I had entirely forgotten that we had asked Lawrence Redding to dinner
that night. When Griselda burst in and scolded me, pointing out that it
lacked two minutes to dinner time, I was quite taken aback.
"I hope everything will be all right," Griselda called up the stairs
after me. "I've thought over what you said at lunch, and I've really
thought of some quite good things to eat."
I may say, in passing, that our evening meal amply bore out Griselda's
assertion that things went much worse when she tried than when she
didn't. The menu was ambitious in conception, and Mary seemed to have
taken a perverse pleasure in seeing how best she could alternate
undercooking and overcooking. Some oysters which Griselda had ordered,
and which would seem to be beyond the reach of incompetence, we were
unfortunately not able to sample, as we had nothing in the house to
open them with--an omission which was discovered only when the moment
for eating them arrived.
I had rather doubted whether Lawrence Redding would put in an
appearance. He might very easily have sent an excuse. However, he
arrived punctually enough, and the four of us went in to dinner.
Lawrence Redding has an undeniably attractive personality. He is, I
suppose, about thirty years of age. He has dark hair, but his eyes are
of a brilliant, almost startling blue. He is the kind of young man who
does everything well. He is good at games, an excellent shot, a good
amateur, and can tell a first-rate story. He is capable of making any
party go. He has, I think, Irish blood in his veins. He is not, at all,
one's idea of the typical artist. Yet I believe he is a clever painter
in the modern style. I know very little of painting myself.
It was only natural that on this particular evening he should appear
a shade _distrait_. On the whole, he carried off things very well.
I don't think Griselda or Dennis noticed anything wrong. Probably I
should not have noticed anything myself if I had not known beforehand.
Griselda and Dennis were particularly gay--full of jokes about Dr.
Stone and Miss Cram--the Local Scandal! It suddenly came home to me
with something of a pang that Dennis is nearer Griselda's age than I
am. He calls me Uncle Len but her Griselda. It gave me, somehow, a
lonely feeling.
I must, I think, have been upset by Mrs. Protheroe. I'm not usually
given to such unprofitable reflections.
Griselda and Dennis went rather far now and then, but I hadn't the
heart to check them. I have always thought it a pity that the mere
presence of a clergyman should have a damping effect.
Lawrence took a gay part in the conversation. Nevertheless I was
aware of his eyes continually straying to where I sat, and I was not
surprised when after dinner he manœuvred to get me into the study.
As soon as we were alone, his manner changed. His face became grave and
anxious. He looked almost haggard.
"You've surprised our secret, sir," he said. "What are you going to do
about it?"
I could speak far more plainly to Redding than I could to Mrs.
Protheroe, and I did so. He took it very well.
"Of course," he said when I had finished. "You're bound to say all
this. You're a parson. I don't mean that in any way offensively. As a
matter of fact, I think you're probably right. But this isn't the usual
sort of thing between Anne and me."
I told him that people had been saying that particular phrase since the
dawn of time, and a queer little smile creased his lips.
"You mean everyone thinks their case is unique? Perhaps so. But one
thing you must believe."
He assured me that so far--"there was nothing wrong in it." Anne, he
said, was one of the truest and most loyal women that ever lived. What
was going to happen he didn't know.
"If this were only a book," he said gloomily, "the old man would
die--and a good riddance to everybody."
I reproved him.
"Oh! I didn't mean I was going to stick him in the back with a knife,
though I'd offer my best thanks to anyone else who did so. There's not
a soul in the world who's got a good word to say for him. I rather
wonder the first Mrs. Protheroe didn't do him in. I met her once, years
ago, and she looked quite capable of it. One of those calm, dangerous
women. He goes blustering along, stirring up trouble everywhere, mean
as the devil, and with a particularly nasty temper. You don't know what
Anne has had to stand from him. If I had a penny in the world I'd take
her away without any more ado."
Then I spoke to him very earnestly. I begged him to leave St. Mary
Mead. By remaining there, he could only bring greater unhappiness
on Anne Protheroe than was already her lot. People would talk; the
matter would get to Colonel Protheroe's ears--and things would be made
infinitely worse for her.
Lawrence protested.
"Nobody knows a thing about it except you, padre."
"My dear young man, you underestimate the detective instinct of village
life. In St. Mary Mead everyone knows your most intimate affairs. There
is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age
with plenty of time on her hands."
He said easily that that was all right. Everyone thought it was Lettice.
