Teresa, Mrs. Thropplestance, was the richest and most intractable old
woman in the county of Woldshire. In her dealings with the world in
general her manner suggested a blend between a Mistress of the Robes and
a Master of Foxhounds, with the vocabulary of both. In her domestic
circle she comported herself in the arbitrary style that one attributes,
probably without the least justification, to an American political Boss
in the bosom of his caucus. The late Theodore Thropplestance had left
her, some thirty-five years ago, in absolute possession of a considerable
fortune, a large landed property, and a gallery full of valuable
pictures. In those intervening years she had outlived her son and
quarrelled with her elder grandson, who had married without her consent
or approval. Bertie Thropplestance, her younger grandson, was the
heir-designate to her property, and as such he was a centre of interest
and concern to some half-hundred ambitious mothers with daughters of
marriageable age. Bertie was an amiable, easy-going young man, who was
quite ready to marry anyone who was favourably recommended to his notice,
but he was not going to waste his time in falling in love with anyone who
would come under his grandmother’s veto. The favourable recommendation
would have to come from Mrs. Thropplestance.
Teresa’s house-parties were always rounded off with a plentiful
garnishing of presentable young women and alert, attendant mothers, but
the old lady was emphatically discouraging whenever any one of her girl
guests became at all likely to outbid the others as a possible
granddaughter-in-law. It was the inheritance of her fortune and estate
that was in question, and she was evidently disposed to exercise and
enjoy her powers of selection and rejection to the utmost. Bertie’s
preferences did not greatly matter; he was of the sort who can be
stolidly happy with any kind of wife; he had cheerfully put up with his
grandmother all his life, so was not likely to fret and fume over
anything that might befall him in the way of a helpmate.
The party that gathered under Teresa’s roof in Christmas week of the year
nineteen-hundred-and-something was of smaller proportions than usual, and
Mrs. Yonelet, who formed one of the party, was inclined to deduce hopeful
augury from this circumstance. Dora Yonelet and Bertie were so obviously
made for one another, she confided to the vicar’s wife, and if the old
lady were accustomed to seeing them about a lot together she might adopt
the view that they would make a suitable married couple.
“People soon get used to an idea if it is dangled constantly before their
eyes,” said Mrs. Yonelet hopefully, “and the more often Teresa sees those
young people together, happy in each other’s company, the more she will
get to take a kindly interest in Dora as a possible and desirable wife
for Bertie.”
“My dear,” said the vicar’s wife resignedly, “my own Sybil was thrown
together with Bertie under the most romantic circumstances—I’ll tell you
about it some day—but it made no impression whatever on Teresa; she put
her foot down in the most uncompromising fashion, and Sybil married an
Indian civilian.”
“Quite right of her,” said Mrs. Yonelet with vague approval; “it’s what
any girl of spirit would have done. Still, that was a year or two ago, I
believe; Bertie is older now, and so is Teresa. Naturally she must be
anxious to see him settled.”
The vicar’s wife reflected that Teresa seemed to be the one person who
showed no immediate anxiety to supply Bertie with a wife, but she kept
the thought to herself.
Mrs. Yonelet was a woman of resourceful energy and generalship; she
involved the other members of the house-party, the deadweight, so to
speak, in all manner of exercises and occupations that segregated them
from Bertie and Dora, who were left to their own devisings—that is to
say, to Dora’s devisings and Bertie’s accommodating acquiescence. Dora
helped in the Christmas decorations of the parish church, and Bertie
helped her to help. Together they fed the swans, till the birds went on
a dyspepsia-strike, together they played billiards, together they
photographed the village almshouses, and, at a respectful distance, the
tame elk that browsed in solitary aloofness in the park. It was “tame”
in the sense that it had long ago discarded the least vestige of fear of
the human race; nothing in its record encouraged its human neighbours to
feel a reciprocal confidence.
Whatever sport or exercise or occupation Bertie and Dora indulged in
together was unfailingly chronicled and advertised by Mrs. Yonelet for
the due enlightenment of Bertie’s grandmother.
“Those two inseparables have just come in from a bicycle ride,” she would
announce; “quite a picture they make, so fresh and glowing after their
spin.”
“A picture needing words,” would be Teresa’s private comment, and as far
as Bertie was concerned she was determined that the words should remain
unspoken.
