The Hill of Dreams, Arthur Machen [spicy books to read txt] 📗

pity, and the smiling lips were to murmur not love alone, but consolation in defeat. Here was the refuge for a broken heart; here the scorn of men would but make tenderness increase; here was all pity and all charity with loving-kindness. It was a delightful picture, conceived in the “come rest on this bosom,” and “a ministering angel thou” manner, with touches of allurement that made devotion all the sweeter. He soon found that he had idealized a little; in the affair of young Bennett, while the men were contemptuous the women were virulent. He had been rather fond of Agatha Gervase, and she, so other ladies said, had “set her cap” at him. Now, when he rebelled, and lost the goodwill of his aunt, dear Miss Spurry, Agatha insulted him with all conceivable rapidity. “After all, Mr. Bennett,” she said, “you will be nothing better than a beggar; now, will you? You mustn’t think me cruel, but I can’t help speaking the truth. Write books!” Her expression filled up the incomplete sentence; she waggled with indignant emotion. These passages came to Lucian’s ears, and indeed the Gervases boasted of “how well poor Agatha had behaved.”

“Never mind, Gathy,” old Gervase had observed. “If the impudent young puppy comes here again, we’ll see what Thomas can do with the horsewhip.”

“Poor dear child,” Mrs. Gervase added in telling the tale, “and she was so fond of him too. But of course it couldn’t go on after his shameful behavior.”

But Lucian was troubled; he sought vainly for the ideal womanly, the tender note of “come rest on this bosom.” Ministering angels, he felt convinced, do not rub red pepper and sulfuric acid into the wounds of suffering mortals.

Then there was the case of Mr. Vaughan, a squire in the neighborhood, at whose board all the aristocracy of Caermaen had feasted for years. Mr. Vaughan had a first-rate cook, and his cellar was rare, and he was never so happy as when he shared his good things with his friends. His mother kept his house, and they delighted all the girls with frequent dances, while the men sighed over the amazing champagne. Investments proved disastrous, and Mr. Vaughan had to sell the grey manor-house by the river. He and his mother took a little modern stucco villa in Caermaen, wishing to be near their dear friends. But the men were “very sorry; rough on you, Vaughan. Always thought those Patagonians were risky, but you wouldn’t hear of it. Hope we shall see you before very long; you and Mrs. Vaughan must come to tea some day after Christmas.”

“Of course we are all very sorry for them,” said Henrietta Dixon. “No, we haven’t called on Mrs. Vaughan yet. They have no regular servant, you know; only a woman in the morning. I hear old mother Vaughan, as Edward will call her, does nearly everything. And their house is absurdly small; it’s little more than a cottage. One really can’t call it a gentleman’s house.”

Then Mr. Vaughan, his heart in the dust, went to the Gervases and tried to borrow five pounds of Mr. Gervase. He had to be ordered out of the house, and, as Edith Gervase said, it was all very painful; “he went out in such a funny way,” she added, “just like the dog when he’s had a whipping. Of course it’s sad, even if it is all his own fault, as everybody says, but he looked so ridiculous as he was going down the steps that I couldn’t help laughing.” Mr. Vaughan heard the ringing, youthful laughter as he crossed the lawn.

Young girls like Henrietta Dixon and Edith Gervase naturally viewed the Vaughans’ comical position with all the high spirits of their age, but the elder ladies could not look at matters in this frivolous light.

“Hush, dear, hush,” said Mrs. Gervase, “it’s all too shocking to be a laughing matter. Don’t you agree with me, Mrs. Dixon? The sinful extravagance that went on at Pentre always frightened me. You remember that ball they gave last year? Mr. Gervase assured me that the champagne must have cost at least a hundred and fifty shillings the dozen.”

“It’s dreadful, isn’t it,” said Mrs. Dixon, “when one thinks of how many poor people there are who would be thankful for a crust of bread?”

“Yes, Mrs. Dixon,” Agatha joined in, “and you know how absurdly the Vaughans spoilt the cottagers. Oh, it was really wicked; one would think Mr. Vaughan wished to make them above their station. Edith and I went for a walk one day nearly as far as Pentre, and we begged a glass of water of old Mrs. Jones who lives in that pretty cottage near the brook. She began praising the Vaughans in the most fulsome manner, and showed us some flannel things they had given her at Christmas. I assure you, my dear Mrs. Dixon, the flannel was the very best quality; no lady could wish for better. It couldn’t have cost less than half-a-crown a yard.”

“I know, my dear, I know. Mr. Dixon always said it couldn’t last. How often I have heard him say that the Vaughans were pauperizing all the common people about Pentre, and putting everyone else in a most unpleasant position. Even from a worldly point of view it was very poor taste on their part. So different from the true charity that Paul speaks of.”

“I only wish they had given away nothing worse than flannel,” said Miss Colley, a young lady of very strict views. “But I assure you there was a perfect orgy, I can call it nothing else, every Christmas. Great joints of prime beef, and barrels of strong beer, and snuff and tobacco distributed wholesale; as if the poor wanted to be encouraged in their disgusting habits. It was really impossible to go through the village for weeks after; the whole place was poisoned with the fumes of horrid tobacco pipes.”

“Well, we see how that sort of thing ends,” said Mrs. Dixon, summing up judicially. “We had intended to call, but I really think it would be impossible after what Mrs. Gervase