The Pit Town Coronet Volume I Part 2

"Many such interesting letters were received from our self-sacrificing countrywoman up to the death of her husband and fellow-worker. The sad end of the mission to King M'Bongo has been narrated in the body of this work. But Mrs. Rees was loth to leave her sphere in Africa, and is now happily married to Alonzo P. Jones, an energetic coloured Baptist minister, of Cape Coast Castle."

There was a universal sigh of relief.

"I wonder whether she wears the ear-rings?" remarked the elder Miss Sleek pertly.

"Perhaps they were the attraction to Alonzo P. Jones," suggested her sister, as she triumphantly folded and smoothed her second completed towel.

"It's always the way with them," sighed Miss Grains, who suffered from a complication of romantic tendency and very tight stays. "It's the money that attracts them, and possibly Mrs. Rees might have been Mrs. Rees to the end of the chapter, if it hadn't been for the ear-rings and the sale of her old clothes for countless flocks and herds."

"Doubtless Miss Grains speaks from painful experience, my dears,"

retorted Mrs. Dodd, with a severe look at her victim; "but you may be quite certain that the acquisition of the ear-rings and the sale of the clothes were but the blessed means to an end, a mere spoiling of the Egyptians, that _the work_ might progress."

"In fact, a robbing of Peter to pay Paul," suggested Lucy Warrender, but without raising her eyes from her work.

The needle of the archdruidress broke, as she shook her head viciously at the scoffer. "Ah, my dear, you shouldn't laugh at sacred things,"

said the elder lady.

"But I don't look upon Mrs. Rees as a sacred thing," cried Lucy, not to be intimidated.

"A person no one would wish to know," chimed in Miss Sleek.

"Ah, but think how she loved the blacks, and gave herself up to them,"

cooed the vicaress, in a tone intended at the same time to convey instruction and reproof.

"Nasty thing," retorted Lucy, with biting sarcasm. "I suppose it was because she loved the blacks and gave herself up to them, that she married the energetic negro ranter with the dreadful name."

This proved too much for Mrs. Dodd. "I am surprised and ashamed, Lucy Warrender, at your attempt to depreciate the n.o.ble self-immolation of dear Mrs. Jones. Of course it is a great privilege to be married to a clergyman, a very precious privilege, but when he is a negro and a Baptist--hum--I suppose I must say clergyman, then a woman's life must be indeed a martyrdom."

"I suppose he beats her?" asked one of the draper's daughters of the experienced Mrs. Wurzel.

"I sincerely trust he does," broke in the irreverent Lucy.

Just at this moment the door was hurriedly opened, and the Reverend John Dodd entered the room. He was a stout man, his princ.i.p.al characteristics being an intense pleasure in ladies' society, and an obliviousness of the fact that he was no longer the pale slim young curate of earlier days. A life of almost absolute inactivity, which was forced upon him by his wife's jealousy of the rest of the s.e.x, had rendered the muscular young Dodd of Oriel a perfect Daniel Lambert. Little irreverent boys from the village corners were in the habit of shouting "Jumbo" at the poor vicar. He was accustomed to pursue them, but in vain; a stern chase is proverbially a long chase, and poor Mr. Dodd's futile efforts to capture his persecutors had become a bye-word. But the Reverend John Dodd's weak point, the red rag to the bull, the bee in his bonnet, was his devotion to the fair s.e.x. Handsome Jack Dodd, as he had been once called, in his undergraduate and curate days, had been accustomed to find his attentions very highly appreciated. The habit grew on him, love-sick maidens sighed, and love-sick maidens wept, but all in vain.

Handsome Jack Dodd, a very clerical b.u.t.terfly, flitted from flower to flower. His admiration was freely, openly, ardently expressed for every variety of female beauty. Was Jack Dodd a flirt? Not a bit of it; he was merely a fancier, just as there are pigeon fanciers and poultry fanciers; so Handsome Jack Dodd was a fancier, an admirer, a wors.h.i.+pper of the entire female s.e.x: that is to say, the select specimens of it.

What he could have seen in Canon Drivel's daughter who can say? though, when he married Cecilia Drivel, she was a well-known light of London.

