“Well,” said the clergyman, “what is all this about?”
“You asked us to call,” Dora said, “about your little Sunday school. We are the Bastables of Lewisham Road.”
“Oh—ah, yes,” he said; “and shall I expect you all tomorrow?”
He took up his pen and fiddled with it, and he did not ask us to sit down. But some of us did.
“We always spend Sunday afternoon with Father,” said Dora; “but we wished to thank you for being so kind as to ask us.”
“And we wished to ask you something else!” said Oswald; and he made a sign to Alice to get the sherry ready in the glass. She did—behind Oswald’s back while he was speaking.
“My time is limited,” said Mr. Mallow, looking at his watch; “but still—” Then he muttered something about the fold, and went on: “Tell me what is troubling you, my little man, and I will try to give you any help in my power. What is it you want?”
Then Oswald quickly took the glass from Alice, and held it out to him, and said, “I want your opinion on that.”
“On that,” he said. “What is it?”
“It is a shipment,” Oswald said; “but it’s quite enough for you to taste.” Alice had filled the glass half-full; I suppose she was too excited to measure properly.
“A shipment?” said the clergyman, taking the glass in his hand.
“Yes,” Oswald went on; “an exceptional opportunity. Full-bodied and nutty.”
“It really does taste rather like one kind of Brazil-nut.” Alice put her oar in as usual.
The Vicar looked from Alice to Oswald, and back again, and Oswald went on with what he had learned from the printing. The clergyman held the glass at half-arm’s-length, stiffly, as if he had caught cold.
“It is of a quality never before offered at the price. Old Delicate Amoro—what’s its name—”
“Amorolio,” said H. O.
“Amoroso,” said Oswald. “H. O., you just shut up—Castilian Amoroso—it’s a true after-dinner wine, stimulating and yet …”
“Wine?” said Mr. Mallow, holding the glass further off. “Do you know,” he went on, making his voice very thick and strong (I expect he does it like that in church), “have you never been taught that it is the drinking of wine and spirits—yes, and beer, which makes half the homes in England full of wretched little children, and degraded, miserable parents?”
“Not if you put sugar in it,” said Alice firmly; “eight lumps and shake the bottle. We have each had more than a teaspoonful of it, and we were not ill at all. It was something else that upset H. O. Most likely all those acorns he got out of the Park.”
The clergyman seemed to be speechless with conflicting emotions, and just then the door opened and a lady came in. She had a white cap with lace, and an ugly violet flower in it, and she was tall, and looked very strong, though thin. And I do believe she had been listening at the door.
“But why,” the Vicar was saying, “why did you bring this dreadful fluid, this curse of our country, to me to taste?”
“Because we thought you might buy some,” said Dora, who never sees when a game is up. “In books the parson loves his bottle of old port; and new sherry is just as good—with sugar—for people who like sherry. And if you would order a dozen of the wine, then we should get two shillings.”
The lady said (and it was the voice), “Good gracious! Nasty, sordid little things! Haven’t they anyone to teach them better?”
And Dora got up and said, “No, we are not those things you say; but we are sorry we came here to be called names. We want to make our fortune just as much as Mr. Mallow does—only no one would listen to us if we preached, so it’s no use our copying out sermons like him.”
And I think that was smart of Dora, even if it was rather rude.
Then I said perhaps we had better go, and the lady said, “I should think so!”
But when we were going to wrap up the bottle and glass the clergyman said, “No; you can leave that,” and we were so upset we did, though it wasn’t his after all.
We walked home very fast and not saying much, and the girls went up to their rooms. When I went to tell them tea was ready, and there was a teacake, Dora was crying like anything and Alice hugging her. I am afraid there is a great deal of crying in this chapter, but I can’t help it. Girls will sometimes; I suppose it is their nature, and we ought to be sorry for their affliction.
“It’s no good,” Dora was saying, “you all hate me, and you think I’m a prig and a busybody, but I do try to do right—oh, I do! Oswald, go away; don’t come here making fun of me!”
So I said, “I’m not making fun, Sissy; don’t cry, old girl.”
Mother taught me to call her Sissy when we were very little and before the others came, but I don’t often somehow, now we are old. I patted her on the back, and she put her head against my sleeve, holding on to Alice all the time, and she went on. She was in that laughy-cryey state when people say things they wouldn’t say at other times.
“Oh dear, oh dear—I do try, I do. And when Mother died she said, ‘Dora, take care of the others, and teach them to be good, and keep them out of trouble and make them happy.’ She said, ‘Take care of them for me, Dora dear.’ And I have tried, and all of you hate me for it; and today I let you do this, though I knew all the time it was silly.”
I hope you will not think I was a muff but I kissed Dora for some time. Because girls like it. And I will
