That which riveted the news on the minds of the Beethamites was the stopping of the Brook Park carriage at the door of the parsonage one day about a week after the Major’s visit. It was not altogether an unprecedented occurrence. Had there been no precedent it could hardly have been justified on the present occasion. Perhaps once in two years Lady Wanless would call at the parsonage, and then there would be a return visit during which a reference would always be made to Wadham and Christchurch. The visit was now out of its order, only nine months having elapsed—of which irregularity Beetham took due notice. On this occasion Miss Wanless and the third young lady accompanied their mother, leaving Georgiana at home. What was whispered between the two old ladies Beetham did not quite know—but made its surmises. It was in this wise. “We were so glad to have the Major over with us,” said her ladyship.
“It was so good of you,” said Mrs. Rossiter.
“He is a great favourite with Sir Walter.”
“That is so good of Sir Walter.”
“And we are quite pleased to have him among our young people.” That was all, but it was quite sufficient to tell Mrs. Rossiter that John might have Georgiana Wanless for the asking, and that Lady Wanless expected him to ask. Then the parting was much more affectionate than it had ever been before, and there was a squeezing of the hand and a nodding of the head which meant a great deal.
Alice held her tongue, and did her work and attempted to be cheery through it all. Again and again she asked herself—what did it matter? Even though she were unhappy, even though she felt a keen, palpable, perpetual aching at her heart, what would it matter so long as she could go about and do her business? Some people in this world had to be unhappy;—perhaps most people. And this was a sorrow which, though it might not wear off, would by wearing become dull enough to be bearable. She distressed herself in that there was any sorrow. Providence had given to her a certain condition of life to which many charms were attached. She thoroughly loved the people about her—her father, her little brothers and sisters, even her overworn and somewhat idle stepmother. She was a queen in the house, a queen among her busy toils; and she liked being a queen, and liked being busy. No one ever scolded her or crossed her or contradicted her. She had the essential satisfaction of the consciousness of usefulness. Why should not that suffice to her? She despised herself because there was a hole in her heart—because she felt herself to shrink all over when the name of Georgiana Wanless was mentioned in her hearing. Yet she would mention the name herself, and speak with something akin to admiration of the Wanless family. And she would say how well it was that men should strive to rise in the world, and how that the world progressed through such individual efforts. But she would not mention the name of John Rossiter, nor would she endure that it should be mentioned in her hearing with any special reference to herself.
Mrs. Dugdale, though she was overworn and idle—a warped and almost useless piece of furniture, made, as was said before, of bad timber—yet saw more of this than anyone else, and was indignant. To lose Alice, to have no one to let down those tucks and take up those stitches, would be to her the loss of all her comforts. But, though she was feckless, she was truehearted, and she knew that Alice was being wronged. It was Alice that had a right to the hero, and not that stuck-up young woman at Brook Park. It was thus she spoke of the affair to the doctor, and after awhile found herself unable to be silent on the subject to Alice herself. “If what they say does take place I shall think worse of John Rossiter than I ever did of any man I ever knew.” This she said in the presence both of her husband and her stepdaughter.
“John Rossiter will not be very much the worse for that,” said Alice without relaxing a moment from her work. There was a sound of drolling in her voice, as though she were quizzing her stepmother for her folly.
“It seems to me that men may do anything now,” continued Mrs. Dugdale.
“I suppose they are the same now as they always were,” said the doctor. “If a man chose to be false he could always be false.”
“I call it unmanly,” said Mrs. Dugdale. “If I were a man I would beat him.”
“What would you beat him for?” said Alice, getting up, and as she did so throwing down on the table before her the little frock she was making. “If you had the power of beating him, why would you
