AS Andy passed through his own hall between his own umbrella-stand and
eight-day clock on his way to pay a parochial call, he stepped lightly,
less like the proud incumbent of an excellent country living than a
schoolboy who endeavours to escape a maiden aunt.
But it was no use. Before he reached the porch a door was opened, and
Mrs. Jebb, the housekeeper, fluttered forth from the back regions. She
had previously fluttered in and out of matrimony in rather the same way,
and seemed to have brought nothing from it but a wedding ring and a
black satin dress trimmed with beads.
She had, however, brought something hidden as well—a profound
conviction that she was fascinating to the gentlemen. Her late husband
had been wont to remark, during their brief married life, that there was
a something in her way of looking out of her eye-corners that was enough
to upset an aconite. He meant a rather different thing, but he was not
as cultured as Mrs. Jebb would have liked him to be. Still the habit
of—as she inwardly phrased it—“eye-cornering” clung to her still.
Andy’s aunt chose her solely because she and sex seemed to have no
connection—which is only another proof that nobody knows anything at
all about anybody else—and she called herself a lady-cook-housekeeper.
She “eye-cornered” Andy now as she came flitting after him to the front
door, but more for the sake of practice than from any ulterior motive.
“_Might_ I ask you—you _do_ pass the grocer’s shop—and we are out of
soft sugar?” She had a way of talking in gasps until she got fairly
started, when nothing would stop her. “I am so sorry to make mistakes,
but I must ask you to try and remember that I never expected to serve
even in the—er—higher reaches of domestic—when Mr. Jebb——”
“Excuse me,” said Andy, seizing his hat from the peg, “I am rather
pressed for——”
“_And_ a pound of rice, if you _would_ be so very kind?”
“Delighted. Of course,” said Andy incoherently, escaping down the steps.
He had already learned that the reminiscences of life with Mr. Jebb were
so long and varied that it seemed strange a year could have held them
all, and of so intimate and pathetic a nature that, once fairly started,
it were sheer brutality to cut them short.
But half-way down the drive a thin voice floated out to him—
“Candles—a pound of candles—if you _could_?”
He looked back, and there she stood on the doorstep, eye-cornering Andy
from afar, with strands of brownish hair and odd bits of cheap white
lace fluttering about her.
“All right,” he shouted back; but to himself he grunted, “Silly old
kitten. What on earth did Aunt Dixon get me an old fool like that for?”
Then a sudden waft of lilac scent warmed by sunshine, which is the
essence of spring, swept across Andy’s freckled nose, and he felt kind
to all the world.
“Oh, let her _be_ a kitten! I don’t care. It’s hardish lines on an old
woman like that having to go out into service——”
Old woman!
What a glorious thing it is that nobody can see into the mind of anybody
else.
Andy turned into Parson’s Lane, where the birds sang, and wild flowers
bloomed earlier than anywhere else, and lovers walked silent on summer
evenings; and he began to whistle from pure happiness. Then he
remembered his position and hummed the “March of the Men of Harlech”
instead.
The widow’s house stood at the farther end of the village, and when Andy
went in at the farm gate he saw preparations going forward for that
little tragedy, a country sale. The room into which he was ushered stood
carpetless, miraculously swept and garnished, its large table crowded
with glass and china that had remained for years hidden in the great
storeroom, excepting on rare festivals, when it was brought out with
care and put away by the hands of the mistress. A big sideboard filled
one wall.
“I’m afraid,” said Andy, “that I’ve come at the wrong time, Mrs.
Simpson. I’ll call again.”
Mrs. Simpson, who was a fair woman with a meek brow and an obstinate
mouth, motioned him to a seat.
“Everything’s ready,” she said. “We go into the little cottage near you
to-night. My husband’s cousins, the Thorpes, wanted us to stop with them
for a few days, but I felt I couldn’t.”
“I hope—I hope you’ll be comfortable in your new home,” said Andy, who
was not glib at consolation.
Mrs. Simpson crossed her hands on her lap.
“Oh, I shall be comfortable enough. My husband’s family have behaved
well. They have clubbed together to make me and the children a little
allowance—and they’re buying in all the furniture we need.”
Andy rose. He could not find anything to say to a woman years older than
himself, who had lost her husband and her home—so, of course, he was a
poor sort of parson.
