Volume I Part 8 (1/2)
”Then he neglects his duties, that's all,” replied the old gentleman with an indignant snort. ”Of course, Pit Town's in the fas.h.i.+on,” he continued, ”for we hear about nothing but art now-a-days; but I should like to know where he benefits his race. His ambition is a purely selfish one, while mine is distinctly benevolent. The dream of my life, Reginald, is unrealizable. I know that I can never succeed in producing the being I see in my dreams, a perfectly boneless pig; a sort of animated sausage, where fat and lean shall be deliciously blended in the requisite proportions. I know I strive after the unattainable, but still every year I get nearer and nearer to the goal. When I remember, sir, what black pigs were when I was a boy, and what they are now, thanks to my efforts and those of the n.o.ble little band of enthusiasts like myself, I feel that I am leaving a lasting monument behind me. Why, only yesterday, sir, when Dr. Wolff pointed out to me what he called a specimen of George Morland's best manner, I felt what giant strides of progress we have made. There were the pigs of _his_ day, represented as great gaunt bony bristly creatures, wallowing at large, sir, in muck and mire. We never see such horrors now; and I actually envied Pit Town the possession of that picture. I should like to hang it up, sir, in my piggeries at The Priory, that the world might look upon what the animal was, and in contrasting him with the superb creatures I possess, appreciate what can be done by care, breeding, feeding, and proper selection. The time will come, Reginald, when every English speaking man or woman who puts a piece of pork or bacon into his mouth will bless the name of Haggard. But these are but ambitious dreams, Reginald, never perhaps to be realized.”
The party at Walls End Castle, though its elements were decidedly heterogeneous, was a success. Everybody was sorry to go when they left, and their host regretted the departure of his visitors.
”The place seems quite dull without them, Wolff,” he remarked. ”I think I shall try to see more of my relatives, but we must make up for lost time, Wolff. Why, since the ladies have been here we have neglected work shamefully.”
”It has been a pleasant time, Lord Pit Town, for me, for I love enthusiasm in the young. It has never yet been my fortune to meet with so delightful and innocent a thirst for information as that displayed by the charming Miss Warrender. The soul's confessions of that dear young lady were delightful in their nave innocence. She has learnt much during her stay here of the canons of true art; it will be to me an ever-to-be-remembered epoch.”
The old lord looked up from the great ma.n.u.script catalogue _raisonne_ at the German doctor.
”So she made a fool of you too, Wolff, did she?”
”My lord, she respected me too much to attempt to make a fool of me.
She, the young neophyte, recognized in me a humble priest of art.”
”Ah, Wolff,” said the old lord with a look at the great portrait of Barbara Chudleigh, ”there are some women who don't even respect doctors of philosophy.”
CHAPTER IX.
ANASTATIA'S COURTs.h.i.+P.
The Reverend John Dodd drew back one morning from the breakfast-table with the air of a giant refreshed; his wife stared at him over the silver breakfast-kettle as she had stared at him for the last twenty years. For the last twenty years Mrs. Dodd had wondered at the plenteousness of her husband's breakfasts; she was astonished twenty years ago, and she still stared, an awed woman to the present day.
”John,” she said, in a severe tone, ”it is my duty.” Whenever Mrs. Dodd differed from her husband she nailed her colours to the mast; she said it was her duty, and she invariably carried her point. ”It's dogged as does it,” is not only the maxim of agricultural labourers in remote country districts. It is the secret of success in every married lady's life; it is the talisman confided to the young wife by her more experienced mother, if she have one, if not her aunt tells her the secret, and it comes to the same thing.
”Well, my dear, if you look upon it in that light there is no more to be said,” acquiesced the husband.
”It is my duty, and yours too, John; above all it is Anastatia's. What can cement the natural alliance between the squire and the vicar of the parish, more strongly than the former's union with that vicar's sister?
Besides, I have another reason. It is our bounden duty, Jack,” here the vicar's wife relapsed into familiarity, as she always did when she meant to carry her point, ”our bounden duty to rescue the squire from that designing woman.”
”Good gracious, Cecilia, who is Anastatia's rival?”
”You may not have seen it, John, but I have observed it ever since the girls have been away. Miss Hood means to marry the old man!” This latter sentence was uttered in a sepulchral whisper.
”Nonsense, Cecilia, you're joking.”
”Do I ever talk nonsense or joke, Mr. Dodd?” answered the wife in a judicial tone.
”Well, my dear,” apologetically rejoined the vicar, ”I don't think I ever remember your doing the latter,” and he felt much as an unfortunate man would feel who had dared to accuse the Lord Chancellor himself of joking and talking nonsense.
”There can't be a doubt of it. Ever since those girls have gone Miss Hood has called here in The Warren brougham, never on foot or in the pony chair.”
”But, my dear, the weather has been wet and cold.”
”'Tis not the weather, John, it is that woman's arrogance, her way of preparing the minds of the neighbourhood for the catastrophe.”
”Diggory Warrender, my dear, is no more thinking of marrying again than I am,” said the vicar.
”The thought of marrying again, Mr. Dodd,” retorted his wife severely, ”is constantly occurring to the mind of every married man.”