Part 55 (1/2)
”Go on,” says Georgie, encouragingly.
Miss Jennings, being thus entreated, takes heart, and commences the difficult injunction in excellent hope and spirits. All goes ”merry as a marriage bell,” until she comes to the words ”Love your neighbor as yourself,” when John Spriggs (who is not by nature a thoroughly bad boy, but whose evil hour is now full upon him) says audibly, and without any apparent desire to torment, ”and paddle your own canoe.”
There is a deadly pause, and then Amelia Jennings giggles out loud, and Spriggs follows suit, and, after a bit, the entire cla.s.s gives itself up to merriment.
Spriggs, instead of being contrite at this flagrant breach of discipline, is plainly elated with his victory. No smallest sign of shame disfigures his small rubicund countenance.
Georgie makes a praiseworthy effort to appear shocked, but, as her pretty cheeks are pink, and her eyes great with laughter, the praiseworthy effort rather falls through.
At this moment the door of the school-house is gently pushed open, and a new-comer appears on the threshold: it is Mr. Kennedy.
Going up unseen, he stands behind Georgie's chair, and having heard from the door-way all that has pa.s.sed, instantly bends over and hands the notorious Spriggs a s.h.i.+lling.
”Ah! you again?” says Mrs. Brans...o...b.., coloring warmly, merely from surprise. ”You are like Sir Boyle Roche's bird: you can be in two places at the same moment. But it is wrong to give him money when he is bad. It is out of all keeping; and how shall I manage the children if you come here, anxious to reward vice and foster rebellion?”
She is laughing gayly now, and is looking almost her own bright little self again, when, lifting her eyes, she sees Dorian watching her.
Instantly her smile fades; and she returns his gaze fixedly, as though compelled to do it by some hidden instinct.
He has entered silently, not expecting to find any one before him but the vicar: yet the very first object his eyes meet is his wife, smiling, radiant, with Kennedy beside her. A strange pang contracts his heart, and a terrible amount of reproach pa.s.ses from his eyes to hers.
He is sad and dispirited, and full of melancholy. His whole life has proved a failure; yet in what way has he fallen short?
Kennedy, seeing Mrs. Brans...o...b..'s expression change, raises his head, and so becomes aware of her husband's presence. Being a wise young man in his own generation, he smiles genially upon Dorian, and, going forward, shakes his hand as though years of devotion have served to forge a link likely to bind them each to each forever.
”Charming day, isn't it?” he says, with a beatific smile. ”Quite like summer.”
”Rather more like January, I think,” says Dorian, calmly, who is in his very worst mood. ”First touch of winter, I should say.” He laughs as he says this; but his laugh is as wintry as the day, and chills the hearer. Then he turns aside from his wife and her companion, and lays his hand upon the vicar's shoulder, who has just risen from his cla.s.s, having carried it successfully through the best part of Isaiah.
”My dear boy,--you?” says the vicar, quite pleased to see him. ”But in bad time: the lesson is over, so you can learn nothing. I don't like to give them too much Scripture on a week-day. It has a disheartening effect, and----”
”I wish they could hear you,” says Brans...o...b.., with a slight shrug.
”It is as well they cannot,” says the vicar; ”though I doubt if free speaking does much harm; and, really, perpetual grinding does destroy the genuine love for our grand old Bible that we should all feel deep down in our souls.”
”Feeling has gone out of fas.h.i.+on,” says Dorian, so distinctly that Georgie in the distance hears him, and winces a little.
”Well, it has,” says the vicar. ”There can't be a doubt of it, when one thinks of the alterations they have just made in that fine old Book. There are innovations from morning till night, and nothing gained by them. Surely, if we got to heaven up to this by the teaching of the Bible as it _was_, it serves no cause to alter a word here and there, or a sentence that was dear to us from our childhood. It brings us no nearer G.o.d, but only unsettles beliefs that, perhaps, up to this were sound enough. The times are not to be trusted.”
”Is anything worthy of trust?” says Dorian, bitterly.
”I doubt I'm old-fas.h.i.+oned,” says the dear vicar, with a deprecating smile. ”I dare say change is good, and works wonders in many ways. We old people stick fast, and can't progress. I suppose I should be content to be put on one side.”
”I hope you will be put on my side,” says Dorian: ”I should feel pretty safe then. Do you know, I have not been in this room for so many years that I am afraid to count them? When last here, it was during a holiday term; and I remember sitting beside you and thinking how awfully jolly glad I was to be well out of it, when other children were doing their lesson.”
”Comfortable reflection, and therefore, as a rule, selfish,” says the vicar, with a laugh.
”Was it selfish? I suppose so.” His face clouds again: a sort of reckless defiance shadows it. ”You must not expect much from me,” he says, slowly: ”they don't accredit me with any good nowadays.”
”My dear fellow,” says the vicar, quietly, ”there is something wrong with you, or you would not so speak. I don't ask you now what it is: you shall tell me when and where you please. I only entreat you to believe that no one, knowing you as I do, could possibly think anything of you but what is kind and good and true.”