The Case of Richard Meynell | Page 7

and some income of my own, independent of
my father. Supposing he should object--"
"He would object," said Meynell quickly. "And Lady Fox-Wilton
would certainly object. And so should I. And, as you know, I am
co-guardian of the children with her."
Then, as the lover quivered under these barbs, Meynell suddenly
recovered himself.
"My dear fellow! No woman ought to marry under twenty-one. And
every girl ought to have time to look round her. It's not right; it's not
just--it isn't, indeed! Put this thing by for a while. You'll lose nothing
by it. We'll talk of it again in two years."
And, drawing his chair nearer to his companion, Meynell fell into a
strain of earnest and affectionate entreaty, which presently had a
marked effect on the younger man. His chivalry was appealed to--his
consideration for the girl he loved; and his aspect began to show the
force of the attack. At last he said gravely:
"I'll tell Hester what you say--of course I'll tell her. Naturally we can't
marry without your consent and her mother's. But if Hester persists in
wishing we should be engaged?"
"Long engagements are the deuce!" said the Rector hotly. "You would
be engaged for three years. Madness!--with such a temperament as
Hester's. My dear Stephen, be advised--for her and yourself. There is
no one who wishes your good more earnestly than I. But don't let there
be any talk of an engagement for at least two years to come. Leave her
free--even if you consider yourself bound. It is folly to suppose that a
girl of such marked character knows her own mind at seventeen. She

has all her development to come."
Barron had dropped his head on his hands.
"I couldn't see anybody else courting her--without--"
"Without cutting in. I daresay not," said Meynell, with a rather forced
laugh. "I'd forgive you that. But now, look here."
The two heads drew together again, and Meynell resumed conversation,
talking rapidly, in a kind, persuasive voice, putting the common sense
of the situation--holding out distant hopes. The young man's face
gradually cleared. He was of a docile, open temper, and deeply attached
to his mentor.
At last the Rector sprang up, consulting his watch.
"I must send you off, and go to sleep. But we'll talk of this again."
"Sleep!" exclaimed Barron, astonished. "It's just seven o'clock. What
are you up to now?"
"There's a drunken fellow in the village--dying--and his wife won't look
after him. So I have to put in an appearance to-night. Be off with you!"
"I shouldn't wonder if the Flaxmans were of some use to you in the
village," said Stephen, taking up his hat. "They're rich, and, they say,
very generous."
"Well, if they'll give me a parish nurse, I'll crawl to them," said the
Rector, settling himself in his chair and putting an old shawl over his
knees. "And as you go out, just tell Anne, will you, to keep herself to
herself for an hour and not to disturb me?"
Stephen Barron moved to the door, and as he opened it he turned back a
moment to look at the man in the chair, and the room in which he sat. It
was as though he asked himself by what manner of man he had been
thus gripped and coerced, in a matter so intimate, and, to himself, so
vital.

Meynell's eyes were already shut. The dogs had gathered round him,
the collie's nose laid against his knee, the other two guarding his feet.
All round, the walls were laden with books, so were the floor and the
furniture. A carpenter's bench filled the further end of the room.
Carving tools were scattered on it, and a large piece of wood-carving,
half finished, was standing propped against it. It was part of some choir
decoration that Meynell and a class of village boys were making for the
church, where the Rector had already carved with his own hand many
of the available surfaces, whether of stone or wood. The carving, which
was elaborate and rich, was technically faulty, as an Italian primitive is
faulty, but mutatis mutandis it had much of the same charm that
belongs to Italian primitive work: the same joyous sincerity, the same
passionate love of natural things, leaves and flowers and birds.
For the rest, the furniture of the room was shabby and ugly. The
pictures on the walls were mostly faded Oxford photographs, or
outlines by Overbeck and Retsch, which had belonged to Meynell's
parents and were tenderly cherished by him. There were none of the
pretty, artistic trifles, the signs of travel and easy culture, which many a
small country vicarage possesses in abundance. Meynell, in spite of his
scholar's mastery of half-a-dozen languages, had never crossed the
Channel. Barron, lingering