aren’t cooked. I’ve enough to do this morning I can tell yer, what
with the washing, and Lizzie screaming with her teeth, and the biler
going wrong.”
“Ugh! There’s allus somethin’.”
Martin knew there was no appeal against delay. He had been married
four years; he knew his wife’s temper and mode of life sufficiently
well. He went out into the garden and lighted his pipe. The fowls
clucked round his feet and he kicked them away. He, too, was hungry.
However, there would be food of a sort--in time. Some greasy pudding
and potatoes boiled to a liquid mash, a piece of cheese perhaps.
Well, there it was. When you work in the open air all day you can
eat anything. The sun was pleasant on his face, the shag pungent and
comforting. If only old Emma weren’t such a muddler! A good enough
piece of goods when at her best, but always in a muddle, always
behind time, no management, and then resentful because things went
wrong. Lizzie: seven months old and two teeth through already and
another coming. A lovely child, the spit and image of--what her
mother must have been. Next time it would be a boy. Life wasn’t so
bad--really.
The gate clicked, and the tall figure of Ambrose Baines appeared.
He was dressed in a corduroy coat and knickers, stout brown gaiters
and square thick boots. Tucked under his arm was a gun with its two
barrels pointing at the ground. He was the gamekeeper to Sir Septimus
Letter. He stood just inside the gate and called out:
“Mornin’, Martin.”
Martin replied: “Mornin’.”
“I was just passin’. The missus says you can have a cookin’ or so of
runner beans if you wants ’em. We’ve got more than enough, and I hear
as yours is blighty.”
“Oh!... ay, thank’ee.”
“Middlin’ hot to-day.”
“Ay ... terrible hot.”
“When’ll you be comin’?”
“I’ll stroll over now. There’s nowt to do. I’m waitin’ dinner. I
’specks it’ll be a half-hour or so. You know what Emm is.”
He went inside and fetched a basket. He said nothing to his wife, but
rejoined Baines in the road. They strolled through the cutting and
got into the back of the gamekeeper’s garden just inside the wood.
Martin went along the row and filled his basket. Baines left him and
went into his cottage. He could hear Mrs. Baines singing and washing
up.
Of course _they_ had had their dinner. It would be like that. Mrs.
Baines was a marvel. On one or two occasions Martin had entered
their cottage. Everything was spick and span, and done on time. The
two children always seemed to be clean and quiet. There were pretty
pink curtains and framed oleographs. Mrs. Baines could cook, and she
led the hymns at church--so they said. Even the garden was neat, and
trim, and fruitful. Of course _their_ runner beans would be prolific
whilst his failed. Mrs. Baines appeared at the door and called out:
“Mornin’, Mr. Crosby.”
He replied gruffly: “Mornin’, Mrs. Baines.”
“Middlin’ hot.”
“Ay ... terrible hot.”
She was not what you would call a pretty, attractive woman; but
she was natty, competent, irrepressibly cheerful. She would make a
shilling go as far as Emma would a pound. The cottage had five rooms,
all in a good state of repair. The roof had been newly thatched. All
this was done for him, of course, by his employer. He paid no rent;
Martin had to pay five shillings a week, and then the roof leaked,
and the boiler never worked properly--but perhaps that was Emm’s
fault. He picked up his basket and strolled toward the outer gate.
As he did so, he heard the two children laughing, and Baines’s voice
joining in.
“Some people do have luck,” Martin murmured, and went back to his
wife.
III
Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And Jill came tumbling after!
It was very pretty--the way Winny Baines sang that, balancing the
smaller boy on her knee, and jerking him skyward on the last word.
Not what the world would call a pretty woman, but pretty enough to
Ambrose, with her clear skin, kind motherly eyes, and thin brown
hair. Her voice had a quality which somehow always expressed her
gentle and unconquerable nature.
“She’s too good for me,” Ambrose would think at odd moments. “She
didn’t ought to be a gamekeeper’s wife. She ought to be a lady--with
carriages, and comforts, and well-dressed friends.”
The reflection would stir in him a feeling of sullen resentment,
tempered with pride. She was a wonderful woman. She managed so well;
she never complained. Of course, so far as the material necessities
were concerned, there was enough and to spare. The cottage was
comfortable, and reasonably well furnished--so far as he could
determine. Of food there was abundance; game, rabbits, vegetables,
eggs, fruit. The only thing he had to buy in the way of food was milk
from the farm, and a few groceries from Mr. Meads’s shop. He paid
nothing for the cottage and yet--he would have liked to have made
things better for Winny. His wages were small, and there were clothes
to buy, all kinds of little incidental expenses. There never seemed a
chance to save and soon there would be the boy’s schooling.
