eagerly, not realising he’d used her pet name. Hildy flushed. “But how much more so when a gentleman of his position deigned to rescue my poor little sister!”

    “I can see you could hardly invite him to your house for tea, sir,” she conceded glumly.

    “Was that the plan?” he said weakly to the little heart-shaped face.

    “Yes. Well, more or less.”

    “It could have been dinner,” agreed Marybelle. “Because you’re a bachelor gentleman. And your mamma could not have asked him to dine. But you couldn’t feed a marquis, could you, sir?”

    “No: they have hundreds of courses, in the great houses!” contributed Floss.

    “That will do, Florabelle. Mr Parkinson and his family have been through a great ordeal, and they do not need to have it trivialized by a silly little girl,” said Miss Maddern awfully, gathering herself together in preparation for her farewells.

    Poor Floss’s lips trembled. She looked pleadingly at the Vicar.

    “No, no, Miss Maddern! –You are quite right, dear Miss Florabelle, I could never feed a marquis!” he said, laughing a little, but very kindly. “It was an excellent notion, however, and I’m very grateful you all came to see me,” he said, twinkling at her.

    She gave him a relieved smile.

    Miss Maddern coughed. “I feel it was an in impertinence, sir. But—”

    “We had to try,” said Hildy gruffly.

    “Yes.” Hilary looked at her and said seriously: “Love of our fellow creatures cancels out any breach of the social conventions, Miss Hildegarde.”

    “That’s what I think,” she growled, turning crimson and glaring at her feet.

    “Yes: that’s why she goes to see Old Tom. Only I don’t see how she could love him: he’s so smelly,” said Floss.

    Hilary smiled a little. “Mm, isn’t he?”

    “Do vicars notice that sort of thing?” she gasped.

    “Sometimes we pretend not to. But of course we do: we’re only mortals, too, you know.” He looked up and said to Miss Hildegarde: “I’ve got him into the workhouse, poor old fellow. I’m afraid he’ll die there, but I couldn’t leave him in those unsanitary conditions.”

    “I would have: that was his home: he’d rather have died there!”

    “Yes, I realise that,” he said.

    They stared at each other for a moment.

    “I think the points where our principles coincide may only be coincidence, sir,” she said in a hard voice.

    “Yes,” said Hilary, very pale.

    Miss Maddern was looking from one to the other of them in bewilderment. Amabel gave a little cough and said quickly: “Christa, dear, perhaps we should take our leave—I think it looks like rain.”

    As they took their leave Hilary thanked Miss Maddern for her kindness.

    She sighed. “I do so wish there was something practical we could do, sir!”

    “Yes. But—I think we must all .just have faith and hope, Miss Maddern. And keep trying to cheer her by our visits, and the offer of little outings and—and so forth. And perhaps Baby Catherine’s first birthday may—may help to bring her out of herself.”

    Miss Maddern agreed to this in a firm voice, refused for the second time his offer of his carriage, in an even firmer voice, and took her little flock away.

    Hilary went back into the parlour, not aware of what he was doing, sat down all amongst the used tea things and ran his hand through his thick brown hair in distraction.

    ... “It is going to rain,” confirmed Marybelle, having been squashed by Miss Maddern for the third time in succession as she’d tried to introduce other, more controversial. topics.

    “Hurry up, then, Marybelle: don’t dawdle!”

    ... “Why couldn’t Dorothea marry a marquis?” demanded Marybelle loudly. after hurrying for some time.

    “Be silent!” panted Miss Maddern.

    ... “Where does a marquis come, anyway?” panted Floss.

    “Be SILENT!” shouted Miss Maddern.

    “Where, Hildy?” she hissed.

    “After a duke. Above an earl.”

    “Ooh, save us!” she gasped.

    “Florabelle, hold your tongue!” snapped Miss Maddern.

    Floss subsided. They hurried on.

    ... “I wonder if he’s rich?” panted Marybelle as they took shelter in the lee of a hedge.

    “And I wonder where any member of this family learned to make such an indelicate enquiry!” snapped Christabel.

    “Not the Marquis, Christa, the Vicar!” she said quickly.

    Miss Maddern took a deep breath.

    “I believe his papa left the family very comfortable, Marybelle. But a lady does not talk about a gentleman’s being ‘rich’,” said Amabel firmly.

    There was a short silence.

    “Is ‘comfortable’ a polite word for rich, then?” asked Floss.

