“I told father I had made up my mind to teach,” he said, as they paused in the hedge-bound road for the trap to pass; “but he does not try to understand the meaning the decision has for me. He remarked that he supposed it was a passable choice, as I had no desire for the Church, and no aptitude for law or medicine. It seems the thing to talk about teaching as a work for feeble youths, who have no chance of another livelihood.”
“Yes, I believe it does,” said Dolores, with a sound of laughter in her full-toned, rather impressive voice; “and I daresay, as many do it, father has put it fitly — the best thing for people with no aptitude for the Church or law or medicine. But you choose it as it is in itself.”
“It is a comfort to hear a sane remark,” said Bertram. “The talk that goes on at home, Dolores! It is invariably bounded by the doings and misdoings of the parish, or of Uncle James — misdoings in the latter case. And the mater is for ever put out about some little trifling thing that cannot possibly matter. We never have a day of peace.”
“Her married life has hardly been all she expected, I am afraid,” said Dolores. “She is fretted by little things, that cannot be avoided any more than they can seem to be worth worrying about. How are the children, Bertram?”
“Oh — well, I suppose,” said Bertram. “Evelyn is fretful as usual; and Sophy waits on her as usual; and we have begun to call the baby Cleveland. The mater says it is time he was called by his name. I believe it is a source of satisfaction to her that it is he and not I who is named after father.
“Poor baby Cleveland!” said Dolores. “I am sure we need not grudge him his name, especially as it was given him after you had had the chance of it. Look, Bertram, here is the very person for us embryo teachers to meet. We cannot fail to be wiser five minutes hence.”
“And wiser still ten minutes hence,” muttered Bertram, as the gate of the cornfield clicked; and Dr Cassell — greyer, stouter, and ruddier, but otherwise unaltered for the further years of dispensing medical, scriptural, and general matter — stepped into the highroad.
“How do you do, Miss Dolores? So your last session at school has come to an end. I must congratulate you upon your latest success.”
“Dolores, I had forgotten your scholarship,” said Bertram.
“Ah, we don’t keep pleasant things in our minds so long as unpleasant,” said Dr Cassell. “And this is a very pleasant thing, I hear, Miss Dolores. Your college course — or the larger part of it — provided for! You are to be congratulated.”
“She is indeed,” said Bertram. “The scholarship carries a lot besides its money value. We are all very proud of her.”
“It is nothing to be proud of, unless hard work is a cause for pride,” said Dolores. “It is simply the necessary means to a necessary end.”
“It may be as well not to feel proud of it as a success,” said Dr Cassell, making a gesture with his hand. “There is never likely — as far as I have had opportunities of judging; and I think my opportunities have been as extensive as those of most — to be too much humility in the world. But satisfaction in the gaining of knowledge is a different feeling.” The doctor came to a pause; and Dolores and Bertram allowed their eyes to meet as they followed his example. “A young man once observed to a great preacher, that God had no need of human knowledge. ‘Sir,’ was the reply, ‘He has still less need of human ignorance.’” The doctor walked on, seeing the vanity of attempting to enhance the given effect; but after a few steps paused again.
“You are richer — in the possession of brains and knowledge — than in the possession of anything else — with the exception of the true religion — on earth. A certain great musician — I think it was Beethoven — had a — somewhat worldly — brother; who one day sent him a card inscribed with the words, ‘Johann von Beethoven’—I am sure now that the musician was Beethoven—‘landowner.’ In reply, the great man sent his own card, bearing as a retort the inscription, ‘Ludwig von Beethoven, brain owner.’ Dr Cassell laughed, but made no movement forward, and after a minute resumed. “Talking of musicians,” he said, “that is a strange story of how Mozart spent his last days in composing the Requiem he believed to be his own. You both know it, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Bertram, detecting the note of wistfulness, and perceiving that Dolores was disposed to indulgence. “There is a book about the musicians at home, and we are all well up in them.”
“Ah! I see,” said Dr Cassell, as he shook hands and turned on his way.
“Dolores, your scholarship has become such a standing cause for rejoicing that I did not think of speaking about it,” said Bertram. “Father is very proud of you in his heart — though, of course, he is not allowed to show it. Studying and teaching at the same time, and competing with people who are only studying, means more than any one thinks who is not initiated.”
“Oh, no, dear, it has not meant much,” said Dolores, smiling at the face beside her — a younger copy of her own, with a softening which left its claim to comeliness. “Nobody is quite without gifts, and mine have gone in one direction. Besides, I was working for my own sake. I am going to college for my own future, and I should not feel justified in going without lightening the expense for father.”
“I do not see why you should be expected to qualify to teach at all,” said Bertram. “Neither of the little girls is to do anything of the sort. I don’t think the mater comes out well in this matter. For it is all her doing at the bottom, of course.”
“Oh, I look forward to teaching,” said Dolores. “I take the same view of it as you do. And I am not studying against the grain.”
“If you were, you would be not the less expected to do it,” said Bertram. “It is not right that the mater should lead father to make differences between his children. You cannot but see that yourself, Dolores, with your stern views of justice.”
“Oh, we must not look at things only with justice,” said Dolores. “It must be hard for a woman who — like other women — wishes to be first with her husband, and to see his interest centred on her children, to have two children who are strangers in her home; preventing her eldest child from being his first, and taking the precedence of the older ones. I think it is natural she should want to be rid of the eldest, almost more so if she is a daughter, and may seem to compete with herself.”
“Well, that is putting things from the stepmother’s view with a vengeance,” said Bertram. “How about the stepchildren? If father had not married again, think how different your life would have been. You would have been everything to him. You must know that you are still his favourite child in his heart. But the more you are away, the less it will be so, Dolores. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ is a maxim which applies entirely to father.”
Dolores was silent, walking at a quickened pace. Her lot held its own pain; which was not less sharp that she uttered no word of it. When she spoke, her voice had its usual vigorous tones.
“It does not do to think of what might have been. We must admit that father has found happiness in his second marriage, and it is that we have to think of. It was his own life he was concerned with when he married again. It was no right of mine to be everything to him. We have always had from him a father’s affection and a father’s duty. More than that we have no reason to expect.”
“If I have always had a father’s affection,” said Bertram, “I should not say that affection was a strong point with fathers.”
Dolores was silent; and no more was said till they walked up the garden of the parsonage.