When the birds had been fed with the food he brought them, and their spirits quickened (let us hope) by his homilies, he went back to his letter:
And now, my dear Jack, I must hasten to an end; for Mrs Dewdney hath been free of me too long, and there are scuttles to be fill’d. Pray give my respects to Dr Humphrey and his amiable daughter, if it chance they retain any recollection of me; and for yourself I trust to find on your return that you have quite recover’d your old colour, for I am fully persuaded that your indifferent health these last few months hath mostly proceeded from your interior vexations, which, whatever they may be and however deep hidden even from yourself, will be quickly dispersed in the sunshine of your friends’ kindness and hospitality. We were on short commons last Friday, being unable to procure in time the dry salt fish and red herrings we had promised ourselves, but made shift to do very well on Apple Pie, with afterwards a little cabbage. Eggs are today but ten a groat, so I doubt you have the advantage of us in that. Our weather is a trifle out of humour; frost came sudden last night and froze the rain on the roads, which are like glass and very hazardous as you may suppose. But, let the weather change as it may, I am always,
My dear Sir,
P.S. I forgot to say that the girl Tisha would not hear of Marriage with Noke, once she had discovered his perfidy. It is a double pity if she must be ruin’d, for she hath a high spirit, and more honesty, I believe, than her deeds declare. P.P.S. Mrs Dewdney now tells me (Wednesday morn.) that the Baileys are for marrying their girl to Tom Shellett, your cowherd. He is no match for her and is urged to the business, I fancy, more by promise of a plump dowry than by affection or even (which were at least a better reason than cupidity) by the enticement of her person. Tisha is not yet persuaded to it, but since her mother promises to shut the door against her if she refuse, there is small doubt of the issue.
CHAPTER 10
CHANCE, WITH THE HELP OF A PROUD LADY, MAKES TROUBLE FOR JACK MARDEN
Within an hour of receiving this letter, Jack Marden shewed it to Celia.
‘I’ve escaped a great deal of vexation, it seems. But at poor Father Gaudy’s expense.’
As she read the letter she said to herself: He is too sure of me, or he would not ask me to read so squalid a story. Were I his wife already he could hardly treat me with less ceremony. She was not in fact shocked or offended: the lower orders being so remote from her world, their misdemeanours were as little embarrassing to discuss as the habits of farmyard creatures. But she wondered whether Jack did not take her too much for granted, and this speculation, this fear, this conviction—for the matter grew worse with thinking on it—was born of the fancy that she had perhaps been too easy with him, and by yielding her heart too readily had encouraged him to think himself irresistible. She was not vain: she thought Jack wonderful and herself not at all so. But she was afraid—for now her light fancy had suddenly assumed the dimensions of terror—lest by impulsiveness, by the very honesty of her love, she had made herself of less account in his sight. The fear kindled a flush in her cheeks.
‘I think you need not pity him overmuch.’ She handed back the letter. Her voice and manner were cool.
He was bewildered, and cursed himself for a clumsy fool. ‘Need I not?’ he said. ‘And, pray, why?’
There was constraint between them, and she avoided looking at him. ‘It would seem to have amused him, this vulgar comedy.’
‘I did not read his letter so,’ said Marden. ‘I have the greatest respect and love for Father Gandy, and he is not the man to think lightly of such a matter, even did his cloth permit it.’ This was true, but its implications did less than justice both to the priest’s urbane temper and to Marden’s own honesty. ‘I assure you, my dear Celia, he is the worthiest of men.’
‘I have no doubt of it,’ she answered. ‘I find he is far too worthy a man to think harshly of a woman, so she be pretty, no matter how grossly she has smirched her sex’s honour. No doubt you are with him in that?’
Marden summoned an uneasy laugh. He came nearer and took her hand. ‘But are you not forgetting, my love, that he is our spiritual father? Who am I—who are we—to pit our judgement against his?’
Before she could answer, her father came into the room. He bustled over to the fire, rubbing his hands and blowing out his cheeks, and saying ‘Ah! Phew . . . ah!’: in fine, doing all those things by which your man of sedentary habits advertises that he has been taking exercise. Dr Humphrey had ridden that day to Upchurch and back, visiting his old friend Captain Matters, a retired naval man under whose command he had sailed twenty years back as ship’s doctor. The ride, he felt, had done him good; his muscles were agreeably fatigued; his blood flowed more freely than its wont; and he felt extremely virtuous. With Captain Matters he had taken a bottle or two of good wine, besides eating heartily of a saddle of mutton, a couple of boiled fowls, a pig’s face well roasted, and some apple tarts and damson cheese. He had enjoyed his ride, he had enjoyed his meal, and he had greatly enjoyed the talk, which had consisted, as so much good talk does, mainly of sentences beginning ‘Yes, and do you remember . . .’ By this incantation the two friends had conjured their vanished past into being, and lived in it for an hour or two from the depths of their easy chairs, sitting one each side of the purring fire and with a jar of tobacco between them. It gave a wonderful relish to this comfort to remember how mountainous and green the sea had looked that bleak March morning in ’28 (‘or was it ’27—how time flies, to be sure!’) when they had thought, with good reason, that their last hour was come; and there was pleasure, as well as a momentary sadness, in recalling poor Benjamin Creed, who thought himself a singer, and a politician, and a deep thinker, and a rake, and could not hear of any achievement without wishing it had been his own, and yet in spite of his nonsense was a good seaman and a good fellow, and died absurdly, like a hero, in trying to rescue the ship’s cat. This rich feast of reminiscence, following the more material feast, had warmed and stimulated Dr Humphrey, so that he was now, for the moment, a changed man, and within an ace of being boisterous.
‘Well, my children,’ he cried gaily, ‘here I am back again. And I hope you have borne my absence with fortitude. Eh, Jack, you rascal? Did the time lag heavily, my boy, with none but my daughter to entertain you? I trust not, i’ faith, for in a moment or two I must leave you again and pursue my studies.’ He winked at his prospective son-in-law, standing with his back to the hearth and enjoying the sensation of warming calves. Marden smiled not very happily, but the older man took this to be a sign of lover’s shyness and was the merrier for it. ‘Ah yes, Jack, and I’ve been hearing a sad tale about you from my old friend Matters. Seems you had a thieving trollop in your custody and failed to get her hanged.’