Chapter I: Mrs. Kennedy's Notions

"How we talk in the little town below!"
"PIPPA PASSES": R. BROWNING.

"A REGULAR niminy-piminy-molly-coddle! That's what he'll be, my dear."

"But don't you think—by-and-by—when he gets out into the world—?"

"No, I don't. Miss Devereux will have done the business by then. I wouldn't say so much to most people, Mabel: but it's just the old story over again—the hen with one chick, you know. And an old maid hen is the worst of all, don't you see?"

"Only he's such a nice boy!" regretfully.

"He's lovely!" said Mrs. Kennedy. "A real out-and-out gentleman, and the prettiest manners! Too pretty by half for a boy of seventeen! Why, he ought to be a hobbledehoy, and there isn't a scrap of hobbledehoyism about him. It isn't natural. It's like a tadpole growing into a frog, without dropping its tail, you know. And it's ruination to any boy to be treated as if he was a spoonful of salt, ready to melt. That's what she does, don't you see?"

"But at school—"

"Oh, well, yes, there's school. Of course there's school. It's a good school too, from all one hears. Capital masters, and all that; and a hundred and twenty boys isn't bad. I'd sooner have him at a regular public school: but this is next best. Only, the moment Cyril comes home, all the good's undone. Mustn't get his feet wet, don't you know? Dear me, if my boys were coddled like that, there'd be a rebellion, I do believe. They wouldn't stand it, not even from their mother. But Cyril's been brought up to like a fuss."

"He had one bad attack on his chest."

"Three years ago! I wouldn't wrap a boy up in flannel and cotton-wool all the rest of his days, just for that. I'll tell you what, Mabel—you get your father to interfere. A doctor always can step in. Everybody expects good advice from a doctor."

"Not unasked advice," Mabel said, smiling. She was a nice ladylike girl of about nineteen, the eldest of Dr. Ingram's three daughters.

"Oh, as for advice—Miss Devereux is like other people. She doesn't ask for advice, except when she wants to be told that she's in the right. That's the way, don't you know? Why, she wouldn't have sent him to school at all to this very day, I do believe, if General Villiers and his wife hadn't made a rumpus."

"Still—five years and a half of schooling ought to have done something for him," Mabel remarked.

This was Mrs. Kennedy's "At Home" afternoon; and she was seated in the small drawing-room of St. John's Vicarage, expecting callers. Friday had been from time immemorial—in other words, so long as she had lived at Dutton—her "At Home" day.

Not that she dignified it by any such important title: "I am generally in, you know, on Friday afternoons," was her fashion of asking friends to call at that time. She had a free-and-easy manner of speaking. The County people did not care for Mrs. Kennedy; not that they objected to a touch of originality, but they were not satisfied as to her connections.

"To talk of one's 'At Home day' sounds so fussy, don't you know," she often said. "Not fit for such little people as we, my dear! If it was the Canon, now!" For the mother-church of Dutton was held by Canon Meyers.

Mrs. Kennedy was not good-looking, despite a pair of genial and expressive blue eyes. Moreover, she posed badly, rounding her shoulders and squaring her elbows. Though she dressed well in point of material, her clothes were put on more or less awry; and an end of loose hair was often out of place, needing to be perpetually tucked up. She had been known to sit through her Friday afternoon, with a half pinned collar dangling loosely on one side. Such little matters did not affect her serenity. Had she discovered the collar in the midst of a room-full she would have gone calmly to the mirror to pin it into position, without the slightest flurry. Whereby it is evident that Mrs. Kennedy had seen something of good society, even though her family connections might not be altogether unexceptionable.

The frank simplicity of her manner was sometimes mistaken for rusticity. But she was no rustic. She had considerable perception, and not a little knowledge of human nature. There were even touches of intellectual power, only her education had been deficient; and when entirely at her ease, she was apt to express herself in an odd unconventional fashion.

A more devoted Parish worker than Mrs. Kennedy could hardly be found. Mr. Kennedy was not strong in the visiting line, having usually too many committees and meetings on hand; but his wife did her best, as a wife should, to supplement his deficiencies, to fill up gaps in his administration. In public, she always appeared to be at one with her husband in his views and proceedings; in private, she had her own views and her own theories.

Some intimate friends would have described her as "Not quite so desperately Low-Church as he is!"

