CHAPTER XX.
DULCINA.
In the afternoon Lord and Lady Edward Eveleigh called on the Rigsbys. The Archdeaconess was full of civility. She was a pleasant, fine-looking woman, with grey hair, and very clear eyes. She spoke in a decided manner. She had ruled her house, her husband—almost the Archdeaconry—for many years. She had ruled society—at least clerical society—for a wide radius. This had given decision to her character and a determination to be obeyed which few were strong enough to stand against.
Miss Rigsby was seated on a sofa. She had expected the visit, and was prepared for it. She wore a crude blue shawl thrown over her shoulders, and a mauve handkerchief was tied round her aching jaws. She had bracelets on both arms, and her fingers were encrusted with rings. She was a pale, freckled young lady, not ugly, and not pretty, with very light eyebrows, and hair thick and coarse. She was proud of her red hair, and had it frizzed into a mass. Her grey eyes were dull, but the pain she had endured had perhaps quenched their light.
‘I am going to carry you off to the Rectory,’ said Lady Elizabeth. ‘It is of no use your protesting. What I have made up my mind to I carry out, as the diocese well knows. I restored Sleepy Hollow church myself. I said to the Archdeacon, “It must be done,” and as he would not put his shoulder to the wheel, I begged, got up a bazaar, and did it. I am going to make much of you. You want the quiet and comfort of an English home. We’ll soon set you on your feet again, and screw up the relaxed nerves. I know exactly what you want.’
Mr. Rigsby looked entreatingly at his daughter. He had made up his mind to spend a fortnight at Sleepy Hollow, but he did not dare to accept the invitation without the consent of his spoiled child.
Dulcina answered, in a condescending tone, ‘I am afraid we shall be in your way.’
‘Not at all, or I would not have asked you.’
Mr. Rigsby brightened. His daughter was yielding.
‘The invitation is kind,’ said Dulcina, ‘and if I did not fear trespassing on your goodness I should like to accept.’
‘Then accept,’ said Lady Elizabeth. ‘There—the matter is concluded. I gave orders for the rooms to be got ready before I left the Rectory.’
‘You are perhaps expecting visitors?’
‘Only Lord Saltcombe—he could be stowed anywhere if we were hard put to, but we are not. Our predecessor at Sleepy Hollow had fourteen children, and added to the Rectory to accommodate them. We have no family, and so there are any number of spare rooms.’
‘I am not in a visiting condition,’ protested Miss Rigsby; ‘my nerves are shaken; I have suffered a great deal.’
‘We will put you to rights,’ said Lady Elizabeth; ‘I understand all that is needed. I doctor the parish—I may almost say I feed it; my opinion is that most maladies proceed from overfeeding or underfeeding. With the poor it is over and underfeeding simultaneously; they overfeed themselves with heavy, lumpy pastry without much nutriment in it, that weighs like lead in them, and they underfeed themselves by not taking good blood and tissue-making diet. You understand me?’
‘I think so,’ answered Miss Rigsby, listlessly. The poor interested her little or nothing—she occupied her own entire horizon. ‘But I,’ she said, ‘eat neither what is lumpy, nor what is insufficient.’
‘My dear,’ said the Archdeaconess, ‘here in an inn you cannot have the requisite comforts. There is no house in the world like an English house for a person who is sick or convalescent. So it is settled that you come.’
‘I really am not up to meeting strangers and making conversation,’ said Dulcina.
‘Strangers! Oh, Saltcombe! He is my nephew; a nice young man, very agreeable. He will talk, and I can always talk. Besides, Miss Rigsby, if you are going to buy Shotley and settle among us, we must introduce you to the neighbours, when you are well.’
‘I do not think papa has settled about Shotley yet.’
‘I’ll go over the place with him. I will manage everything. I know the quality of the soil on which it is built, the nature of the drainage, and the water supply. I can tell you all the advantages and disadvantages of the place, and I should wish to have a word about the price. I do not choose to have you taken in and pay a fancy price. There is not a glut of country-houses in the market. Leave it to me.’
