Court Royal/Chapter XIX
CHAPTER XIX.
SLEEPY HOLLOW.
The Venerable the Archdeacon of Wellington, Bachelor of Divinity, Canon of Glastonbury, Rector of Sleepy Hollow, and Chaplain to his Grace the Duke of Kingsbridge, was sitting in his study with his wife one morning in November, discussing the list of poor people to whom Christmas benefactions were to be given.
The Archdeacon regarded himself, and was regarded, as a man of business. He was secretary to several diocesan societies; he was a stay to the Kingsbridge family. Whenever a spasm recurred in the financial condition of the Eveleighs, a telegram summoned him to South Devon, and he spent some hours in consultation with the steward at Court Royal. When he returned to Somersetshire he felt that his presence had been of use. So it had on more occasions than one, for he had advanced money to relieve the strain.
‘Really,’ said Lady Elizabeth Eveleigh—the Venerable the Archdeaconess, and Grey Mare of Sleepy Hollow—‘I think we do a great deal more than is necessary. There are the coal club, and the clothing club, and the blanket club, and the shoe club, and the Sunday school club, and the widows’ alms, and the three yards of flannel to every married woman in the place, and the Christmas largess and the Christmas beef. This comes very heavy. You cannot put our charities at a less figure than sixty pounds per annum; then that great imposture, Queen Anne’s Bounty, absorbs sixty pounds more, and the rates come to eighty, and the curate gets one hundred and twenty-five. Church expenses amount to ten pounds; the living is worth three hundred and forty pounds—that leaves us just five pounds on which to keep house, pay five servants, and entertain all the neighbourhood, subscribe to every church restoration, and contribute to every bazaar.’
‘My dear Elizabeth, I have my canonry.’
‘Worth eight hundred pounds, which goes into that Goodwin Sand, the Kingsbridge debt. I know it does. Do not pull a face; I know it. I never finger the money.’
‘Then there is my archdeaconry, worth two hundred.’
‘Out of which we pay the servants and keep the carriage. Edward, it is really too bad; you ought to have been a Bishop.’
‘Elizabeth, how is that possible, with the Liberals in power?’
‘I am sure that ought to be no hindrance to your promotion. You have never offered an opinion decidedly on any topic, political or ecclesiastical, that could be objected to by anyone. You have been most tolerant. Your charities have been given indiscriminately to Dissenters and Church people. You never have taken a side. You have been scrupulously via media.’
‘I do not want to be a Bishop. I have not the physical strength.’
‘I do. A bishopric means a good deal more than the four thousand set down in “Whitaker”—it means getting a haul out of Queen Anne, and some pickings, may be, from the Ecclesiastical Commissioners.’
‘Let us return to the lists, Elizabeth. We are considering Betty Perkins, not me.’
‘Betty Perkins puts me out of patience,’ said the Venerable the Grey Mare. ‘She has only just paid into the clubs one lump sum. I cannot see the good of clubs and rules, if she is to be allowed to reap the benefit of the former whilst violating the latter. She has sent in four-and-fourpence for the coal club, four-and-fourpence for the clothing club, four-and-fourpence for the shoe club, four-and-fourpence for the blanket club, and twenty-one shillings and eightpence for her five children, who only attend Sunday school now and then—just before the treat and the Christmas tree. I have her money in my pocket now—listen how it rattles—thirty-nine shillings in all. She will get her cards with seventy-eight shillings on them, just thirty-nine shillings allowed her for putting in her money to-day, to receive it out with interest to-morrow. It is preposterous. I believe she borrowed the sum for the occasion. I refuse to be treasurer and secretary to the charitable clubs if you wink at such flagrant cases.’
‘My dear Elizabeth, there is no one else in the parish capable of managing the clubs. As to Betty Perkins, consider how poor she is, with a husband given to drink, and five children.’
‘Rules are rules,’ said Lady Elizabeth.
‘Yes, my dear, but justice must be tempered with mercy.’