    “No!” said Hildegarde scornfully. “It’s a euphemism for wealthy enough to keep his carriage! There isn’t a polite word for rich, rich is rich! And I don’t see why Mrs O’Flynn isn’t good enough for any old marquis, rich or not rich!”

    “Naturally any gentleman would count himself blessed to be united in Holy Matrimony with our dear Mrs O’Flynn,” said Amabel.

    “Yes, she’s very kind,” agreed Floss. “And pretty. –She gave me and Marybelle each a pink ribbon.”

    Amabel glanced at the bright copper curls showing under Floss’s bonnet and sighed a little. If ever there was a girl whose favourite colour ought not to be pink! But perhaps she would grow out of this unfortunate predilection: she was only thirteen.

    “A marquis does not marry a mere Mrs O’Flynn, however highly we may regard our dearest Dorothea: the thing is quite out of the question. And I should be very grateful,” said Christabel in a voice that shook a little, “if everyone would refrain from further discussion of the subject.”

    Amabel put a sympathetic arm round her waist. “It wasn’t your fault, dearest. No-one could possibly have guessed.”

    “No. On the whole Floss’s suggestion was just as likely,” Hildegarde noted  dispassionately.

    “It must have been the Marquis’s very own yacht!” said Marybelle eagerly.

    Several people had also had this thought. However, Amabel glanced at Miss Maddern’s face and said quietly: “I thought you were asked not to continue with that subject, Marybelle?”

    Marybelle went very red: Amabel seldom reproved anybody seriously. “Sorry,” she muttered.

    They went on standing in the lee of the hedge, in the scant shelter of a clump of hawthorns.

    ... “I feel such a fool!” said Miss Maddern violently, some ten minutes later.

    “Don’t cry, dearest Christa. We did what was right,” said Amabel anxiously.

    Miss Maddern blew her nose in a militant manner. “I am not crying.”

    “Well, you don’t need to: anyone but a blind man could see he really believed what he said about love of our fellow creatures cancelling out a breach of the social conventions,” said Hildy, going rather red and glaring out across the fields.

    “Yes. Such a true Christian soul!” said Amabel pleasedly.

    “Well, so he ought to be: he’s a vicar,” replied Hildy in a hard voice.

    Amabel looked at her anxiously but didn’t say anything.

    “I like him,” declared Floss.

    “You!” said Miss Maddern, stowing her handkerchief away in her reticule.

    “I can have an opinion!” she cried.

    “Yes,” agreed Amabel. “Children—young persons,” she corrected herself quickly, “often instinctively feel whether a person is good or evil.”

    “Pity we didn’t sic Floss onto Captain O’Flynn, then,” noted Hildegarde in a hard voice.

    “That will do,” said Miss Maddern firmly. “Come along, the rain has slackened off.” She walked off determinedly.

    They followed resignedly.

    ... “I bet he is rich!” hissed Marybelle, having fallen behind.

    “Who?” asked Floss in bewilderment.

    “The Marquis, silly!”

    “Oh—yes. Imagine owning a yacht!”

    “Yes. Well, even if he hired it. But I expect he did own it, Mrs O’Flynn said it was so much more comfortable than the horrid packet.”

    “Would he wear a—a coronet?”

    “Not for every day,” said Marybelle regretfully.

    “In the House of Lords?” she asked eagerly.

    “Um... I’m not sure. I expect he would, though!” Marybelle decided. “And a robe with ermine all round it!”

    “Ooh! ...Marybelle,” she said, frowning.

    “What?”

    “What’s the wife of a marquis called?”

    “Mrs Marquis!” said Marybelle, laughing herself silly.

    “Silly! No: really.”

    “A marchioness, you’re awfully ignorant, Floss!”

    “Marquis—marchioness.” said Floss to herself. “What about if you met her?”

    “Who?”

    “A marchioness!” she said impatiently. “What would you say to her?”

    “Good-day!” gasped Marybelle, laughing herself silly.

    “Hah, hah. She wouldn’t be a ‘Your Grace’, would she?”

    “Um... Marchionesses aren’t very common,” said Marybelle in a weak voice.

    “You don’t know! Hah, hah, ha-ha hah! Marybelle’s awfully ignorant!”

    Marybelle walked on very fast, scowling.

    “Those girls are a Trial,” said Miss Maddern in a grim voice.

    “Never mind, Christa, Miss Morton will be back at the end of next week,” said Amabel, not attempting to contradict her.