"Has it occurred to you," I asked, "that possibly Lettice might think
so herself?"
He seemed quite surprised by the idea. Lettice, he said, didn't care a
hang about him. He was sure of that.
"She's a queer sort of girl," he said. "Always seems in a kind of
dream, and yet underneath I believe she's really rather practical. I
believe all that vague stuff is a pose. Lettice knows jolly well what
she's doing. And there's a funny vindictive streak in her. The queer
thing is that she hates Anne. Simply loathes her. And yet Anne's been a
perfect angel to her always."
I did not, of course, take his word for this last. To infatuated young
men, their inamorata always behaves like an angel. Still, to the best
of my observation, Anne had always behaved to her stepdaughter with
kindness and fairness. I had been surprised myself that afternoon at
the bitterness of Lettice's tone.
We had to leave the conversation there, because Griselda and Dennis
burst in upon us and said I was not to make Lawrence behave like an old
fogy.
"Oh! dear," said Griselda, throwing herself into an arm chair. "How I
would like a thrill of some kind. A murder--or even a burglary."
"I don't suppose there's anyone much worth burgling," said Lawrence,
trying to enter into her mood. "Unless we stole Miss Hartnell's false
teeth."
"They do click horribly," said Griselda. "But you're wrong about there
being no one worth while. There's some marvellous old silver at Old
Hall. Trencher salts and a Charles II tazza--all kinds of things like
that. Worth thousands of pounds, I believe."
"The old man would probably shoot you with an army revolver," said
Dennis. "Just the sort of thing he'd enjoy doing."
"Oh! we'd get in first and hold him up," said Griselda. "Who's got a
revolver?"
"I've got a Mauser pistol," said Lawrence.
"Have you? How exciting! Why do you have it?"
"Souvenir of the War," said Lawrence briefly.
"Old Protheroe was showing the silver to Stone today," volunteered
Dennis. "Old Stone was pretending to be no end interested in it."
"I thought they'd quarrelled about the barrow," said Griselda.
"Oh! they've made that up," said Dennis. "I can't think what people
want to grub about in barrows for, anyway."
"That man Stone puzzles me," said Lawrence. "I think he must be very
absent-minded. You'd swear sometimes he knew nothing about his own
subject."
"That's love," said Dennis. "Sweet Gladys Cram, you are no sham. Your
teeth are white and fill me with delight. Come, fly with me, my bride
to be. And at the Blue Boar, on the bedroom floor--"
"That's enough, Dennis," I said.
"Well," said Lawrence Redding, "I must be off. Thank you very much,
Mrs. Clement, for a very pleasant evening."
Griselda and Dennis saw him off. Dennis returned to the study alone.
Something had happened to ruffle the boy. He wandered about the room
aimlessly, frowning and kicking the furniture.
Our furniture is so shabby already that it can hardly be damaged
further, but I felt impelled to utter a mild protest.
"Sorry," said Dennis.
He was silent for a moment and then burst out:
"What an absolutely rotten thing gossip is!"
I was a little surprised. Dennis does not usually take that attitude.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"I don't know whether I ought to tell you."
I was more and more surprised.
"It's such an absolutely rotten thing," Dennis said again. "Going
round and saying things. Not even saying them. Hinting them. No, I'm
damned--sorry--if I'll tell you! It's absolutely rotten."
I looked at him curiously but I did not press him further. I wondered
very much, though. It is very unlike Dennis to take anything to heart.
Griselda came in at that moment.
"Miss Wetherby's just rung up," she said. "Mrs. Lestrange went out at
a quarter past eight and hasn't come in yet. Nobody knows where she's
gone."
"Why should they know?"
"But it isn't to Dr. Haydock's. Miss Wetherby does know that, because
she telephoned to Miss Hartnell who lives next door to him and who
would have been sure to see her."
"It is a mystery to me," I said, "how anyone ever gets any nourishment
in this place. They must eat their meals standing up by the window so
as to be sure of not missing anything."
"And that's not all," said Griselda bubbling with pleasure. "They've
found out about the Blue Boar. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram have got rooms
next door to each other BUT--" she waved an impressive forefinger--"_no
communicating door_!"
"That," I said, "must be very disappointing to everybody."
At which Griselda laughed.
Thursday started badly. Two of the ladies of my parish elected to
quarrel about the church decorations. I was called in to adjudicate
between two middle-aged ladies, each of whom was literally trembling
with rage. If it had not been so painful, it would have been quite an
interesting physical phenomenon.