She it was who, in the severity of her cla.s.sic and rather imperial beauty, had posed to Mahlstick, R.A., for his well-known picture of Judith with the head of Holofernes. Alas! for poor Jack Dodd, he had a.s.sisted at the numerous sittings. He it was who had had the honour of sitting (that is to say lying p.r.o.ne on a bedstead of the period) for the headless trunk of Holofernes. To lie p.r.o.ne on a bedstead of any period, and have nothing to do for two mortal hours but gaze on the cla.s.sic proportions of any lady--for Mahlstick was a strict disciplinarian and discouraged conversation--is enough to seal the fate of any man, even if he were of a less inflammable type than Handsome Jack. Miss Drivel was her father's only daughter, and ambitious; but four seasons, during which she was much admired, but never once received a serious offer, had warned the waning beauty not to neglect her opportunities. Miss Drivel was a lady of no imagination and strong will; the interest of her father, a notorious pluralist, was very great: Cecilia Drivel was determined to marry Dodd. She did so, and her victim became her obedient slave, and was duly inducted to the fat living of King's Warren. In all things Jack Dodd, as the weaker vessel, yielded to his wife. He had but one drawback in her eyes, he retained his pa.s.sion, his innocent pa.s.sion, for the fair s.e.x. At the shrine of beauty he remained a constant and ecstatic wors.h.i.+pper. This was Mrs. Dodd's cross, and she had to bear it.

An idle life at King's Warren Parsonage, and frequent dinner parties, for the Reverend John Dodd was a popular man, had caused Handsome Jack to expand into a very Falstaff. Alas, anxiety had had precisely the reverse effect upon the vicar's wife. The once statuesque "Judith" had disappeared, and Mrs. Dodd's characteristics were now high principle and bone.

"Busy as usual, my dear," said the vicar to his wife, as he proceeded to welcome each member of the female bevy in turn, devoting perhaps a little more time than was necessary to handsome Miss Warrender and her cousin.

Mrs. Dodd closed the thick black book with a slap. "I suppose work is over now for the day; you really should not intrude on our Dorcas, John," she said in a severe tone.

"My dear, it is my duty to encourage my paris.h.i.+oners in good works, nay, it is my pleasure," replied the parson.

"No one doubts it, Mr. Dodd," said the vicaress in an icy manner.

But Mrs. Dodd was evidently in a minority. The ladies crowded round their popular vicar. It is easy to spoil a man, and the Reverend John Dodd had been much spoilt by his paris.h.i.+oners, and seemed to like the process.

And now a whispered conference took place between the Misses Sleek.

With smiles and conscious blushes, the elder sister addressed the vicar. "Oh, dear Mr. Dodd, we do so want you to do us a favour," she faltered.

"Granted, my dear young lady, granted before it is asked."

Mrs. Dodd vainly sought to fix her husband with a freezing look, and gazed appealingly at old Mrs. Wurzel, but that experienced matron had been present at many similar scenes, and was rather amused than otherwise, to watch the discomfiture of the vicar's imperious wife. Mrs.

Wurzel's eagle eye detected the little parcel which the younger Miss Sleek hesitatingly attempted to hold towards the vicar. "It is our own work, dear Mr. Dodd," she said, "and we hope, we do hope, we do _so_ hope that you will accept them."

"And wear them too," chimed in her sister.

In an elaborate box, from which Miss Sleek rapidly tore the paper in which it was wrapped, and hurriedly opened, lay a dozen bands of the latest ecclesiastical fas.h.i.+on.

"Oh ladies, dear ladies, so you equip your faithful knight for the fray; accept my grateful thanks, my very grateful thanks," sighed the vicar.

"So pleased you like them, dear Mr. Dodd," chorused the stockbroker's daughters.

The triumphs of decorative millinery were pa.s.sed from hand to hand.

"They never made these," muttered old Mrs. Wurzel to herself, as she critically held one up to the light. "The minxes," she inwardly added.

Mrs. Wurzel was quite right; they had been supplied, regardless of cost, from Messrs. Rochet and Stole's well-known establishment.

"Ah," purred Lucy Warrender, "the ladies used to arm their knights with their own fair hands in the days of chivalry."

The parson laughed. "And have the days of chivalry departed, ladies?"

he said, protruding his head, much as the unconscious aldermanic turtle is said to protrude his, when awaiting the fatal stroke.

Conny Sleek, the younger and bolder of the two, looked at her sister; the elder girl nodded maliciously.

Conny stepped smilingly forward, and proceeded to affix the band around the vicar's ma.s.sive throat.

Fat Jack Dodd was in his glory; "Jumbo" was in the seventh heaven of bliss. A smile of beat.i.tude spread over his enormous countenance during the process. But it suddenly disappeared, as a sharp slam of the door announced the sudden departure of his indignant wife, the outraged Cecilia. Will it ever dawn on Mrs. Dodd's mind, that parsons, even married parsons, are but men?

CHAPTER IV.

WALLS END CASTLE.