In spite of the small income, Winny always managed to keep herself
and the children neat and smart, and even to help others like the
more unfortunate Crosbys. She did all the work of the cottage, the
care of the children, the mending and washing, and still found time
to make jam, to preserve fruit, to grow flowers, and to sing in the
church choir. She was the daughter of a piano-tuner at Bladestone,
and the glamour of this early connection always hung between Ambrose
and herself. To him a piano-tuner appeared a remote and romantic
figure. It suggested a world of concerts, theatres, and Bohemian
life. He was never quite clear about the precise functions of a
piano-tuner, but he regarded his wife as the daughter of a public
man, coming from a world far removed from the narrow limits of the
life she was forced to lead with him.
In spite of her repeated professions of happiness, Ambrose always
felt a shade suspicious, not of her, but of his own ability to
satisfy her every demand. Sometimes he would observe her looking
round the little rooms, as though she were visualizing what they
might contain. Perhaps she wanted a grand piano, or some inlaid
chairs, or embroidered coverings. He had not the money to buy these
things, and he knew that she would never ask for them; but still it
was there--that queer gnawing sense of insecurity. At dawn he would
wander through the coppices, drenched in dew, the gun under his arm,
and the dog close to heel. The sunlight would come rippling over the
jewelled leaves, and little clumps of primroses and violets would
reveal themselves. Life would be good then, and yet somehow--it was
not Winny’s life. Only through their children did they seem to know
each other.
Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And Jill came tumbling after!
“Oo--Ambrose,” the other boy was tugging at his beard, when Winny
spoke. He pretended to scream with pain before he turned to his wife.
“Yes, my dear?”
“Will you be passing Mr. Meads’s shop? We have run out of candles.”
“Oh? Roight be, my love. I’ll be nigh there afore sundown. I have to
order seed from Crumblings.”
He was later than he expected at Mr. Meads’s shop. He had to wait
whilst several women were being served. The portly owner’s new cash
register went “tap-tapping!” five times before he got a chance to say:
“Evenin’, Mr. Meads, give us a pound of candles, will ye?”
Mrs. Meads came in through a parlour at the back, in a rustling black
dress. She was going to a welfare meeting at the vicar’s. She said:
“Good evening, Mr. Baines, hope you are all nicely.”
A slightly disturbing sight met the eye of Ambrose. The parlour door
was open, and he could see a maid in a cap and apron clearing away
tea things in the gaily furnished room. The Meads had got a servant!
He knew that Meads was extending his business. He had a cheap
clothing department now, and he was building a shed out at the back
with the intention of supplying petrol to casual motorists, but--a
servant!
He picked up his packet of candles and muttered gruffly:
“Good evenin’.”
Before he had reached the door he heard “Tap-tapping!” _His_ one and
twopence had gone into the box. As he swung down the village street,
he muttered to himself:
“God! I wish I had his money!”
IV
When Mrs. Meads returned from the welfare meeting at half-past eight,
she found Mr. Meads waiting for her in the parlour, and the supper
laid. There was cold veal and beetroot, apple pie, cheese and stout.
“I’m sorry I’m late, dear,” she said.
“That’s all right, my love,” replied Mr. Meads, not looking up from
his newspaper.
“We had a lovely meeting--Mrs. Wonnicott was there, and Mrs. Beal,
and Mrs. Edwin Pillcreak, and Mrs. James, and Ada, and both the
Jamiesons, and the Vicar was perfectly sweet. He made two lovely
speeches.”
“Oh, that was nice,” said Mr. Meads, trying to listen and read a
piquant paragraph about a divorce case at the same time.
“I should think you want your supper.”
“I’m ready when you are, my love.”
Mr. Meads put down his newspaper, and drawing his chair up to the
table, began to set about the veal. He was distinctly a man for his
victuals. He carved rapidly for her, and less rapidly for himself.
From this you must not imagine that he treated his wife meanly. On
the contrary, he gave her a large helping, but a close observer could
not help detecting that when carving for himself he seemed to take
more interest in his job. Then he rang a little tinkly hand-bell and
the new maid appeared.
“Go into the shop, my dear,” he said, “and get me a pot of pickled
walnuts from the second shelf on the left before you come to them
bales of calico.”
The maid went, and Mrs. Meads clucked:
“Um--being a bit extravagant to-night, John.”