However, as a matter of duty, she upheld him praiseworthily.

"Have you heard that General and Mrs. Villiers arrived last Monday?" asked Mabel.

"O yes, I know. All the world knows that, my dear. Time enough too—after nearly four years abroad! People who have got property ought to look after it, and not go scrummaging all over the world. But of course it's no wonder Mrs. Villiers likes change—a pretty young thing, tied to a husband old enough to be her father, to say the very least. And then the General's rheumatism makes such a nice excuse for keeping him abroad. The General is a most delightful man, of course—agreeable and all that—and I'm sure she's quite prettily fond of him. It's as nice and proper as can be; only you know one does sometimes expect to hear her say 'Grandpa' when she speaks to him; and when 'William' pops out instead, it gives one a shock. And then the Park must be so awfully dull: for it's only a certain sort of people he cares to see, you know. Just those that think exactly like himself."

"The St. John set," suggested Mabel, with a scintillation of fun in her quiet eyes.

"Well, my dear, the St. John set is very good. Such nice dear people, you know. I'm sure the dear good General always says he is perfectly content with what he finds among them: and if he and they—he and we, I mean—Now, Mabel, don't look wicked! As to family, we've old Lady Lucas, you know: and Miss Devereux is equal to anybody; and then nothing can be more respectable than a lawyer and a Colonel, not to speak of the General himself when he's at home. But still, though he likes us well enough, I'm not sure about his wife. She comes with him always, as regular as clockwork—used to come, I mean—but you know there's no doubt she's got a very uncommon mind, and she reads books that you and I wouldn't know what on earth they were all about! And I shouldn't quite think all the dear good St. John's people would exactly satisfy her: I mean, intellectually, don't you know? I should think she would want a little more friction, perhaps—and originality, you know."

"So my father feels."

"Oh, your father is so clever—I don't suppose he could expect to find his match in Dutton, dear. One can't help being a little afraid of him, you know, he's so clever."

Mabel laughed. "I have a piece of news," she said. "Who do you think is expected at Dulveriford Rectory in a day or two? Can't guess? Jem Trevelyan."

"Mr. James Trevelyan! Your cousin. He hasn't been for ages. Centuries!" said Mrs. Kennedy, with the calm air of one stating a fact.

"Not since I was a child. Yes, it is years ago. But he really is coming at last, for a few days' rest. He has overdone himself at the East-End."

"He's a nice man—very nice! Not one of those odd sort of people that you can't tell whatever they are after next! But my husband doesn't quite care for him, I'm afraid."

Mabel was intimate enough, not to be classed among the horde of mere outsiders.

"We met him in Town last year, and he said something or other—I'm sure I don't know what, only it was something my husband didn't like. I suppose he's just a scrap too Churchy, you know, for poor dear Thomas. But I'm sure he's such a good man; and if anybody ever lived a real missionary life, it's away in those horrible London slums of despond."

"There's a ring. Another call. I must go."

"Oh, to-day of course! Sometimes everybody comes all together, and then I just don't know what to do. I feel all sat upon and 'scrushed,'" said Mrs. Kennedy, in her unconventional language, while she looked affectionately at Mabel with kind soft eyes. "The only thing to do, don't you know, is to let them have it out. Everybody has always got plenty to say. But such a crowd won't come to-day, I don't think. It's too fine. Must you go, really? Well, good-bye, and mind you tell your father that he really ought to look after that poor little baronet, and keep him from being turned into a molly. Oh, I'm forgetting—there's a note for him from my husband. Couldn't you take it? Thomas!" cried Mrs. Kennedy, opening the door, to find herself face to face with Miss Devereux.

Mrs. Kennedy fell back a step. "Oh, how do you do? I'm so glad it is you—not a man. Just think if it had been a man!" she said frankly. "Do pray come in. I'm only calling my husband to—"

Mr. Kennedy appeared through an opposite door. He was undersized, plain-featured, and shy-mannered, with anxious pale-tinted eyes which saw little before them, by reason of the mental eyes being bent habitually inward. When his glance fell upon Miss Devereux, he put out one hand, with a gradual smile, deprecating in kind.

"Mabel is just going home, dear. Would you like to send any message to Dr. Ingram?"

"I—yes, I have a note," said Mr. Kennedy.