“Is there a garden in your new home? May I send you some flowers?” he
asked, going towards the door.
“Thank you; but flowers make dirt in a little house.”
They were near the big sideboard now, and in his confusion Andy caught
his elbow in the corner.
“That is going to be sold, too,” said Mrs. Simpson. “The Thorpes won’t
buy that in.”
“Ah—yes,” said Andy.
Then, suddenly, Mrs. Simpson’s face began to work like a child’s before
it cries aloud, and she passed her hand over the smooth surface of the
top.
“Nobody’s ever polished it but myself. We bought it in London on our
honeymoon. Now Mrs. Will Werrit’ll get it—and those girls of hers’ll
put hot-water jugs on the polished top.”
Andy stood there, touched to the heart, struggling for something to say,
and only able to stammer out ridiculously at last—
“Perhaps they’ll use mats.”
But as he went home he began to wonder if he could afford to buy the
sideboard and present it to Mrs. Simpson. No; he had had so many
expenses on entering the incumbency that there was practically nothing
at the bank. The little fortune which had sufficed for his education and
for furnishing the Vicarage was now at an end. He literally could not
lay hands on a spare five-pound note. A certain sum he had set aside for
the new bicycle which was a necessity in a country living, but that was
all he had over and above the amount for current expenses——
His thoughts stopped in that unpleasant way everybody knows, when a
conclusion is forced upon an unwilling mind. He turned into the yard and
pulled out his old bicycle. It would do. It was not a dignified machine,
but it would do.
He had to see that as he trundled it dismally back again and went into
the house to search for a bill of Mrs. Simpson’s sale among his papers.
_Oh, nonsense! He wouldn’t!_
He sat down to tea and glanced at his dining-room furniture, almost
ecclesiastical in its chaste simplicity, and heaved a sigh of annoyance.
Then, taking a large piece of cake in one hand and a newspaper in the
other, he endeavoured to immerse himself in the news of the day.
_Did Mr. and Mrs. Simpson feel anything like as jolly as he did when he
bought his new furniture? If so——_
He turned to the foreign telegrams, and in the midst of China and Peru
he saw Mrs. and an imaginary Mr. Simpson buying a sideboard for their
new home.
Pshaw! He flung down his paper and rang for the little maid.
“Please tell Mrs. Jebb I shall want lunch at twelve to-morrow. I am
going out.”
Then, feeling that it was a deed which accorded more with a freckled
nose and an abbreviated Christian name than with the dignified attitude
of a Vicar of position, he began to search the sale catalogue for a
mahogany sideboard. He knew that the senior curate would never have done
such a thing. He would have given the money to the deserving poor.
Andy felt profoundly thankful that the senior curate would never know as
he wrote to countermand his order for a new bicycle.
After that he went across the field and looked over the hedge into the
churchyard, where that Mrs. Werrit who was his rival for the sideboard
chanced to be tending the graves of such Werrits as were already taking
their rest. People in Gaythorpe said that it was the only time a true
Werrit did rest; and Mrs. Will was one to the backbone though she had
been born a Thorpe of Millsby.
It was strange to Andy, who had always lived in towns, to find that
nearly all the people were more or less related to one another: the
Thorpes and Werrits permeated the social relationships of the
countryside in the very same way as one or two great families have done
the aristocracy of England. It is a thing that is going, but it survives
still in many country places, and it produces a social atmosphere which
is rather different from any other.
“Good afternoon,” said Andy.
“Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Deane,” called Mrs. Will Werrit, shrill and
piping.
Andy stood idly watching the low sun slant across the graves, and across
the woman’s kneeling figure. A cuckoo cried up into the clear, keen air;
a little way off a cock was crowing. Something that Andy felt, and tried
to grasp, and couldn’t, was in that quiet afternoon.
He came back over the fields with his hands deep in his pockets,
unconsciously trying to make out what it was, and he felt inclined to
write a piece of poetry that afternoon because he was young and alone
and in love with life. It is an instinct, under such circumstances, for
people to try to catch hold of the glory by putting it into words, just
as a child instinctively tries to get hold of the sunshine, and both
occupations are equally silly and joyful and engrossing.