“The labourer is worthy of his hire,” quoted Mr. Meads sententiously.
He put up a barrage of veal in the forefront of his mouth--he had no
back teeth, but managed to penetrate it with an opaque rumble of
sound. “Besides we had a good day to-day--done a lot of business.
Pass the stout----”
“I’m glad to hear it,” replied Mrs. Meads. “It’s about time things
began to improve, considerin’ what we’ve been through. Mrs. Wonnicott
was wearin’ her biscuit-coloured taffeta with a new lace yoke. She
looked smart, but a bit stiff for the Welfare to my way of thinkin’.”
“Ah!” came rumbling through the veal.
“Oh, and did I tell you Mrs. Mounthead was there, too? She was
wearing her starched ninon--no end of a swell she looked.”
Mr. Meads’s eyes lighted with a definite interest at last. Mrs.
Mounthead was the wife of James Mounthead, the proprietor of that
handsome hostelry, “The Die is Cast.” When his long day’s work was
over Mr. Meads would not infrequently pop into “The Die is Cast” for
an hour or so before closing time and have a long chat with Mr. James
Mounthead. He swallowed half a glass of stout at a gulp, and helped
himself liberally to the pickled walnuts which the maid had just
brought in. Eyeing the walnuts thoughtfully, he said:
“Oh, so she’s got into it, too, has she?”
“Yes, she’s really quite a pleasant body. She told me coming down
the street that her husband has just bought Bolder’s farm over
at Pondhurst. He’s setting up his son there who’s marrying Kate
Steyning. Her people have got a bit of money, too, so they’ll be all
right. By the way, we haven’t heard from Charlie for nearly three
weeks.”
Mr. Meads sighed. Why were women always like that? There was Edie.
He was trying to tell her that things were improving, going well in
fact. The shed for petrol and motor accessories was nearly finished;
the cheap clothing department was in full swing; he had indulged in
pickled walnuts for supper (her supper, too); and there she must
needs talk about--Charlie! Everybody in the neighbourhood knew that
their son Charlie was up in London, and not doing himself or anybody
else any good. And almost in the same breath she must needs talk
about old Mounthead’s son. Everyone knew that young Mounthead was
a promising, industrious fellow. Oh! and so James had bought him
Bolder’s farm, had he? That cost a pretty penny, he knew. Just bought
a farm, had he? Not put the money into his business; just bought
it in the way that he, Sam Meads, might buy a gramophone, or an
umbrella. Psaugh!
“I don’t want no tart,” he said, on observing Edie begin to carve it.
“No tart!” she exclaimed. “Why, what’s wrong?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “Don’t feel like it--working too
hard--bit flatulent. I’ll go out for a stroll after supper.”
An hour later he was leaning against the bar of “The Die is Cast,”
drinking gin and water, and listening to Mr. Mounthead discourse on
dogs. The bar of “The Die is Cast” was a self-constituted village
club. Other cronies drifted in. They were all friends of both Mr.
Meads and Mr. Mounthead. Mrs. Mounthead seldom appeared in the bar,
but there was a potman and a barmaid named Florrie; and somewhere in
the rear a cook, two housemaids, a scullerymaid, a boy for knives and
boots, and an ostler. Mr. Mounthead had a victoria and a governess
car, as well as a van for business purposes, a brown mare and a pony.
He also had his own farm well stocked with pigs, cattle, and poultry.
While taking his guests’ money in a sleepy leisurely way, he regaled
them with the rich fruits of his opinions and experiences. Later on
he dropped casually that he was engaging an overseer at four hundred
a year to take his son’s place. And Mr. Meads glanced round the bar
and noted the shining glass and pewter, the polished mahogany, the
little pink and green glasses winking at him insolently.
“He doesn’t know what work is either,” suddenly occurred to him. Mr.
Mounthead’s work consisted mostly in a little bookkeeping, and in
ordering people about. He only served in the shop as a kind of social
relaxation. If he, Sam Meads, didn’t serve in his shop himself all
day from early morning till late evening, goodness knows what would
happen to the business. Besides--the pettiness of it all! Little
bits of cheese, penny tins of mustard, string, weighing out sugar
and biscuits, cutting bacon, measuring off ribbons and calico, and
flannelette. People gossiping all day, and running up little accounts
it was always hard to collect. But here--oh, the snappy quick
profit. Everybody paying on the nail, served in a second, and what a
profit! Enough to buy a farm for a son as though it was--an umbrella.