‘I do not think the clubs and alms do good. The people take what is given them as a right. They are not grateful; they do not come to church a bit the better for being bribed at the rate of five pounds per house to come.’
‘We cannot give up the clubs, Elizabeth. They really are a great comfort to the people.’
‘You pauperise them, Edward. Well?’ to the man-servant who appeared at the door; ‘what is it, Thomas?’
‘Please, my lady, there is a gentleman in the drawing-room who wants to see his lordship.’
‘Let me look at the card,’ said the Archdeaconess. ‘Rigsby! Rigsby—I do not know the name. Some traveller for a wine merchant, I suppose.’
‘Bless me!’ exclaimed Lord Edward Eveleigh, when, by his wife’s kind permission, he was allowed to look at the card; ‘my old college friend Rigsby. I thought he was in Ceylon, coffee-growing. I heard he had realised a great fortune. Excuse me, my dear Elizabeth. Settle Betty Perkins as you like—that is, no, let her off this time, and I will have a talk with her. She will be more regular next year. Elizabeth, I must ask Rigsby to lunch.’
‘There is cold mutton and mince,’ answered Lady Elizabeth. ‘Also tapioca pudding.’
‘I haven’t seen Rigsby for forty years—no, not for forty years. I must insist on his paying us a visit. You can manage it, Elizabeth?’
‘The sheets in the best bedroom are aired.’
The Archdeacon hastened into the parlour, where he found a tall brown man, with grey hair, seated, awaiting him.
‘I am so glad—so delighted to see you again,’ said Lord Edward, extending both hands.
‘I have come,’ said Mr. Rigsby, ‘on my daughter’s account. We have been visiting Glastonbury, and she has been taken ill there, whether with neuralgia or toothache it is not for me to determine. She is a sad sufferer—and I thought, being in a strange place, that I might venture on calling, trusting you might not have quite forgotten me’
‘My dear Rigsby’ interrupted the Archdeacon, with overflowing cordiality.
‘Excuse me,’ said the visitor, putting up his hand to stop him, ‘I will say what I desire first, and then shall be thankful for your remarks on it. I was observing that I relied on your kindness, which I well remembered, to help me with your advice. I am a stranger in Glastonbury, indeed a stranger in England. You have a local dentist here—that is, at Glastonbury. I want to know’
‘Vigurs is the man for you,’ said Lord Edward.
‘One moment, and I have done,’ continued Mr. Rigsby, looking with impatience at the Archdeacon. ‘I have no confidence, myself, in local practitioners; if there be real genius it will unquestionably gravitate to town, and the dregs of the profession be left in the country.’
‘I beg your pardon’
‘You will allow me to finish what I was saying.’ Rigsby looked Lord Edward down. ‘One hears atrocious stories of the misdeeds of these men—breaking jaws, drawing the wrong teeth, and so on. I could not suffer Dulcina to run such a risk unless I were perfectly satisfied that the man was really first-rate.’
‘Vigurs is a splendid fellow; a thorough Churchman, and always stays’
‘Excuse me if I say that this is neither here nor there. I do not care a snap for the religion and politics of Mr. Vigurs, but I do care for his being a first-class dentist. It is a long way to town, and Dulcina’s sufferings are so intense that I am inclined to place my sweet child in the hands of a man, even if in the country, if he may be trusted. I suppose that in Bath or in Bristol a dentist of some experience and intelligence’
‘I can assure you’
‘I shall have done directly. I was observing, when interrupted, that in Bath or Bristol a dentist of experience may be found, but that would entail a journey to Bath or Bristol. Dulcina, poor child, is so prostrated by her pains last night that I hardly like to move her so far. If you saw the sweet flower, you would say the same—so fragile, so fair, so languishing.’
‘You may rely on Vigurs,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘He has drawn many of my teeth and stopped others. Vigurs is quite a first-rate man.’