So Andy walked in through his study window and sat at his table, looking
out over the green and golden day that shimmered up by most exquisite
gradations to a sky just before sunset. Green of the close-cut
lawn—green and gold of the holly hedge—gold and green of the trees
full in the sun—gold of the lower sky—translucent green of the
cloudless upper reaches. No wonder Andy’s growing soul groped and groped
after some way of keeping this. No wonder he stretched out baby hands of
the soul. And no wonder that he grasped nothing. Or so near nothing that
this is all he found to say about the Werrits near the church porch with
Mrs. Will Werrit bending over them. He called it “The Others,” and was
melancholy—as all happy poets are—
“When I can bear no more
The sound of tears,
And all the muffled roar
Of hopes and fears,
I let my tired mind a vigil keep,
To watch in silence where the others sleep.
A moment—and I go
Where green grass waves,
Where still-eyed daisies grow
On quiet graves,
While every afternoon the setting sun
Falls on the names there, like a benison.”
Andy read it over. He thought it was very beautiful indeed, and began to
compose an epitaph for himself when he should lie, like Gulielmus,
beneath the shadow of the ancient church.
“A great poet and a great priest. Fifty years of untiring service——”
Oh, he was so young and so happy that he enjoyed it very much indeed.
And he was so hungry afterwards that he was able to eat Mrs. Jebb’s
pastry.
* * * * *
The next day about two o’clock he went across the lawn to speak to his
gardener about the radishes when it suddenly occurred to him that he had
seen nothing of that worthy since half-past ten, though he had been
about the place all the morning. Evidently young Sam Petch was beginning
his games. This should be put a stop to at once. Andy walked over the
short grass with a determined step, and was about to start the
inquisition when Sam, with a pleasant smile, remarked—
“Nice morning I had of it. Searching high and low, I was, for bits of
cloth to nail up the creepers on the stable wall. And in the end my poor
missus gave me the clippings she’d saved for pegging a hearthrug.”
Andy looked hard at his gardener, but it was his own eyes which fell
before the radiant honesty shining in Sam Petch’s face.
“Very good of Mrs. Petch—I must see if I haven’t an old pair——”
He broke off, for he had come closer to Sam in speaking, and there was
somewhere in the air an unmistakable odour of the public-house.
“Your oldest would be too good for that job,” said Sam hastily. “My wife
would sponge ’em with beer with a drop o’ gin in it and they’d look like
new. She does that, time and again, to my old clothes. These I have on
she did last night. On’y drawback is, you can’t get the smell of the
liquor out all at once. You’ll maybe not have noticed, but I smell a
smell of drink about this here jacket yet, though I’ve been out in it
since morning.”
Andy looked hard again. Again he was met by the clear, blue gaze of
honesty and simple candour. He walked away, making no remark.
But half-way across the grass he paused, shook his head, and went back.
“I would have you know,” he said, copying as closely as possible the air
and manner of the senior curate, “that I am perfectly able to appreciate
the difference between the odour of beer applied externally and
internally. Pray remember that for the future.”
Then, head in air, he marched towards the house, feeling greatly annoyed
that a dandelion root should trip him up half-way and spoil the exit.
Sam watched him go into the house, and then bent over the mowing machine
in a paroxysm of helpless laughter.
“Golly—he’s a rum ’un—but not so soft as he looks.”
For young Sam Petch had many failings, but also the great virtue of
being able to enjoy a joke against himself.
Meanwhile, Andy made his way to Mrs. Simpson’s sale, and as he entered
the house the auctioneer’s raucous voice could be heard selling the
spare-bedroom furniture. Every one was upstairs save a few who waited in
the dining-room so as to have a good place when the auctioneer came in
there.
Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Will Werrit, for instance, had planted themselves
firmly by the table on which Mrs. Simpson’s cut glass and china were
displayed. They were not surprised to see the new Vicar, as they
supposed he would be wanting things for his house, and Mrs. Thorpe tore
herself away from a fascinating and confidential conversation with her
neighbour to say pleasantly glancing at him over her ample chest—
“I hope you’re comfortable at Gaythorpe, Mr. Deane?”
That was what Mrs. Thorpe wanted every one to be in this
world—comfortable—and it was certainly what she hoped for in the world
to come.