    “Yes, and all we’ll hear about for the rest of the year will be Mrs Bayley’s new baby and how wonderful it is,” said Hildy sourly.

    “But dearest, a little baby!” cried Amabel. “Surely you like babies?”

    “I don’t dislike them. But they’re pretty boring. And as sole topic of conversation for a year, they are extremely boring,” said Hildy firmly.

    “Dear Dorothea’s little Catherine is a delightful child,” objected Christabel.

    “Yes, she’s all right. When she’s not screaming her head off. But you wouldn’t want to talk about nothing but her for a year, confess, Christa!” said Hildy with a giggle.

    “Well—no. Only I think you’re forgetting,” said Miss Maddern in a voice of doom, “that there may be other topics of more urgent interest this coming year.”

    “Yes: as well as her sister, Miss Morton’s sister-in-law may produce another offspring—true,” conceded Hildy affably.

    Amabel gave a smothered giggle. “It is worse for her, Christa, not being out: she has to spend so much time with Miss Morton,” she said quickly.

    “Yes,” admitted Miss Maddern. “But I was thinking of the Spanish cousins.”

    Hildy gulped.

    “I don’t expect they will really come,” said Amabel gamely. “After all, dear Mamma herself conceded that Uncle Harry was ever one for—” She swallowed.

    “Hairbrained schemes,” said Hildy.

    “N— Well, yes,” Amabel admitted.

    “He doesn’t sound to me the sort of man that could save up the money to bring all of his family to England. Not after what Dorothea said about the cost of travelling on the packet, and the stage, and so on,” noted Hildy.

    “Aunt Marinela did seem very sure, in her last letter to Mamma,” said Christabel uncertainly.

    “Yes, but did she say he’d booked the passages?” asked Hildy keenly.

    “Er—no. It was more about... her plans for the children,” replied Miss Maddern rather faintly.

    There was a short pause.

    “Oh, dear,” murmured Amabel. “What exactly did Aunt Marinela say, Christa?”

    “Um—well, Mamma did tell me in confidence. Well, much of it was about the second son.”

    “Luís,” said Hildy.

    “Yes. I think Aunt Marinela intends he should marry a Spanish lady.”

    “That’s a pity. I’d put Marybelle against his name.”

    “Ssh! Please do not joke on such matters, Hildy!”

    Hildy goggled at her. “Two months since you said yourself that Hal had better marry the eldest girl if it’s true that she’s got a chest full of Spanish gold, and that the heir to Ainsley Manor was obviously the right age for Amabel!”

    “I was in a funning mood,” said Miss Maddern, reddening, “and I have since regretted that I spoke so lightly of such matters.”

    Hildy gave a crow of disbelieving laughter.

    Christabel added with great dignity: “Much of the letter was about Aunt Marinela’s hopes for the two little girls, Maria and Elinor, and her plans for their schooling.”

    Hildy made a rude noise.

    “Pray do not be so unladylike, Hildegarde Maddern,” she said without conviction.

    “Aunt Marinela’s put her name down against the son and heir!” squeaked Hildy, falling all over the lane, laughing herself silly.

    “Nonsense! He’s years younger than I!”

    “Amabel, then,” she said, grinning.

    Christabel went very red and tightened her lips.

    “Oh, dear,” said Amabel limply.

    “He may be very pleasant,” ventured Christabel.

    “And he may be very Spanish! ‘Pablo Javier Carlos Maria Ainsley?’” quoted Hildy on an incredulous note.

    “The ‘Maria’ seems odd,” murmured Amabel.

    “Roman Catholic,” said Hildegarde shortly.

    “Oh, dear,” she sighed,

    “Give up all hope of being married by the bishop, Amabel,” advised Hildy, shaking her head.

    “Hildy, dear!”

    “Well,” said Miss Maddern with a sigh, “I dare say it will come to nothing, like every other idea that Uncle Harry has written of to Mamma these past ten years and more. And I am sure I hope it may. For if they did come, where would we put them?”

    There was a momentary silence.

    “The heir could bunk in with Floss and Marybelle and Mrs Spofford, of course,” said Hildy in a conversational voice.

    Amabel choked. Even Christabel had to swallow hard. After a moment, however, she said: “With a house the size of ours, I fear that is as sensible a suggestion as anyone is ever likely to put forward!”

