Ivy Compton-Burnett: Dolores

“May I speak once more to you of my feelings towards you? There is little to be said — simply that my wife and I shall always look up to you, as one who lives above a life that can be shared.”

Dolores could not speak. She met his eyes in silence and gave him her hand. He raised it to his lips, and walked hastily away with his head bare. She watched him till the hedges hid him from sight, and then turned back to the parsonage. When she was alone in her room that night, there was a knock at the door, and Sophia came to her — a Sophia with a younger beauty, a new dignity mingled with the old.

“Dolores,” she said, “tell me truthfully how it is with you. You are so good, that I cannot tell what you may have done. Did you — do you — he says you do not — but do you love him, as I do?”

Dolores laid her hands on her sister’s shoulders.

“No, dearest, no. I have strong feelings towards him — deep respect and a great affection — the feelings I should wish to have for the man to whom I must trust my Sophia — nothing more. I have never felt to him as you do — as it is your right alone to feel. You need have no fear.”

“Dolores,” said Sophia simply, “I know I do not know your troubles, as you have always known mine. I am not like you — a woman who lives for the troubles of others, and helping’ them through them. But if you have them yourself, you would let me do anything I could?”

“My dear, you have been perplexed about me?” said Dolores, with gentle regret. “I have much to be forgiven, if I have added to the troubles of your early time. I will tell you, that you may be quite at rest. I have had a sorrow — a long sorrow which I brought on myself, and which is over now. You need have no fear for me; it is over.”

There was much strong feeling in the rustic mind of Millfield, at the marriage of the two young daughters of its parsonage. It was felt that the occasion should be held as pathetic no less than great; and faces were clad in solemnity as well as bodies in holiday garb, for attendance at the double ceremony. This solemn aspect was enhanced by the presence of the Very Rev. James; who spent a week with his merely Reverend brother, with the purpose of giving this weight to the nuptials of the nieces, who owed him gratitude for their maidenly arts, as well as reverence for his honourable service to the Establishment; and Soulsby’s grey head and un-wandering glance could hardly be regarded as devoid of all moving bearing. In brief, the mother of the carpenter was felt to be fitly expressing the natural and general, if hitherto undefined feeling, when in the course of the service she said aloud with sobs, “Dear, dear! Poor, dear, motherless young things!”

Evelyn made a graceful, and Sophia a beautiful bride. Herbert did his part with a boyish self — consciousness not unbecoming his youth; and Soulsby bore himself with unfaltering dignity; betraying no embarrassment in sharing his nuptials with those of an age to be his children, but doing the things to be done with simple compliance, as the steps to that which he sought of his choice.

The afterward gathering at the parsonage consisted of familiar figures. Soulsby was frankly friendless, and had been quite startled at the notion of bidding his kin to his marriage feast; and the sisters’ and Herbert’s circle of acquaintance was comprised in the dwellers in the district. The time to be spent in convivial well-wishing happened to be unwontedly brief; and Dolores was glad as its minutes passed; for there seemed a general uneasiness which refused to be dispelled. The Rev. Cleveland was ponderous and silent. The Very Rev. James was pompous and officious, and exerted an influence consistently constraining. Soulsby was passive in the grip of a nervousness, which sealed his lips on pain of discomfiture for himself and others. Doctor Cassell held aloof, as if uncertain of the etiquette, and Mrs Cassell felt forbidden to leave his side; and Mr Blackwood’s spasmodic professions of appreciation of the occasion’s qualities, produced more gratitude for his exertions than relief in their results. It was not until the two young brides came down with their bridal garb put off, and the carriages which the Very Rev. James had hired from the local inn had driven to the door, that any one attained the feelings for which all had striven.

“Well, girls, well; so you are off,” said Mr Blackwood, with equal emphasis and relief. “All health and happiness to you both. I am sure it is the wish of us all. I am sure that it is, Vicar.”

“Yes; yes, I — second you, Blackwood,” said Dr Cassell, his tone suggesting contentment with his choice of expression.

“Good-bye, my dears,” said the Dean, in sonorous tones which drew to him general attention, and seemed to imply that the chief guardian of the brides had hitherto been himself. “God bless you; and may everything fall to your lot that is good for you.”

“Good-bye, my daughters. You know what I wish for you without my saying it,” said the Rev. Cleveland, embracing his children, and implying that this unexpanded farewell was irrevocably his final word.

“Oh, Herbert, my dear, dear boy!” said Mrs Blackwood, putting her arms round her son.

“Oh, come, my darling; come, come,” said Mr Blackwood, finding his powers employed with less effort in a practised direction. “Young people must marry, you know. Why, there was a time, when you and I were up to much the same sort of thing. Good-bye, my son; good-bye. May your wife be as much to you, as your mother has been to me.”

“Oh, de-ars, thank you both for the pret-ty sight you have given us,” said Mrs Merton-Vane. “And take care of both your de-ar selves, won’t you? Prom-ise me that you will.”

“While we are thinking of marriages,” said Dr Cassell, edging himself to a prominent place, and speaking with twinkling eye and gesticulating hand; “there is a — story which has just come to my mind, which I flatter myself may be — appropriate. An old man asked another, why he was marrying at his time of life; and received the reply, ‘Waal! I’d be fain to have some one to close me eyes.’ ‘Well,’ said the other, slowly — in his turn—‘I’ve had three wives; and they’ve all of ’em opened mine.’”

“Ah, that’s good, doctor!” said Mr Blackwood, with less involuntary mirth than laborious effort to help things to go off well. “That’s good, and no mistake.”

“Oh, Dr Cas-sell!” said Mrs Merton-Vane. “And with these de-ar girls just starting off, too!”

“Well, unless they make up their minds to something of the kind, they will miss the train,” said Elsa. “Oh, I am so glad I was not married in a dull, ordinary way like this.”

“It would in that case have been a triple wedding,” said Dr Cassell.

“Good-bye, Hutton,” said Soulsby quietly, giving his hand to the Rev. Cleveland. “I am grateful to you for all I have to be grateful for; and it is very much. We shall see you, and — we shall see you both at Oxford, as soon as we return from abroad.” Soulsby had yet to bring himself to give Dolores a name.

“Good-bye, Mr Soulsby,” said Mrs Merton-Vane. “You have a pre-cious charge to take care of. I am sure we all feel she is qui-te safe in your hands.”

“Good-bye, mater,” said Herbert, turning to take Evelyn to the carriage.

There was a little bustle and disturbance. The Very Rev. James pushed his way to the front of the porch, holding his handkerchief in readiness for its God-speeding office. Soulsby took Dolores’ hand, and held it for several seconds; and then dropped it suddenly, and hastened down the steps. Mrs Blackwood began to cry, and Elsa to quote a poem on wedding emotions, which had become a domestic classic. Dolores went to the carriages, to leave a word and smile in the memories of the sisters leaving her care for their wider experience; and the Rev. Cleveland brushed his handkerchief across his eyes, and glanced towards the door of his study.