Ivy Compton-Burnett - Dolores

“Yes, yes, a great man — Milton,” said Mr Billing. “A sincere Christian, in addition to all that brought him worldly fame.”

“I really think,” continued Mrs Blackwood, “that if I were asked to give the palm to any one poet, I should give it to Milton. His poetry is so suggestive. In every line there is something that transports you at once to the classic days of ancient Greece and Rome. I always feel so much better informed after reading him. I do not think any other poet quite comes up to him in that.”

“My dear, you may take the credit to yourself of your view of the vocation of poetry,” said Mrs Hutton. “It is entirely your own.”

“Oh, you do not follow me, dear,” said Mrs Blackwood, in a careless tone, but continuing quickly. “Dolores, you understand what I mean, I am sure. I expect you know Milton nearly by heart, do you not? I knew a great deal when I was your age, I know; and his classical allusions must be so very illuminating to you, with your knowledge of the classical languages and mythology.”

“Yes, Dolores is the one for classics,” said the Reverend Cleveland. “She is better read in them already than many a lad of her age.”

“How nice to be so clev-er, de-ar!” said Mrs Merton-Vane.

“I suppose you and your father are great companions, Miss Hutton?” said Mr Billing, looking with heightened interest at Dolores, and reflecting that she looked just the sort of lady to be the erudite associate of a gentleman.

“Oh, I am away from home a great deal,” said Dolores, sparing her stepmother. “When I am at Millfield, my brother and I are a great deal together.”

“Oh, my dear, you and your father have always been such great friends,” said Mrs Blackwood, not neglecting the opportunity for sisterly revenge. “You have so much in common — so many tastes, and so many memories. I always think he seems quite lost when you are away.”

“He must seem rather seldom at disposal then,” said Dolores, smiling — not unconscious of Mrs Blackwood’s motive. “I am only at home for a third of the year. But I think it is only a matter of seeming. He has become quite used to my being away.”

“Cleveland is so very absent-minded,” said Mrs Hutton, with a little laugh. “Last summer he told me to ask Dolores for a book nearly a week after she had returned to school. He actually did not know whether she was in the house or not.”

“Clev-er people are always a little for-get-ful now and then,” said Mrs Merton-Vane, inclining her head towards Dolores in sympathetic explanation.

“Well, my darling, if we have all finished, suppose we go into the drawing-room,” said Mr Blackwood, loudly addressing his wife. “Open the door, Herbert, my son. Well, Vicar, as Mr Billing here is a non-smoker, and the doctor and I are the same, as we need not tell you, perhaps you will become one yourself for this evening, and join the ladies with us at once. I never believe in trying to do without the ladies, do you, Mr Billing? We owe most of what is good in ourselves and everything else to them, you know. What do you say, my love? You agree with me, I am sure.”

Mr Blackwood linked his arm in his wife’s and led the way from the room. His guests followed; with Mrs Hutton at their head, and brought up by the Reverend Cleveland; who mutely repudiated Mr Billing’s surrender of precedence, with an air that seemed to say that personally he found it no gratification to be prominent in this company. In the drawing — room Mrs Blackwood entered at once into talk with Dr Cassell.

“Dr Cassell, I was reading a pamphlet the other day which you would have been so interested in. It was about the Roman Catholics; and it treated the question in the main almost exactly as you do; but with some minor differences, which I really am not sure I do not incline to myself — they were put so very convincingly. I should so like you to read it. It was called ‘Roman Catholicism — its Spread and Significance.’”

Dr Cassell leant forward in his chair, and held up one hand.

“It is a subject — Mrs Blackwood — upon which I hardly require to read further treatises. I know it — only too well — under both the heads to which you allude — to which the title of the little work you mention, alluded. I do not think further reading could add to my comprehension of it.”

“Ah, Mr Billing, the doctor is the man to consult, if you want to know anything about the Roman Catholics,” said Mr Blackwood. “ He is an authority upon them, I can tell you. He has studied the question, and no mistake, has the doctor.”

“You consider the spread of Roman Catholicism a serious thing?” said Mr Billing, addressing Dr Cassell.

Dr Cassell leant forward, and again raised his hand.

“You ask me, Mr Billing — whether I consider — the spread of Roman Catholicism — a serious thing. My answer is — that I consider it a hopeless thing, a damnable thing, a thing that is sucking the very life-blood of our religion.” Dr Cassell held himself for a further moment in his didactic posture, and then leaned back in his chair.

“But do you not think,” said Mr Billing, “that the spread of agnosticism and atheism — I fear we must recognise that they are both spreading — is even more serious — more significant of vital danger to the faith?”

“I do not,” said Dr Cassell, implying a not uncomplacent knowledge that his view was peculiar. “I have met — in the course of my medical experience — as I could not have failed to do — examples of all the three forms of — er — perverted religious conviction; and I am of the opinion — that the Roman Catholic is more — obstinately tenacious of error, and pernicious in influence, than either the atheist or the agnostic. Both the latter are — as a rule more or less amenable to argument, and more or less straightforward and aboveboard in their tactics. But the Catholic—” Dr Cassell broke off and shook his head.

“You have had dealings with them?” said the Reverend Cleveland, his tone accepting this as a matter of course, and therefore implying collapse of the doctor’s position if he should be mistaken.

“I will tell you,” said Dr Cassell, relapsing into his anecdotal tone, “of an experience I had with one. I was called in to attend a patient — a Catholic — in his last illness; and I found him in a state of great depression about the state he was about to enter; burdened with notions of purgatory, praying to the Virgin, and so forth.” The doctor paused to allow this grave evidence to be grasped. “I endeavoured — to bring the light or the true faith to his darkened mind; but — with little success — owing to its prejudiced and — generally unhappy condition. As I was leaving the room, I happened to pause for a moment, holding the door ajar; and I fancied as I stood there — that I heard a faint noise”—the speaker gesticulated slightly with his hand and his tone became mystical—“as of somebody moving quickly away from the door-mat. When I opened the door, I came upon a priest —ostensibly coming across the passage. I shall never forget the appearance of the man, as he came towards me, with a sort of leering smile on his lips — his long, black, gown-sort-of-thing hanging about him, and a crucifix suspended from his neck. I stopped him — I placed myself dead in front of him — and I remember now how his eye quailed beneath mine. ‘So,’ I said, ‘you have added to your list of deadly sins — the sins that have clouded deathbeds and damned souls. Go,’ I said, ‘and dare to contradict a word of mine to that dying man, as you will answer for it at the judgment.’ Would you believe it, the fellow never even answered me! He calmly walked by me, and into the sick-room; though, mark you, he did not once raise his eyes to mine. The next day — no, wait a minute”—the doctor checked with a motion of his hand any exclamations on the point of breaking forth—“I received a message — purporting to be written by the patient — though I knew he was too weak to handle a pen — informing me that my services would not be again required. This message I ignored; happening to regard the future of a soul — as of greater importance than the will of a priest. I was not allowed — to set my foot over the threshold. Orders had been given that I should not be admitted; and my only course was to leave the priest to his work — doubtless he wished to get the man’s money bequeathed to his cause. The money I have no doubt was gained— the soul of the man—” The doctor broke off, and just perceptibly shook his head.