    Mrs Parkinson had stayed to greet the girls on their return, never guessing what had been their errand. She kissed them all, said a trifle wistfully how well they were all looking, added that they must come to visit Dorothea very soon and that she would send the carriage for them, and took her leave.

    “No better news, I suppose, Mamma?” said Christabel.

    “No,” agreed Mrs Maddern sadly.

     Christabel sighed.

    “However,” said Mrs Maddern firmly: “we must not be downhearted: after all, it is but early days yet, after the shock of her husband’s death.”

    “Blessing, you mean,” muttered Hildy, going out.

    “What’s the matter with Hildy?” asked Mrs Maddern dubiously.

    “We—we encountered the Vicar on our walk, Mamma,” said Amabel with considerable uneasiness which fortunately Mrs Maddern did not spot. “And he tells us that Old Tom is dying and he has got him into the workhouse. I think the news may have upset Hildy.”

    There was a short pause.

    “Well, far be it from me to wish ill of a fellow creature,” said Mrs Maddern with an effort, “but I do not scruple to admit to you, my dears, that it will be something of a relief to me when that old man is gone!”

    “Indeed. –I was thinking, Mamma,” Amabel ventured, “that I might give my new straw bonnet to dearest Hildy. She has no nice summer bonnet and I have more than I need, really.”

    “Very well, my dear, if that is your wish,” said Mrs Maddern with a sigh.

    “Couldn’t I have it instead?” asked Marybelle. “My summer bonnet’s horrid.”

    “No,” said her mother, frowning. “And run along upstairs, the both of you!”

    Looking sulky, the two younger girls followed Amabel out. From the hall Amabel’s voice could be heard telling Marybelle that she herself would refurbish Marybelle’s bonnet, and would she like primrose ribbons or green? Marybelle immediately voted for pink. Floss approved loudly.

    “Do you feel quite the thing, Mamma?” asked Christabel, as Mrs Maddern sighed heavily.

    “Oh—yes, my dear. At least our dearest Mrs O’Flynn is perfectly well, we must thank the Lord for that!”

    “Yes, Mamma,” said Christabel obediently.

    Mrs Maddern recollected she was speaking to an unmarried daughter and said hurriedly: “Never mind that! Thank Heavens Miss Morton will be back soon!”

    “Indeed,” agreed Christabel, removing her bonnet carefully and straightening her crushed chestnut locks. “I suppose Hildy is grown up, really, Mamma,” she admitted, coming over to the fire.

    “Yes. Though her behaviour would not always lead one to think so! Well, if Cousin Harry does all he proposes, then we shall be able to bring Hildy out in style!”

    Christabel looked at her sardonically. “I would not refine too much upon that hope, ma’am.”

    “No,” said Mrs Maddern heavily. Christabel was really getting—well, it was a sad thing to say of one’s own daughter—but very old-maidish. If only she’d taken Dr Rogers’s former curate when she’d had the chance! On the other hand...

    “What did you think of Mr Parkinson, Christa, dear?” she asked.

    Christabel twitched. “Oh—when we met him on our walk?” she said lamely. “Er—a very gentlemanly man, Mamma.”

    “Yes,” said Mrs Maddern a trifle limply. “Of course.”

     There was a short silence.

    “My dear, I had an idea—silly, really!” said Mrs Maddern with a little laugh. “Of course it may be just my fancy. But last time we saw dear Dorothea her spirits seemed positively roused when she spoke of the gentleman whose kindness brought her home to England. Do you think that possibly—”

    “No, Mamma,” said Christabel in a strangled voice, turning crimson.

    Mrs Maddern looked at her in astonishment.

    Christabel cleared her throat. “Mr Parkinson happened to mention that the gentleman in question—being under the impression, possibly,” she lied, hoping her Maker would forgive her, as her intentions were of the purest, “that we knew as much as he of the matter—um, that the kind gentleman was in fact—” She swallowed with difficulty and ended in a hoarse croak: “the Marquis of Rockingham.”

    “WHAT?” screamed Mrs Maddern, forgetting she was a lady. “Good Heavens, Christa, he’s one of the richest men in England!”

    “So I believe.”

    “It must have been his very own yacht!” said Mrs Maddern in shaken tones. “No wonder Dorothea said it was more comfortable than the packet!”

    “Yes,” said Christabel in a stifled voice.

    There was a considerable pause.

    “No, well, I suppose it is out of the question,” Mrs Maddern admitted sadly.

    “The Marquis of Rockingham and Mrs O’Flynn? I should think so, ma’am!”