“I’m more than comfortable,” said Andy. “I love the place already. And
after London it seems so peaceful—like one big family.”
Mrs. Will Werrit’s thin lips curled at the corners.
“Are big families peaceful in London?” she said.
“Well, well!” said Mrs. Thorpe, soothingly. “Human nature is human
nature. And how does your housekeeper cook, Mr. Deane?”
“Oh, not very grandly,” said Andy, with a laugh.
“Can she make decent pastry?” asked Mrs. Will Werrit.
“No. But I’m not much of a pastry lover—”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Will Werrit. Then they coughed behind
their gloves to tone down the ejaculation, and carefully avoided each
other’s glance.
But Andy wondered what on earth there was to be so surprised at in the
fact that he did not like pastry. He walked to the window and stood
there with his hands in his pockets while the two women resumed their
interrupted conversation.
“Did you hear?” said Mrs. Will Werrit. “He said he didn’t like pastry.
After eating six tarts and eight cheesecakes at a sitting.”
“Well, well. I’m sure I don’t know how that got about. I never told a
soul, that I can swear.”
“Nobody,” said Mrs. Will Werrit, snapping her lips together, “can blame
a lad for liking tarts and cheesecakes. But what I hate is his lying
about it.”
“Come, come! You can’t call it lying,” said Mrs. Thorpe. “Poor lad, he’s
ashamed of his appetite, I expect.” She touched a set of glass dishes on
the table before her. “I’m bidding for those.”
“Don’t touch ’em!” said Mrs. Will sharply. “There’s a woman looking at
you. You don’t want anybody to notice them before they’re auctioned if
you can help it. They’ll be running you up.”
“I shan’t go beyond two shillings apiece,” said Mrs. Thorpe.
“You don’t know. Sales are such queer things. You’d think”—Mrs. Will
lowered her voice still further and glanced at Andy’s back—“you’d think
sometimes when you get home with a lot of rubbish you’ve no use for,
that you’d been _possessed_.” She paused. “I shall bid for the jelly
glasses. I remember thinking I should like them the last time we had
supper here before Mr. Simpson’s illness.”
“Did you, now?” said Mrs. Thorpe. “Well, I thought the same about the
glass dishes on that very night. Last party they gave before he was
taken ill.”
And yet they were good women, and would do the widow and her children a
thousand kindnesses. It is such things that make the dullest-seeming
person so tremendously interesting.
“Finger-bowls!” said Mrs. Will Werrit, touching one with a scornful
finger. “No wonder he died in debt!”
“Maybe they were a wedding——” began Mrs. Thorpe, but a great trampling
of feet announced that the auctioneer was coming downstairs, and with a
hasty “Now, stick to your place; don’t let yourself be pushed into a
corner,” the two ladies prepared gleefully for the conflict.
Andy grew very tired indeed of waiting, as one thing after another was
knocked down to flushed and excited buyers. The auctioneer was a
kind-hearted man, and went out of his way to try and make the best price
he could of the things, cracking jokes with a bad headache in a
stentorian voice, which may not be a picturesque sacrifice upon the
altar of charity, but is a very real one, all the same. And he
understood his audience so well that he had them all in high
good-humour, ready to bid for anything.
“And now,” he remarked, “we come to the sideboard. You’re not like the
greedy boy who said, ‘Best first for fear I can’t hold it.’ I kept the
best until the last, sure that the spacious residences of those I see
around me _could_ hold it, and find it the greatest ornament of their
homes.” He put his hand to his head, feeling he was getting muddled.
“Ladies—it’s not drink—it’s love! I meant to say this exquisite
sideboard in solid mahogany, plate-glass back, will be the chief
ornament of _some_ home: for to my regret only one of you can possess
it.” He paused. How his head ached! “Now, what shall I say for this
magnificent piece of furniture fit for a ducal palace?”
“Five pounds,” said a red-faced man near the door.
“Five pounds! You offer the paltry sum of five pounds for this
magnificent sideboard, which contains a cellaret for the wedding
champagne and a cupboard for the christening cake! Ladies and
gentlemen——”
He threw himself, as it were, upon their better feelings. And several
people who did not want the sideboard began to bid for it as if their
happiness in life depended upon their getting it.