Walking home, a little dejectedly, later on, he struck the road with
his stick, and muttered:
“Damn that man!”
V
Mrs. James Mounthead was rather pleased with her starched ninon. She
leant back luxuriously in the easy chair, yawned, and pressed her
hands along the sides of her well-fitting skirt. Gilt bangles round
her wrists rattled pleasantly during this performance. A paste star
glittered on her ample bosom. She heard James moving ponderously on
the landing below; the bar had closed. He came puffily up the stairs
and opened the door.
“A nightcap, Queenie?” he wheezed through the creaking machinery of
his respiratory organs.
Mrs. Mounthead smiled brightly. “I think I will to-night, Jim.”
He went to a cabinet and poured out two mixed drinks. He handed his
wife one, and raising the other to his lips, said:
“Well, here’s to the boy!”
“Here’s to James the Second!” she replied, and drank deeply. Her eyes
sparkled. Mrs. Mounthead was excited. The bangles clattered against
the glass as she set it down.
“Come and give me a kiss, old dear”, she said, leaning back.
Without making any great show of enthusiasm, James did as he was
bidden. He, too, was a little excited, but his excitement was less
amorous than commercial. He had paid nearly twelve hundred pounds
less for Bolder’s farm than he had expected. The news of his purchase
was all over the neighbourhood. It had impressed everyone. People
looked at him differently. He was becoming a big man, _the_ big man
in those parts. He could buy another farm to-morrow, and it wouldn’t
break him. And the boy--the boy was a good boy; he would do well, too.
A little drink easily affected Mrs. Mounthead. She became garrulous.
“I had a good time at the Welfare, though some of the old cats didn’t
like me, I know. Ha, ha, ha, what do I care? We could buy the whole
lot up if we wanted to, except perhaps the Wonnicotts. Mine was the
only frock worth a tinker’s cuss. Lord! You should have seen old
Mrs. Meads! Looked like a washerwoman on a Sunday. The vicar was
ever so nice. He called me madam, and said he ’oped I often come. I
gave a fiver to the fund. Ha, ha, ha, I didn’t tell ’em that I made
it backing ‘Ringcross’ for the Nunhead Stakes yesterday! They’d have
died.”
During this verbal explosion, James Mounthead thoughtfully regarded
his glass. And he thought to himself: “Um. It’s a pity Queenie gives
herself away sometimes.” He didn’t particularly want to hear about
the Welfare. He wanted to talk about “James the Second” and the plans
for the future. He wanted to indulge in the luxury of talking about
their success, but he didn’t want to boast about wealth in quite that
way. He had queer ambitions not unconnected with the land he lived
on. He had not always been in the licensing trade. His father had
been a small landed proprietor and a stock breeder; a man of stern,
unrelenting principles. From his father he, James Mounthead, had
inherited a kind of reverence for the ordered development of land
and cattle, an innate respect for the sanctity of tradition, caste,
property and fair dealing. His wife had always been in the licensing
trade. She was the daughter of a publican at Pondhurst. As a girl she
had served in the bar. All her relations were licensing people. When
she had a little to drink--she was apt to display her worst side, to
give herself away. James sighed.
“Did Mrs. Wonnicott say anything about her husband?” he asked, to
change the subject.
“You bet she did. Tried to put it across us--when I told her about us
buying Bolder’s farm--said her old man had thought of bidding for it,
but he knew it was poor in root crops and the soil was no good for
corn, and that Sturge had neglected the place too long. The old cat!
I said: ‘Yes, and p’raps it wouldn’t be convenient to pay for it just
now, after ’aving bought a lawn mower!’ Ha, ha, ha. He, he, he. O
my!”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” mumbled Mr. Mounthead, who knew,
however, that anything was better than one of Queenie’s violent
reactions to quarrelsomeness. “Come on, let’s go and turn in, old
girl.”
An hour later, James Mounthead was tossing restlessly between the
sheets. Queenie’s reference to the Wonnicotts had upset him. He could
read between what she had said sufficiently to envisage a scene,
which he himself deplored. Queenie, of course, had given herself
away again to Mrs. Wonnicott. He knew that both the Wonnicotts
despised her, and through her, him. He had probably as much money
as Lewis Wonnicott, if not more. He certainly had a more fluid
and accumulative way of making it, but there the matter stopped.
Wonnicott was a gentleman; his wife a lady. He, James, might have
been as much a gentleman as Wonnicott if--circumstances had been
different. Queenie could never be a lady in the sense that Mrs.