    “Yes. –Pray do not call me ‘ma’am’, Christa dear, it makes me feel quite elderly,” she said sadly.

    “I’m very sorry, Mamma,” said Christabel in astonishment. “I shall endeavour not to do so.”

    “Thank you, my love,” she said with a sigh. “Her grandfather was in trade, you know,” she added gloomily.

    “Er—oh: Dorothea’s. Yes, well, there you are, Mamma.”

    “And I must say I cannot see dearest Dorothea, much though we love her, entertaining grand ladies and gentlemen in a huge palace!”

    “Er—no. Is it a palace?”

    “Oh, well, my dear, the principal seat is most certainly one of the great houses: Daynesford Place. Some say it much resembles Blenheim Palace, indeed! Though I believe, not as large. There was some scheme of your Great-Aunt Lucy’s taking Cousin Sophia and me there when we were girls—Aunt Lucy ever delighted to visit the great houses—but somehow it came to nothing.”

    “I see,” said Christabel, not absolutely sure if Mrs Maddern meant Blenheim or Lord Rockingham’s residence.

    “But you would make a splendid marchioness, my dearest!” said Mrs Maddern with vigour.

    Christabel gave a startled laugh. “I? I hardly think so, Mamma!”

    “Yes,” said Mrs Maddern wistfully: “there is something quite... noble about the turn of your head, my dear. And why should there not be, the Ainsleys are an excellent old family!” she added vigorously.

    Christabel winced. Until the advent of Uncle Harry, the blot on the escutcheon—possibly. But she merely said soothingly: “Of course, Mamma,” and kissed her mother’s brow.

    Mrs Maddern clutched at her hand. “I am determined, if Harry does send us Gaetana and—and sufficient funds to bring her out properly, that you girls shall all three have a Season in London!”

    That seemed as likely as that the house would suddenly sprout enough rooms to hold the Ainsleys; so Christabel merely said mildly: “Yes, Mamma.”

    “Well, you had best run up to them, my dear. I am sure they are raising merry mayhem in the nursery!” she added with a smile.

    “Yes, Mamma,” agreed Christabel without enthusiasm.

    “Tomorrow I shall walk to the village myself to enquire if another letter has come from dear Harry!” she declared firmly.

    The exercise would be beneficial, so Christabel raised no objection to this plan, in fact said she would accompany her, and went out.

    As she mounted the stairs the sounds of merry mayhem could clearly be heard from the direction of the nursery. Christabel took a deep breath.

    “What? Nonsense, Amabel!” she said in a shaken tone as the two eldest prepared for bed that night.

    Amabel tied her nightcap neatly over her pretty fair curls. “I am persuaded of it, my dearest Christa. Did you not observe his emotion when he entered and saw Hildy? And she did not appear immune to his presence!”

    “Well, he is a very handsome man,” said Miss Maddern on a dubious note.

    “Certainly. But young Robert Shallcrass is reckoned to be the most striking young man in the neighbourhood, and you know she is totally indifferent to him.”

    “She said his intelligence equals that of Mr Jenkins’s prize sow, if you call that total indifference,” responded her sister grimly.

    Amabel smiled and got into bed. “Yes, but do you not think that if she were to be struck merely by a gentleman’s looks, Mr Shallcrass’s must strike her forcibly?”

    Christabel thought it over. “You are quite possibly correct. And certainly Robert Shallcrass has a—certain youthful exuberance and a willingness to please and be pleased which cannot fail to charm.”

    “Indeed.”

    “Whilst the Vicar...” Christabel frowned. “His is not a lively personality,” she pronounced.

    “No: though he does not lack a sense of humour. How he laughed at dear Floss and her Mrs Spofford!”

    “Yes. Fortunately,” she added grimly. “But somehow I cannot see... Well, it is true that Hildy looks for intelligence in a man,” she said with a tiny sigh. “And Mr Parkinson certainly has that.”

    “Yes. His former bishop, you know, was most pleased with him.”

    “So I believe,” said Miss Maddern dully.

    Amabel looked at her anxiously. “You are very tired, dear Christa. I shall not press the point.”

    “I am tired, yes, those girls are a handful. But... Even supposing Hildy were to favour him, Amabel,” she said with a frown, “do you not think that he has far too serious a turn of mind to— Well, that they should not suit, in short!”