He did not at once go in search of it, but followed Miss Devereux into the drawing-room, and stood looking at her with his mild blank goodness of expression. Nobody of any penetration could see Mr. Kennedy, and not recognise the goodness written in his face.

"Dear man! He is half in heaven already!" Some of his more attached friends declared; though if there were truth in the words, it remains an uncontrovertible fact that to be "half in heaven already," does not obviate a considerable amount of earthliness about the half still upon earth. The earthliness takes different forms in different cases.

"I hope your nephew is well this summer—growing stronger?" said Mr. Kennedy.

"Thank you, dear Cyril is fairly well, but I have to be very careful of him," sighed Sybella. She did not look so markedly older for her seven additional years as might have been expected, but she had gained in a certain conscious importance, in an air of responsibility. She had learned by this time to appreciate her own position, and even to act for herself. Still—Sybella was Sybella.

"He is always so delicate, dear boy! A great anxiety to me! And at School you know—though I cannot speak highly enough of the school—your recommendation!" effusively. "Such a delightful man, the head-master—so truly Evangelical!—And all the arrangements so perfect. Still of course there cannot be quite the same individual care at school as at home, and I am sadly afraid the dear boy is sometimes a little imprudent. I can't think how it is—boys do so dislike great-coats; and I cannot make him say whether he always remembers to change his shoes the moment they get damp. It is so very essential, you know. I do my best to impress upon him the need for care. The way he gets on is really astonishing; such a love for books! I tell him he is never happy without a book in his hand; and he works so hard—too hard, dear boy. It makes me so afraid for his dear brain! I really cannot let him study through the holidays—it is quite too much!"

"Oh, I shouldn't think an hour or two a day could hurt anybody," suggested Mrs. Kennedy. "Keep him out of mischief, don't you know?"

"Indeed, I beg your pardon! I think I am the best judge as to that."

Mrs. Kennedy somehow always managed to excite Sybella's bristles.

"The dear boy had a headache only yesterday: and I don't like the way he coughs. I shall have to consult Dr. Ingram."

"Oh, come, he really did look uncommonly well yesterday," protested Mrs. Kennedy. "Not robust, of course—one doesn't expect that—but plenty of vigour. Thomas, Mabel is waiting."

Mr. Kennedy beat a deprecatory retreat, not sorry perhaps to leave the ladies to fight their little battle out together. After an interval of ten minutes, he slowly returned.

"I am very sorry—I have mislaid the note," he said. "But perhaps you would kindly take a message, asking your father to call. This is the woman's address."

"Must my father go there to-day?" asked Mabel, dismayed. "He has been all that round by this time."

"I am afraid it is pressing. One does not know what is the matter. I told her your father would be sure to look in before night. The note ought to have been sent sooner, but I—in fact, I forgot."

Mabel knew better than to protest, and she went off swiftly. Outside the gate, a girl was waiting—about sixteen in age, with a pale oval face, and clear greenish eyes.

"Jean, are you out of all patience?" cried Mabel. "I couldn't get away sooner: and now I must just race home. You ought to have come in."

"I'd rather not," Jean said decisively, as they began "the race."

The two girls were second cousins.

"You don't care for the Kennedys, I know."

"I don't mind them."

"That doesn't mean liking."

"No; I suppose not. I don't think I care for a great many people!" reflectively.

"A great many! My dear, whom do you really and honestly like, out of your own proper circle? Except Cyril, and Jem, and I suppose ourselves?"

"Mrs. Villiers. And lots of poor people."

"You have not seen Mrs. Villiers for close upon four years. You were an infant then."

"I don't forget."

"No—I believe that! Jean, I declare, I won't have you so frightfully unsociable. You ought to like people more. My father says there is something nice in everybody, if only one is willing to see it."

"Then I suppose I'm not willing," quoth straightforward Jean.

"I wish Mr. Kennedy had sent this morning. My father will have to go all the way down to the lower end of the town again. He might just as well have done the business when he was there two hours ago. He is so busy to-day."

"I don't call that nice of Mr. Kennedy."

"He doesn't think."

"Then he ought."

"Jean, you are always half pleased to find some little fault in Mr. Kennedy," murmured Mabel.

The words had no denial. Jean looked as if she had gained a new idea.