CHAPTER VII

ItwasrainingatRedchesterwhenIngeborggotoutatthestationaweekandadayaftersheleftit—thesoftpersistentfinerain,hardlymorethanamist,peculiartothatmuch-soakedcornerofEngland.Thelawnsinthegardensshepassedasherflycrawledupthehillwereincrediblygreen,theleavesofthelilacbushesglistenedwithwet,eachtulipwasacupofwater,theroadswerechocolate,andathickgreyblanketofcloudhungwarmoverthetown,tuckingitinallroundandkeepingoutanydraughtthatmightbiteandstingtheinhabitants,shethought,intorealliving. Theportertoldheritwasfinegrowingweather,andshewonderedstupidlywhy,aftertheyearsshehadhadofthesortofthing,shehadhadnotgrown,then,morethoroughlyherself.Aretiredcolonelsheknew—sheknewalltheretiredcolonels—wavedhisumbrellaandshoutedagenialinquiryafterhertoothache,andshelookedathimwithadead,ungratefuleye.Apassingpostmantouchedhiscap,andsheturnedtheotherway.Thesamesensiblefemalefiguresshehadseenallherlifedrapedinthesamesensiblemackintoshesbowedandsmiled,andshepretendedshehadn'tseenthem.Everybody,infact,behavedasthoughshewerestillgood,whichwasdistressing,embarrassing,andproductiveofanoverwhelmingdesiretoshuthereyesandhide. Thereweretheshops,withthethingsinthewindowsunchangedsincesheleftninedaysago,thesameancientnoveltiesnobodyeverbought,thesamefliescreepingoverthesamebuns.Therewasthebook-sellerherChristianYearhadcomefrom,hiswindowsfullofmoreofthem,endlesssuppliesforendlessdieteddaughters,vegetariansinliteratureshecalledthemtoherself,forciblyvegetabledvegetariansandtherewasthesilversmithwhoprovidedtheBishopwiththecrossesafteragoodFlorentinefifteenth-centurypatternhepresentedtothoseofhisconfirmationcandidateswhowerethedaughtersinthedioceseofthegreat.TheDuke'sdaughterhadone.TheLord-Lieutenant'sdaughterhadone.OnthisprincipleIngeborgherselfhadbeengivenone,andworeitcontinuallynightandday,asherfatherexpected,underherdress,whereitbruisedher.Itwaspleasanttoherfathertobeabletorecollect,inthestressanddustofmuchinhisworkthatwasunrefreshing,howtherewasayearlyincreasingthoughseverelysiftednumberofgentlevirginblousesbelongingtothebestfamiliesbeneathwhichlayandrhythmicallyheavedthissilverreminderofthewearer'sBishopandofherGod. "Father,"Ingeborgsaid,aftershehadwornhersforaweek,"mayItakemycrossoffatnight?" "Why,Ingeborg?"hehadinquiredaddingquietly,"DidourSaviour?" "Nobut—youseewhenoneturnsroundinone'ssleepitsticksintoone." "Sticks,Ingeborg?"theBishopsaidgently,raisinghiseyebrowsatsuchanexpressionappliedtosuchanobject. "Yes,andI'mgettingawfullybruised."Shewasstillintheschoolroom,andstillsayingawfully. "ByHisstripeswearehealed,"saidtheBishop,shuttinguptheconversationasoneshutsupabook. Inspiteofthewetwarmthsheshiveredasthesilversmith'swindowremindedherofthis.Ithadhappenedyearsago,butevenfartherback,asfarbackasshecouldremember,everytimeshehadaskedleaveofherfathertodoanythingithadbeenrefusedandrefusedwithbitsofBible,whichwassopeculiarlysilencing. Andnowhereshewasabouttofacehimcoveredwiththeleavesshehadnotaskedforatallbuthadsotremendouslytaken,andgoingtoaskthemosttremendousoneofall,theleavetomarryHerrDremmel. ForthatwashowthelasttwodaysofherDent'sTourhadbeenspent,inbeingopenlyengagedtoHerrDremmel.Shehadfoundherattemptstoexplainthatshewasnotsoreallyavailednothingagainsthisconvictionthatshewas.Andpublicopinion,thepublicopinionofthewholeTour,alsoneverdoubtedbutthatshewas—hadnotsevenofitsmostreliablemembersactuallyseenherintheactofbecomingit?Infactitnotonlydidnotdoubtit,itwassternlydeterminedthatsheshouldbeengagedwhethershelikeditornot.Itwastheleast,theTourfelt,thatshecoulddo.SothattherewasnothingforitnowbuttofacetheBishop. Shefeltcold.Noamountofthefamiliarmoiststuffinesscouldwarmher.Vainlyshetriedtositup,tobeproudandbrave,torecapturesomething