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The whole Goldsworthy family was transferred to Redford, while, on the
pretext of disinfecting it, the parsonage was painted and papered what
Deb called "decently", and its more offensive furniture replaced. Mary
was provided with a trousseau and many useful wedding presents, a
cheque from her father for 500 pounds amongst them. They did not forgive
her, but they pretended excellently that they did. Without any
pretence at all, they tried to make the best of a bad job. To this end,
they gathered their friends together as usual at Christmas. Mr
Thornycroft and the Urquharts needed no pressing; they came to see Mary
the day she returned home, and showed her the old affection without
asking questions. Mr Thornycroft's wedding presents to her were
magnificent--a complete service of silver plate and house linen of the
finest. Deb wrote to Claud: "I suppose we shall see you, as usual?"--
for he had always spent Christmas at Redford unless away on the other
side of the world. He wrote back: "I think not, this time." He was the
only defaulter.
"He will never have a chance to refuse again," said Deb fiercely, as
she tore up his note.
His absence was too marked not to provoke frequent comment, and
whenever it was alluded to in her hearing, her spine stiffened and her
head went up. It was quite evident to her family that the rift in the
lute was serious, and strange to say, it was her father, who might have
been expected to hail the signs, who was most concerned to see them. He
expostulated with her when she spoke bitterly of Billy's son, as once
he had been so ready to do himself.
"Well, my dear," said he, "I can understand it, if you can't. I
wouldn't come myself, if I was in his place, to mix-up with the sort of
thing we've got to mix up with."
"If I can mix up with it--!" quoth proud Deborah.
"Yes, yes--I know; but you must consider the silly way that he's been
reared. I don't like his taking upon himself to criticise what
we choose to do; but no doubt Goldsworthy IS a pretty big pill to
swallow--to a chap like him, always so faddy about breeding and
manners, and that sort of thing."
"If he is too faddy for the society that I can put up with, though it
be that of chimney-sweeps," said Deb, "he is too faddy for me, father."
"Now, my dear, don't talk so," the old man pleaded with her, quite
agitated by her mood. "We all have our little weaknesses--we have to
make allowances for temperament and for bringing up. Don't let a trifle
like this estrange you two--don't, Debbie, for my sake. Let me go down
to my grave feeling that one of you, at least, is safe and happy, and
well provided for."
"Decidedly," thought Deborah, "father is not the same man that he was
before his illness."
She understood the cause of his change of views on her engagement
better a few weeks later.
He had parted with his eldest daughter then, and the emotion of the
event had fatally affected him. Owing to some obscure working of the
"influence" which her social position had brought to her husband, the
latter had been promoted to the charge of a Melbourne parish. The
affair was arranged while they were still at Redford, and just on the
completion of the improvements to the local parsonage. In spite of all
they had done to make this first home fit for her, family and friends
were unanimous in hailing her removal to another and more distant one--
out of the buzz of the gossip of her native neighbourhood--as the best
thing that could have happened. But when it came to the point of
sending her forth to battle with her fate alone for the rest of her
life, the wrench was dreadful. She was the bravest of them all
under the ordeal. The shattered father, whose right hand she had been
for so many happy years, and whose heart was broken with the weight of
his responsibility for her misfortunes, was completely overwhelmed. She
had not been gone twelve hours when Deb found him in his office chair,
unable to rise from it, or to answer her questions. And he never spoke
again. He made signs that he wanted Claud sent for, and when the young
man quickly came, looked significant things at him and Deb, as they
stood by his bedside hand in hand. Then he lapsed into stupor and died,
without waiting for a third stroke.
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Cambridge, Ada, 1844-1926 - Sisters