On the afternoon after Christmas Day Mrs. Yonelet dashed into the
drawing-room, where her hostess was sitting amid a circle of guests and
teacups and muffin-dishes. Fate had placed what seemed like a trump-card
in the hands of the patiently-manoeuvring mother. With eyes blazing with
excitement and a voice heavily escorted with exclamation marks she made a
dramatic announcement.
“Bertie has saved Dora from the elk!”
In swift, excited sentences, broken with maternal emotion, she gave
supplementary information as to how the treacherous animal had ambushed
Dora as she was hunting for a strayed golf ball, and how Bertie had
dashed to her rescue with a stable fork and driven the beast off in the
nick of time.
“It was touch and go! She threw her niblick at it, but that didn’t stop
it. In another moment she would have been crushed beneath its hoofs,”
panted Mrs. Yonelet.
“The animal is not safe,” said Teresa, handing her agitated guest a cup
of tea. “I forget if you take sugar. I suppose the solitary life it
leads has soured its temper. There are muffins in the grate. It’s not
my fault; I’ve tried to get it a mate for ever so long. You don’t know
of anyone with a lady elk for sale or exchange, do you?” she asked the
company generally.
But Mrs. Yonelet was in no humour to listen to talk of elk marriages.
The mating of two human beings was the subject uppermost in her mind, and
the opportunity for advancing her pet project was too valuable to be
neglected.
“Teresa,” she exclaimed impressively, “after those two young people have
been thrown together so dramatically, nothing can be quite the same again
between them. Bertie has done more than save Dora’s life; he has earned
her affection. One cannot help feeling that Fate has consecrated them
for one another.”
“Exactly what the vicar’s wife said when Bertie saved Sybil from the elk
a year or two ago,” observed Teresa placidly; “I pointed out to her that
he had rescued Mirabel Hicks from the same predicement a few months
previously, and that priority really belonged to the gardener’s boy, who
had been rescued in the January of that year. There is a good deal of
sameness in country life, you know.”
“It seems to be a very dangerous animal,” said one of the guests.
“That’s what the mother of the gardener’s boy said,” remarked Teresa;
“she wanted me to have it destroyed, but I pointed out to her that she
had eleven children and I had only one elk. I also gave her a black silk
skirt; she said that though there hadn’t been a funeral in her family she
felt as if there had been. Anyhow, we parted friends. I can’t offer you
a silk skirt, Emily, but you may have another cup of tea. As I have
already remarked, there are muffins in the grate.”
Teresa closed the discussion, having deftly conveyed the impression that
she considered the mother of the gardener’s boy had shown a far more
reasonable spirit than the parents of other elk-assaulted victims.
“Teresa is devoid of feeling,” said Mrs. Yonelet afterwards to the
vicar’s wife; “to sit there, talking of muffins, with an appalling
tragedy only narrowly averted—”
“Of course you know whom she really intends Bertie to marry?” asked the
vicar’s wife; “I’ve noticed it for some time. The Bickelbys’ German
governess.”
“A German governess! What an idea!” gasped Mrs. Yonelet.
“She’s of quite good family, I believe,” said the vicar’s wife, “and not
at all the mouse-in-the-back-ground sort of person that governesses are
usually supposed to be. In fact, next to Teresa, she’s about the most
assertive and combative personality in the neighbourhood. She’s pointed
out to my husband all sorts of errors in his sermons, and she gave Sir
Laurence a public lecture on how he ought to handle the hounds. You know
how sensitive Sir Laurence is about any criticism of his Mastership, and
to have a governess laying down the law to him nearly drove him into a
fit. She’s behaved like that to every one, except, of course, Teresa,
and every one has been defensively rude to her in return. The Bickelbys
are simply too afraid of her to get rid of her. Now isn’t that exactly
the sort of woman whom Teresa would take a delight in installing as her
successor? Imagine the discomfort and awkwardness in the county if we
suddenly found that she was to be the future hostess at the Hall.
Teresa’s only regret will be that she won’t be alive to see it.”
“But,” objected Mrs. Yonelet, “surely Bertie hasn’t shown the least sign
of being attracted in that quarter?”