    “He thinks just as a Christian gentleman ought,” said Amabel, wrinkling her placid brow a little. “And dearest Hildy has an entirely charitable heart, you know!”

    “Yes,” said Miss Maddern on a grim note. “But I at least had cause to ask myself in the course of this day—as, indeed, I have been forced to ask myself in the past—whether it is a Christian charity in Hildy’s case. And I am forced to say, Amabel, that I had to answer myself: No.”

    There was a short silence. “No,” agreed Amabel sadly. “Oh, dear, it seems wicked to say so, but Dr Rogers was such a bad influence!”

    “Exactly. She said to me the other day did I not think that the presumption that human beings had souls was itself a prideful one, based on nothing less than—than the wish of Man to see himself as the centre of his universe!” she admitted.

    “Oh, dear!” gasped Amabel.

    “How would that go down with Mr Parkinson, I wonder!” added Christabel grimly, descending rather abruptly to a less high-toned level of converse.

    “Not well, I’m afraid,” said Amabel in a hollow voice.

    “No. I do not think we should encourage her to think of him in that way.”

    “No-o... But she is very young, Christa. I am persuaded it is just a stage. Remember how recalcitrant Hal was before dear old Uncle Hildebrand declared he must go up to Oxford?”

    “It is not the same thing at all!” responded Christabel on an annoyed note.

    “No. But very similar,” said Amabel, sweet but firm.

    Christabel swallowed a sigh. Persuading Amabel to anything was like—like trying to push a blancmanger out of shape! Just when you thought you had it under control it wobbled back to its original form and you perceived that though it was sweet and gave the appearance of flexibility, there was no moving it, really. If only Amabel had more of Hildy’s keen intelligence—or Hildy had more of Amabel’s sweetness and docility. Oh, dear.

    “I dare say you may be right,” she said to the blancmanger. “Good night. dear.”

    Amabel bade her a sweet good night and kissed her cheek. She blew out the candle.

    “Possibly,” said Christabel into the dark without conviction, “Uncle Harry will come through for us, and a proper Season will—will set Hildy’s feet firmly on a—a sensible course.”

    “We must hope,” decided Amabel firmly. “And pray.”

    That was what Amabel had said about the decision to beard the Vicar in his den over the question of Dorothea’s gallant rescuer. And look how that had turned out! On the other hand, it was what Amabel said to almost any proposition, so—

    “Yes. Hope and pray,” sighed Miss Maddern.

    Amabel said nothing. She was praying. Not only that Hildy should have a London Season, for in spite of her interest in bonnets and ribbons she was not really a worldly person, but also for Hildy and Mr Parkinson—if it should be their Maker’s will—to find true happiness together. She did not offer these conflicting propositions as alternatives to her Saviour, however. Amabel’s was not a logical mind.

    In the night nursery Marybelle was still awake. “I still can’t see why Mrs O’Flynn can’t marry the Marquis of Carabas!” she hissed. –He had insensibly become so during the course of the day, perhaps inevitably in a family where the cat was called Mrs Spofford.

    “Logically there’s nothing against it,” said Hildy, yawning. Owing to the size of the house, and the necessity for Hal’s and Tom’s each having a room of their own, she had to share the little girls’ room. Hildy didn’t mind, never having known anything else. And sharing with Christa and Amabel would have been extremely boring.

    There was a short silence.

    “Don’t you honestly think Mr Parkinson’s like a young god?” sighed Marybelle.

    “Youngish. He must be turned thirty. I think his beauty is too perfect for a man, if you must know.”

    There was a baffled silence.

    Hildy turned over and buried her face in her pillow. She tried very hard to get the picture of Mr Parkinson’s beautiful face out of her head, but couldn’t.

    “I have it! Mrs O’Flynn can marry the Marquis of Carabas and Amabel can marry Mr Parkinson and Hal can marry the Spanish heiress and Christa can marry the heir to Ainsley Manor!”

    Hildy sat up abruptly. “Marybelle Maddern,” she said on a bitter note: “you are the most unmitigated idiot—even for a female, and even for a female of this family—that it is within the capacity of the human mind to imagine!”

    “I am NOT!” she wailed.

    “And if you go on making a noise like that,” said Hildy with satisfaction, “Christa will come in here and give you a flea in your ear!”

    Marybelle subsided, pouting.

    Hildy lay down. She was as yet far too immature specifically to imagine herself in the place of Amabel in Marybelle’s charming picture. On the other hand, she still went on seeing his face.