Wonnicott was a lady. Wonnicott led the kind of life _he_ would like
to live--a gentleman farmer, with hunters, a little house property,
and some sound vested interests; a man with a great knowledge of
land, horses, finance, and politics.
He loved Queenie in a queer enduring kind of way. She had been loyal
to him, and she satisfied most of his needs. She loved him, but he
knew that he could never attain the goal of his vague ambitions,
with her clinging to his heels. He thought of Lewis Wonnicott
sleeping in his white panelled bedroom with chintz curtains and old
furniture, and his wife in the adjoining room, where the bay window
looked out on to the downs; and the heart of James became bitter with
envy.
VI
“I don’t think I shall attend those Welfare meetings any more,”
remarked Mrs. Lewis Wonnicott with a slight drawl. She gathered up
her letters from the breakfast table and walked to the window.
In the garden below, Leach, the gardener, was experimenting with a
new mower on the well-clipped lawns. The ramblers on the pergola were
at their best. Her husband in a broad check suit and a white stock,
looked up from _The Times_ and said:
“Oh, how is that, my dear?”
“They are getting such awful people in. That dreadful woman, the wife
of Mounthead, the publican, has joined.”
“Old Mounthead’s all right--not a bad sort. He knows a gelding from a
blood mare.”
“That may be, but his wife is the limit. I happened to say something
about the new mower, and she was simply rude. An awful vulgar person,
wears spangles, and boasts about the money her husband makes out of
selling whisky.”
“By gad! I bet he does, too. I wouldn’t mind having a bit in his
pub. Do you see Canadian Pacifics are still stagnant?”
“Lewis, I sometimes wish you wouldn’t be so material. You think about
nothing but money.”
“Oh, come, my dear, I’m interested in a crowd of other things--things
which I don’t make money out of, too.”
“For instance?”
“The land, the people who work on it, horses, cattle, game, the best
way to do things for everybody. Besides, ain’t I interested in the
children? The two girls’ careers at Bedales? Young Ralph at Rugby and
going up to Cambridge next year?”
“You know they’re there, but how much interest you take, I couldn’t
say.”
“What is it you want me to do, my dear?”
“I think you might bestir yourself to get amongst better people. The
girls will be leaving school soon and coming home. We know no one, no
one at all in the neighbourhood.”
“No one at all! Jeminy! Why, we know everyone!”
“You spend all your time among horse-breeders and cattle-dealers, and
people like Mounthead, and occasionally call on the Vicar, but who is
there of any importance that we know?”
“Lord! What do you want? Do you want me to go and call at Crawshay
Park, and ask Sir Septimus and Lady Letter to come and make up a four
at bridge?”
“Don’t be absurd! You know quite well that the Letters are entirely
inaccessible. He’s not only an M.P. and owner of half the newspapers
in the country, but a millionaire. They entertain house parties of
ministers and dukes, and even royalty. They can afford to ignore even
the county people themselves. But there are others. We don’t even
know the county.”
“Who, for instance?”
“Well, the Burnabys. You met St. John Burnaby at the Constitutional
Club two or three times and yet you have never attempted to follow it
up. They’re very nice people and neighbours. And they have three boys
all in the twenties, and the girl Sheila--she’s just a year younger
than Ralph.”
“My word! Who’s being material now?”
“It isn’t material, it’s just--thinking of the children.”
“Women are wonderful,” muttered Lewis Wonnicott into his white stock,
without raising his head. Mrs. Wonnicott swept to the door. Her thin
lips were drawn in a firm straight line. Her refined hard little face
appeared pinched and petulant. With her hand on the door-handle she
said acidly:
“If you can spare half an hour from your grooms and pigs, I think you
might at least do this to please me--call on Mrs. Burnaby to-day.”
And she went out of the room, shutting the door crisply.
“Oh, Jiminy-Piminy!” muttered Mr. Wonnicott. “Jiminy-Piminy!”
He stood up and shook himself. Then with feline intentness he
walked quickly to the French window, and opening it walked down the
steps into the garden. All the way to the sunk rose-garden he kept
repeating, “Jiminy-Piminy!”
Once among the rose-bushes he lighted his pipe. (His wife objected
to smoking in the house.) He blew clouds of tobacco smoke amongst
imaginary green-fly. Occasionally he would glance furtively out at
the view across the downs. Half buried amongst the elms near Basted
Old Church he could just see the five red gables of the Burnabys’s
capacious mansion.
“I can’t do it,” he thought, “I can’t do it, and I shall have to do
it.”