“Oh, she’s quite nice-looking in a way, and dresses well, and plays a
good game of tennis. She often comes across the park with messages from
the Bickelby mansion, and one of these days Bertie will rescue her from
the elk, which has become almost a habit with him, and Teresa will say
that Fate has consecrated them to one another. Bertie might not be
disposed to pay much attention to the consecrations of Fate, but he would
not dream of opposing his grandmother.”
The vicar’s wife spoke with the quiet authority of one who has intuitive
knowledge, and in her heart of hearts Mrs. Yonelet believed her.
Six months later the elk had to be destroyed. In a fit of exceptional
moroseness it had killed the Bickelbys’ German governess. It was an
irony of its fate that it should achieve popularity in the last moments
of its career; at any rate, it established the record of being the only
living thing that had permanently thwarted Teresa Thropplestance’s plans.
Dora Yonelet broke off her engagement with an Indian civilian, and
married Bertie three months after his grandmother’s death—Teresa did not
long survive the German governess fiasco. At Christmas time every year
young Mrs. Thropplestance hangs an extra large festoon of evergreens on
the elk horns that decorate the hall.
“It was a fearsome beast,” she observes to Bertie, “but I always feel
that it was instrumental in bringing us together.”
Which, of course, was true.
“DOWN PENS”
“Have you written to thank the Froplinsons for what they sent us?” asked
Egbert.
“No,” said Janetta, with a note of tired defiance in her voice; “I’ve
written eleven letters to-day expressing surprise and gratitude for
sundry unmerited gifts, but I haven’t written to the Froplinsons.”
“Some one will have to write to them,” said Egbert.
“I don’t dispute the necessity, but I don’t think the some one should be
me,” said Janetta. “I wouldn’t mind writing a letter of angry
recrimination or heartless satire to some suitable recipient; in fact, I
should rather enjoy it, but I’ve come to the end of my capacity for
expressing servile amiability. Eleven letters to-day and nine yesterday,
all couched in the same strain of ecstatic thankfulness: really, you
can’t expect me to sit down to another. There is such a thing as writing
oneself out.”
“I’ve written nearly as many,” said Egbert, “and I’ve had my usual
business correspondence to get through, too. Besides, I don’t know what
it was that the Froplinsons sent us.”
“A William the Conqueror calendar,” said Janetta, “with a quotation of
one of his great thoughts for every day in the year.”
“Impossible,” said Egbert; “he didn’t have three hundred and sixty-five
thoughts in the whole of his life, or, if he did, he kept them to
himself. He was a man of action, not of introspection.”
“Well, it was William Wordsworth, then,” said Janetta; “I know William
came into it somewhere.”
“That sounds more probable,” said Egbert; “well, let’s collaborate on
this letter of thanks and get it done. I’ll dictate, and you can
scribble it down. ‘Dear Mrs. Froplinson—thank you and your husband so
much for the very pretty calendar you sent us. It was very good of you
to think of us.’”
“You can’t possibly say that,” said Janetta, laying down her pen.
“It’s what I always do say, and what every one says to me,” protested
Egbert.
“We sent them something on the twenty-second,” said Janetta, “so they
simply _had_ to think of us. There was no getting away from it.”
“What did we send them?” asked Egbert gloomily.
“Bridge-markers,” said Janetta, “in a cardboard case, with some inanity
about ‘digging for fortune with a royal spade’ emblazoned on the cover.
The moment I saw it in the shop I said to myself ‘Froplinsons’ and to the
attendant ‘How much?’ When he said ‘Ninepence,’ I gave him their
address, jabbed our card in, paid tenpence or elevenpence to cover the
postage, and thanked heaven. With less sincerity and infinitely more
trouble they eventually thanked me.”
“The Froplinsons don’t play bridge,” said Egbert.
“One is not supposed to notice social deformities of that sort,” said
Janetta; “it wouldn’t be polite. Besides, what trouble did they take to
find out whether we read Wordsworth with gladness? For all they knew or
cared we might be frantically embedded in the belief that all poetry
begins and ends with John Masefield, and it might infuriate or depress us
to have a daily sample of Wordsworthian products flung at us.”
“Well, let’s get on with the letter of thanks,” said Egbert.
“Proceed,” said Janetta.
“‘How clever of you to guess that Wordsworth is our favourite poet,’”
dictated Egbert.
Again Janetta laid down her pen.