Then I had to reprove two of our choir boys for persistent sweet
sucking during the hours of divine service, and I had an uneasy feeling
that I was not doing the job as whole-heartedly as I should have done.
Then our organist, who is distinctly "touchy," had taken offence and
had to be smoothed down.
And four of my poorer parishioners declared open rebellion against Miss
Hartnell who came to me bursting with rage about it.
I was just going home when I met Colonel Protheroe. He was in high good
humour, having sentenced three poachers in his capacity as magistrate.
"Firmness," he shouted in his stentorian voice. He is slightly deaf and
raises his voice accordingly as deaf people often do. "That's what's
needed nowadays--firmness! Make an example. That rogue Archer came
out yesterday and is vowing vengeance against me, I hear. Impudent
scoundrel. Threatened men live long, as the saying goes. I'll show him
what his vengeance is worth, next time I catch him taking my pheasants.
Lax! We're too lax nowadays! I believe in showing a man up for what he
is. You're always being asked to consider a man's wife and children.
Damned nonsense. Fiddlesticks. Why should a man escape the consequences
of his acts just because he whines about his wife and children? It's
all the same to me--no matter what a man is--doctor, lawyer, clergyman,
poacher, drunken wastrel--if you catch him on the wrong side of the
law, let the law punish him. You agree with me, I'm sure."
"You forget," I said. "My calling obliges me to respect one quality
above all others--the quality of mercy."
"Well, I'm a just man. No one can deny that."
I did not speak and he said sharply:
"Why don't you answer? A penny for your thoughts, man."
I hesitated, then I decided to speak.
"I was thinking," I said, "that, when my times comes, I should be sorry
if the only plea I had to offer was that of justice. Because it might
mean that only justice would be meted out to me."
"Pah! What we need is a little militant Christianity. I've always done
my duty, I hope. Well, no more of that. I'll be along this evening as
I said. We'll make it a quarter past six instead of six, if you don't
mind. I've got to see a man in the village."
"That will suit me quite well."
He flourished his stick and strode away. Turning, I ran into Hawes. I
thought he looked distinctly ill this morning. I had meant to upbraid
him mildly for various matters, in his province, which had been muddled
or shelved, but seeing his white, strained face, I felt that the man
was ill.
I said as much and he denied it, but not very vehemently. Finally he
confessed that he was not feeling too fit, and appeared ready to accept
my advice of going home to bed.
I had a hurried lunch and went out to do some visits. Griselda had gone
to London by the cheap Thursday train.
I came in about a quarter to four with the intention of sketching the
outline of my Sunday sermon, but Mary told me that Mr. Redding was
waiting for me in the study.
I found him pacing up and down with a worried face. He looked white and
haggard.
He turned abruptly at my entrance.
"Look here, sir. I've been thinking over what you said yesterday. I've
had a sleepless night thinking about it. You're right. I've got to cut
and run."
"My dear boy," I said.
"You were right in what you said about Anne. I'll only bring trouble
on her by staying here. She's--she's too good for anything else. I see
I've got to go. I've made things hard enough for her as it is, Heaven
help me."
"I think you have made the only decision possible," I said. "I know
that it is a hard one, but believe me, it will be for the best in the
end."
I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said
by someone who didn't know what he was talking about.
"You'll look after Anne? She needs a friend."
"You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power."
"Thank you, sir." He wrung my hand. "You're a good sort, padre. I shall
see her to say good-bye this evening, and I shall probably pack up and
go tomorrow. No good prolonging the agony. Thanks for letting me have
the shed to paint in. I'm sorry not to have finished Mrs. Clement's
portrait."
"Don't worry about that, my dear boy. Good-bye, and God bless you."
When he had gone I tried to settle down to my sermon, but with very
poor success. I kept thinking of Lawrence and Anne Protheroe.
I had rather an unpalatable cup of tea, cold and black, and at half
past five the telephone rang. I was informed that Mr. Abbott of Lower
Farm was dying and would I please come at once.
I rang up Old Hall immediately, for Lower Farm was nearly two miles
away and I could not possibly get back by six-fifteen. I have never
succeeded in learning to ride a bicycle.
I was told, however, that Colonel Protheroe had just started out in the
car, so I departed, leaving word with Mary that I had been called away
but would try to be back by six-thirty or soon after.