‘Lady Elizabeth is a most knowing and business-like person, you will find,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘Dear young lady, be persuaded, and spend at least a fortnight with us.’
‘Besides,’ said the Venerable the Archdeaconess, ‘I should like to have Vigurs under my eye. You have no conception what a stimulus it gives to activity and genius when I overlook the workmen. Vigurs, the dentist, has a great respect for me. He would take infinite pains over you, if he knew I was watching him. Vigurs is a good man—still, the best need supervision.’
‘There’s something in that,’ said Mr. Rigsby.
‘Then, again,’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘I am bent on getting my niece, Lady Grace Eveleigh, to us after Christmas, and I am eager that you, Miss Rigsby, should know her, and see, if that could possibly be contrived, the Duke’s beautiful place, Court Royal, which I assure you is one of the finest residences in the West of England. The Duke would be so interested to hear from your father all about Indian affairs; his Grace is particularly interested in India, and, of course, also Ceylon. It would be a treat to him to talk them over with your father, and you—you will be enraptured with the beauty and comfort of Court Royal. Leave this to me: I am a manager. I will get Lady Grace to visit us, and she will invite you there. You are sure to get on well together.’
Lady Elizabeth played to her husband’s bat, but the Rigsbys did not see her play. Father and daughter were flattered. The invitation was accepted.
As the Archdeacon and his wife drove home in their brougham, Lord Edward said to his better half—
‘What do you think of her? She is not ugly.’
‘Not pronouncedly ugly, certainly. She is simply uninteresting. I do not think that Saltcombe will care for her.’
‘He must take her,’ said the Archdeacon, agitated, putting his hand on that of his wife, and it shook. ‘If he does not, the whole house of Kingsbridge will collapse. My dear Elizabeth, the crash is imminent. I cannot see how it can be averted except by Saltcombe’s marriage.’
‘But he is so inert. He will not realise the state of affairs.’
‘That is true. But I take on myself to make him realise it, and that excellent young fellow, Beavis Worthivale, who regards him as a brother, will help me.’
Lady Elizabeth shook her head. ‘The time is past when men sacrificed themselves for their families. I do not believe that Saltcombe cares sufficiently for his position, and the family dignity, to saddle himself with a wretched, selfish, inane, pasty-faced East Indian, so that he may redeem the family from ruin and give his position a new lease of splendour.’
‘I will write to him directly I get home,’ said Lord Edward. ‘I have sent a premonitory telegram. He is not so dead to duty as to reject a solemn appeal from me.’
So the Archdeacon, on his return, took up his pen and wrote his nephew the following letter:—
‘My Dear Saltcombe,—I particularly want you to come here at once. Pack your portmanteau and start as soon as you possibly can after the receipt of this letter. There are reasons which make me desire your presence here. My dear fellow, you must allow an old man like me to give you a word of advice. You are supposed to know that the property of your dear father, which will one day be yours, is so involved as to be almost past recovery. I say almost, not altogether. It depends on you whether a grand family of historic renown shall sink and disappear. I have no family, your uncle Ronald lost his wife and children. You are unmarried. If you die a bachelor the Ducal title goes, the family becomes extinct. You are bound to continue a race which has been illustrious and honourable. I cannot bear to think of dear Court Royal passing into other hands. Now, if you marry, you must marry so as to recover the property from its embarrassments. Such an opportunity presents itself. I will speak to you more fully on this when we meet. I pray you, as an old man, your uncle—one who has your welfare, and that of dear Grace, at heart—do not shrug your shoulders and write to say you cannot come. Come at once. Rouse yourself to the emergencies of the case. Rouse yourself to your duty. An Eveleigh has never hitherto wanted goading to perform a duty; never—when required—to commit an act of self-sacrifice.
‘Till we meet—which will be to-morrow,
- ‘Yours most affectionately,
- ‘Edward Eveleigh.
‘P.S.—Elizabeth sends her tenderest love to dear Grace. Kiss her sweet face for me.’