“Do you realise what that means?” she asked; “a Wordsworth booklet next
Christmas, and another calendar the Christmas after, with the same
problem of having to write suitable letters of thankfulness. No, the
best thing to do is to drop all further allusion to the calendar and
switch off on to some other topic.”
“But what other topic?”
“Oh, something like this: ‘What do you think of the New Year Honours
List? A friend of ours made such a clever remark when he read it.’ Then
you can stick in any remark that comes into your head; it needn’t be
clever. The Froplinsons won’t know whether it is or isn’t.”
“We don’t even know on which side they are in politics,” objected Egbert;
“and anyhow you can’t suddenly dismiss the subject of the calendar.
Surely there must be some intelligent remark that can be made about it.”
“Well, we can’t think of one,” said Janetta wearily; “the fact is, we’ve
both written ourselves out. Heavens! I’ve just remembered Mrs. Stephen
Ludberry. I haven’t thanked her for what she sent.”
“What did she send?”
“I forget; I think it was a calendar.”
There was a long silence, the forlorn silence of those who are bereft of
hope and have almost ceased to care.
Presently Egbert started from his seat with an air of resolution. The
light of battle was in his eyes.
“Let me come to the writing-table,” he exclaimed.
“Gladly,” said Janetta. “Are you going to write to Mrs. Ludberry or the
Froplinsons?”
“To neither,” said Egbert, drawing a stack of notepaper towards him; “I’m
going to write to the editor of every enlightened and influential
newspaper in the Kingdom, I’m going to suggest that there should be a
sort of epistolary Truce of God during the festivities of Christmas and
New Year. From the twenty-fourth of December to the third or fourth of
January it shall be considered an offence against good sense and good
feeling to write or expect any letter or communication that does not deal
with the necessary events of the moment. Answers to invitations,
arrangements about trains, renewal of club subscriptions, and, of course,
all the ordinary everyday affairs of business, sickness, engaging new
cooks, and so forth, these will be dealt with in the usual manner as
something inevitable, a legitimate part of our daily life. But all the
devastating accretions of correspondence, incident to the festive season,
these should be swept away to give the season a chance of being really
festive, a time of untroubled, unpunctuated peace and good will.”
“But you would have to make some acknowledgment of presents received,”
objected Janetta; “otherwise people would never know whether they had
arrived safely.”
“Of course, I have thought of that,” said Egbert; “every present that was
sent off would be accompanied by a ticket bearing the date of dispatch
and the signature of the sender, and some conventional hieroglyphic to
show that it was intended to be a Christmas or New Year gift; there would
be a counterfoil with space for the recipient’s name and the date of
arrival, and all you would have to do would be to sign and date the
counterfoil, add a conventional hieroglyphic indicating heartfelt thanks
and gratified surprise, put the thing into an envelope and post it.”
“It sounds delightfully simple,” said Janetta wistfully, “but people
would consider it too cut-and-dried, too perfunctory.”
“It is not a bit more perfunctory than the present system,” said Egbert;
“I have only the same conventional language of gratitude at my disposal
with which to thank dear old Colonel Chuttle for his perfectly delicious
Stilton, which we shall devour to the last morsel, and the Froplinsons
for their calendar, which we shall never look at. Colonel Chuttle knows
that we are grateful for the Stilton, without having to be told so, and
the Froplinsons know that we are bored with their calendar, whatever we
may say to the contrary, just as we know that they are bored with the
bridge-markers in spite of their written assurance that they thanked us
for our charming little gift. What is more, the Colonel knows that even
if we had taken a sudden aversion to Stilton or been forbidden it by the
doctor, we should still have written a letter of hearty thanks around it.
So you see the present system of acknowledgment is just as perfunctory
and conventional as the counterfoil business would be, only ten times
more tiresome and brain-racking.”
“Your plan would certainly bring the ideal of a Happy Christmas a step
nearer realisation,” said Janetta.
“There are exceptions, of course,” said Egbert, “people who really try to
infuse a breath of reality into their letters of acknowledgment. Aunt
Susan, for instance, who writes: ‘Thank you very much for the ham; not
such a good flavour as the one you sent last year, which itself was not a
particularly good one. Hams are not what they used to be.’ It would be
a pity to be deprived of her Christmas comments, but that loss would be
swallowed up in the general gain.”
“Meanwhile,” said Janetta, “what am I to say to the Froplinsons?”