Walls End Castle was the seat of John, Earl of Pit Town. It had come into the family through the marriage of a former earl with the heiress of the great Chudleigh family. It was one of England's show places. The great park which surrounded it was one of the most celebrated in all England, celebrated alike for its size and its beauty. The entry to the park was never denied to artists; and they, their easels, and their umbrellas, might be seen at the various well-known "bits" all through the summer and autumn. The boys of the Elizabethan Grammar School had also the privilege of roaming in the park; and time had been when the people of the neighbouring town and the public generally were admitted; but excursionists had arrived in crowds, they had destroyed the poetry of the place with pieces of greasy newspaper, broken bottles, ham bones, and the remains of their Homeric banquets. They had shouted and whistled in the great picture galleries, they had written their names upon the window panes, they had committed all the innumerable offences that such people do commit; but the final straw which determined the present earl to exclude them, was their having played at the game of Kiss-in-the-ring, one Whit-Monday, directly under the windows of the n.o.ble owner. After that memorable day, Lord Pit Town kept his castle and his park to himself.

His lords.h.i.+p during the earlier part of his reign never came near Walls End Castle. The widowed earl travelled continuously in Southern Europe.

He travelled, and he collected pictures, statuary, gems, plate, china--nothing came amiss to him. But John, Earl of Pit Town, was wise in his generation; he remembered that "if you sup with the devil, it is best to use a long spoon." He never purchased without an expert's aid; consequently the immense collection he had gradually acc.u.mulated was free from rubbish. Nothing doubtful or "reputed" ever arrived in the huge packing-cases consigned to Walls End Castle. For years his lords.h.i.+p was seldom seen in London, the great house in Grosvenor Square was never opened. When Lord Pit Town was in England, he stayed at Long's Hotel.

Friends he had none; his doctor and his courier were the people who saw most of him. But as years rolled on his lords.h.i.+p grew tired of travel, his well-known figure, in the short blue cloak and velvet collar, was seen no more in the great picture galleries of Europe. Lord Pit Town now commenced the work of his life, the building of the new galleries at Walls End Castle. Winter and summer the little old man, for he was over sixty now, might be seen in the blue cloak, inspecting the growth of the vast galleries with a critical eye. Emilius Wolff, his German architect, was his constant companion. The great Mr. Buskin paid him a yearly visit; on these occasions Dr. Wolff (for Wolff was a doctor of philosophy) joined his lords.h.i.+p and the great art-critic at dinner. At length the great Pit Town collection was housed as it deserved to be.

Its princ.i.p.al feature was the picture gallery. This was a vast building of cla.s.sical design, resembling a Grecian temple. Dr. Wolff was a Berliner, and the tradition of Berlin is that a picture gallery should resemble a Greek temple. The vast galleries were probably among the best in Europe. They were lighted and heated to perfection. But the great galleries had one peculiarity; at irregular intervals along the wall were blank s.p.a.ces of varying size; in the centre of each s.p.a.ce was a label in his lords.h.i.+p's own writing: on these labels were inscribed the names of various great painters. It was now the only business of the Earl of Pit Town to gradually fill these s.p.a.ces, each with a representative masterpiece of the artist indicated. Possibly John, Earl of Pit Town, notwithstanding his boundless wealth, could hardly hope to complete such a work in his own lifetime. The great Mr. Abrahams had an unlimited commission to secure at any price, a long list of great works.

There was but one condition attached, any purchase must be above suspicion. But even the great Mr. Abrahams, on one notable occasion at least, had been deceived. A new acquisition, purchased from the collection of a wealthy amateur in the Rue Drouot, had arrived at Walls End Castle. A furious controversy concerning this picture had arisen among art critics. Herr Vandenbossche had defended the authenticity of the work, but old Mr. Creeps had demolished him in an exhaustive article in the _Friday Review_. Old Mr. Creeps was considerably astonished at receiving an almost affectionate letter from Lord Pit Town. His lords.h.i.+p thanked him for the article, and requested what he termed "the exceeding great pleasure of receiving you here;" the letter was dated from Walls End Castle. Old Mr. Creeps accepted the invitation for a couple of days.

On his arrival at the local railway station he was met by his lords.h.i.+p in person. Lord Pit Town, one of the proudest and most exclusive of men, treated old Mr. Creeps with marked deference. At dinner, at which John Buskin and Dr. Wolff were present, conversation ran purely upon art matters. Old Mr. Creeps, the critic, had never enjoyed himself so much; the sitting was prolonged till the small hours. Next day, at noon, the council of four sat in solemn conclave upon Lord Pit Town's latest purchase. Old Mr. Creeps triumphantly proved his case. Lord Pit Town looked at Mr. Buskin. Mr. Buskin nodded. "Well, Wolff?" remarked his lords.h.i.+p.

"It is onhappy, most onhappy," replied the doctor of philosophy, "but I fear it is drue, too drue."