Ivy Compton-Burnett - Dolores

“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.

“Well, Dolores,” said Mrs Hutton, coming into the porch; “I am glad to see you at home again. You must be tired after your long journey. Children, came and say ‘how do you do’ to Dolores.”

The two little sisters — Sophia, a noble-looking girl of eight, and Evelyn, a fragile little damsel two years younger — obeyed with an eagerness which brought a chill into Mrs Hutton’s mellow tones.

“Come, there is no need to be boisterous. Do not be rough, Sophy. Bertram, there is no occasion to stand in the middle of the hall, leaving no passage for any one. Your father is in his study, Dolores, if you would like to see him.”

“Well, my daughter,” said the Reverend Cleveland, stepping from this sanctuary in response to the sounds that reached him, and speaking with a touch of emotion in his tones, “so you have left your school-days behind you. Well, it is a chapter of your life past; so things go by one by one till everything is behind. But I think you may look back on them as a chapter well lived”

“Come, Cleveland, let some of us move out of the hall,” said Mrs Hutton. “I daresay Dolores would prefer some tea after her journey to listening to such a mixture of metaphors. Who ever heard of any one’s school-days being a chapter — and a chapter well lived, too? Come, children, run into the dining-room.”

Poor Mr Hutton, checked in the rather morose philosophising natural to him as a vehicle of fatherly greeting, bestowed upon his daughter a conventional paternal embrace, and followed his family in silence.

“The news of your scholarship gave me the greatest pleasure, my daughter,” he presently said, with the formal precision which marked his dealings with Dolores. “Its proof of perseverence and ability is as gratifying as its substantial aid. I am glad to be assured of your fitness for the work you have chosen. Convinced of your power to succeed, I could wish you nothing better.” Mr Hutton had a way of making public defence of his sanction of his daughter’s earning her bread.

Mrs Hutton gave a quick glance at her husband, and opened her lips; but closed them again, and busied herself with the wants of her children.

“Dolores is the cleverest person in the house, isn’t she?” said Sophia, fixing her eyes gravely on Dolores’ face, as if appreciation were a serious matter.

“She has had the most advantages,” said Mrs Hutton.

“We met Dr Cassell on our way from the station,” said Dolores, “and heard two entirely fresh anecdotes. His memory is bottomless.”

“Did he congratulate you on your scholarship?” said the Reverend Cleveland, who, as a university gentleman of clerical calling, took a somewhat exaggerated view of the moment of matters academic.

“Yes, it was he who reminded me of it,” said Bertram. “But he does not follow that sort of thing. His ideas of education are very queer. However, he assured her she was richer in the possession of knowledge than of anything else on earth.”

“Well, well, he might be further wrong there, my daughter,” said Mr Hutton.

“My dear Cleveland,” said Mrs Hutton, “we all know that Dolores is your daughter. You need not remind us of it again.”

Mr Hutton did not glance at his wife, or give any sign of hearing her words. He fell into silence.

“Father always calls Dolores that, doesn’t he?” said Sophia, who was subject to the tendency of early days to cast every other remark in the form of a question.

“No, no, of course not; only sometimes,” said Mrs Hutton. “All fathers call their daughters that sometimes — after they are grown up.”

“Has this scholarship been gained by a pupil at your school before, Dolores?” said Mr Hutton.

“Oh, pray do not let us talk about the same thing for the whole of tea-time,” said Mrs Hutton. “I am sure we are all very glad that Dolores has made the most of her advantages, and so gained other advantages for herself. But we need not confine our conversation to it entirely. It is such a very dull subject for the children.”

Dolores coloured and made no response to her father.

“Has the scholarship been gained by a pupil from your school before, my daughter?” said the Reverend Cleveland, repeating his question as though he supposed she had not heard it.

Mrs Hutton, whose instinct seldom failed her where her husband was concerned, appeared to be absorbed in presiding at the urn, while Dolores made a brief reply; and the Reverend Cleveland broached another subject, as though no inkling of the jar had reached him.