“Five pounds ten! Six pounds! Seven pounds ten!”
“Eight!” said Andy, beginning to be awfully excited too.
“Eight ten!” said Mrs. Will Werrit.
“Nine!” said Andy.
“Nine ten!” said a new voice—clear, and yet breathless.
“Ten pounds!” said Andy, glaring in the direction of the voice.
“Ten ten!” and the crowd opened, leaving a little space around a girl
who seemed to bloom suddenly upon the dull background of oldish faces
like an evening primrose on the twilight. She was pale with the fear of
being late and the excitement of arriving just in time, and she waited
with parted lips for Andy’s defiant “Eleven!”
The other buyers had all stopped bidding, and her quick “Eleven ten!”
rang clear across a silence.
“Twelve!” said Andy, doggedly fixing his chin into his collar.
“Twelve ten!”
“Thirteen!” said Andy, looking at his opponent with extreme distaste.
“Thirteen ten!” responded she, catching her breath.
“Fourteen!” shouted Andy, who had actually forgotten both the sideboard
and Mrs. Simpson, and only felt that he would sell his shirt rather than
let this girl conquer him.
“Fourteen ten!”
“Fifteen!”
“Fifteen ten!”
“Sixteen!”
Back and forth rang the words like pistol shots.
“Nineteen ten!” They were both pale now, and trembling with excitement.
An electric thrill ran through the room, a strange spirit hovered almost
visibly about the commonplace group in the farmhouse parlour, and the
auctioneer recognised it easily enough and without surprise, for he had
grown used to knowing that men and women touch the borders of the
Inexplicable at little country sales.
“Twenty!”
Andy had the ‘twenty-one’ ready on his lips, when, instead of the
expected retort, there was a moment’s silence that could be felt.
“Going at twenty!”
“Now, won’t any one give another ten shillings for this exceptionally
handsome sideboard?”
“Going—going—gone!”
The hammer fell, and with that sound the two young people stared at each
other with a sort of odd surprise, as if they had just awakened from a
queer dream.
“That’s Miss Elizabeth Atterton,” whispered Mrs. Thorpe to Andy as he
began to push his way out, marvelling at his own folly.
Twenty pounds was a ridiculous sum for him to have paid for the thing in
any case, and just now when he was so short of money it was sheer
lunacy.
“Miss Elizabeth Atterton,” he said vaguely—“oh, the young lady who bid
against me? I see.”
Then he made arrangements for the delivery of the sideboard, and went
home to find a dapper, middle-aged gentleman walking down the drive.
“How-de-do. Just been to call on you. Sorry to find you out,” said the
dapper gentleman.
“Do come in,” said Andy, “and have a cup of tea.”
“Sorry I can’t. But I’ll go back with you for a few minutes, if I may.
Fact is, I told my daughter to bring the cart round here for me at four.
She’s gone off to a sale or something. Queer taste. But it’s better than
developing nerves. If a female of my household developed nerves I
should—er—duck her.”
“Sensible plan,” said Andy, wisely shaking his head. “Most women are as
full of fancies as an egg is full of meat.”
“Just so, just so,” said the dapper gentleman, sitting very straight.
And thus they disposed of the mystery and tragedy of womanhood.
“Miss Elizabeth Atterton is here with the cart, sir,” said the little
maid, putting her head in at the door.
“Ha, my daughter’s here early,” said Mr. Atterton, rising.
Andy accompanied him to the cart, where Miss Elizabeth Atterton stood
holding the head of a rather restive pony. The light shone full on her
face, showing most clearly the gold in her brown hair and in her eyes
and in her exquisite skin, which was of a deep cream with a faint red in
the cheeks-not at all like milk and roses, but like some perfect fruit
grown in the youth of the world. Her features were irregular, the upper
lip being rather too long and the nose broad and short, but her forehead
and her eyes were very lovely.
“My daughter Elizabeth,” said Mr. Atterton, as Andy took the pony’s
head. “Oh, by the way, my gloves,” and he bolted back to fetch them.
“I am afraid I ran the price of your sideboard up,” said Elizabeth
stiffly.
“Not at all,” said Andy, with equal stiffness.
Then Mr. Atterton came out, and the little cart clattered away through
the lilac-scented afternoon.