‘If the tooth be drawn, ether or nitrous oxide must be used. Can I trust this man to employ such means? My child’s life is too precious to be played with. She is my only child, heiress to all the fortune I have toiled for forty years to gain. She will be worth ten thousand a year after I am gone. Judge if the world can do without one so gifted. As for me, I live only for Dulcina. Were she to expire under nitrous oxide I should blow out my brains.’
‘Have perfect confidence in Vigurs. He is a man of note. This neighbourhood is well peopled with county families, and they all go to Vigurs in preference to London dentists. Where is your daughter now?’
‘She is at the White Hart. Miss Stokes, her aunt, is with her. She has administered soothing drops, and Dulcina is asleep. Poor soul, she needs repose after the torture of toothache or neuralgia. I do not pretend to determine which it is, but she has a carious molar. I have seen it. You are positive that Mr. Vigurs may be allowed to look at my daughter’s jaw?’
‘Positive. First-rate man, gentle as a lamb with ladies. Now Rigsby, as your daughter is asleep, spare me a few minutes to tell me something about yourself. You look well burnt like a coffee-berry, but hearty—more so than myself, who am but a creaking gate. Have you definitely left Ceylon?’
‘Yes; Dulcina and I came here to look at a house and park that is for sale. Dulcina and I intend to settle in the country. I have sold my estates in Ceylon, providentially before the coffee disease invaded the island, so that I sold them well, and the purchaser, not I, has been ruined, for which I cannot be too thankful. We like this county, and this part of the country. It is rich, well wooded, and there seem to be many gentlemen’s seats about. I cannot say that Shotley Park is quite to our taste, but we will think over it, and discuss it together when Dulcina’s tooth ceases to distract her. Poor dear, she can give her attention to nothing now but her tooth and the nerve that runs up into the head across the cheek from the jaw.’
‘Will you take anything?’
‘I should not object to a glass of sherry and a biscuit. Nervousness about my daughter has rather shaken me.’
‘Now look here, Rigsby. I will not hear of your staying at the White Hart. You must positively come to my house and stay a fortnight. Under that time I will not let you off; stay over it as long as you like.’
‘Thank you. I do not mind if I accept. If anything has to be done to my dear Dulcina’s jaw, it would be more satisfactory to be in your Rectory than in an inn. One cannot secure all the comforts requisite for an invalid at an hotel. Should the tooth be extracted or the nerve destroyed, my daughter will be so shattered that further travel will be impossible for some days. The people at the White Hart are good and kind; still an inn is not a place for a person with a carious tooth. Dulcina is made uncomfortable by the scream of the engines. Glastonbury is a terminus, and every engine that comes in shrieks to announce its arrival, and every one that leaves shrieks to proclaim its departure. Dulcina’s nerves are in that quivering state of irritation that the least noise upsets her.’
‘She shall come here at once. I will send my carriage.’
‘We will come in the afternoon. I must go and see the dentist myself. I shall be able to judge by his looks whether he is intelligent—as for his experience, of that I cannot form an opinion. Has he studied in America? The Yankees are far ahead of us in dentistry. They transplant teeth as we do trees.’
‘Wait a moment,’ said the Archdeacon; ‘I will fetch Lady Elizabeth.’
He ran out of the room, and found his wife still engaged over the club accounts.
‘My dear Edward,’ said she, ‘I will meet your wishes half-way; I can do no more. Betty Perkins shall have two-and-twopence instead of four-and fourpence in each club.’
‘Elizabeth,’ exclaimed the Archdeacon, ‘come into the drawing-room and see Rigsby. But stay—first give me the telegraph forms; I must send off at once for Saltcombe.’
‘Why so? What has occurred?’
‘My dear Elizabeth, Rigsby has an only daughter, worth ten thousand a year. That represents about two hundred and fifty to three hundred thousand pounds. Oh, Elizabeth, if only some of the Kingsbridge estates might be cleared with this sum, how happy we should all be!’