I looked at my watch as I got into my trap and found that it was eleven
o’clock, not more than two hours since my uncle’s letter had been handed
to me at the breakfast table. Yet I felt thoroughly tired. No one who
has only just recovered from influenza ought to be called upon to face
a crisis. At the best of times a crisis of any magnitude is too much for
me. When I am weak anything of the sort exhausts me rapidly. It is most
unfair that I should be beset with crises as I am. Other men, men who
like excitement and unexpected calls for exertion, are condemned to
years of unbroken monotony. I, who desire nothing so much as peace,
have tumult and turmoil thrust upon me. I drove down the long avenue of
Thormanby Park and determined to get home as quickly as possible. There
is a greenhouse at the bottom of our garden which at that time was quite
unfrequented because something had gone wrong with the heating apparatus
and the more delicate plants had been removed from it. I intended to
retire to it as soon as I got home with a hammock chair and a novel. I
had every hope of being left in peace for an hour or so.
That was my plan. It proved, as all my plans do, unworkable; but, as
is always the case, through no fault of my own. At the gate lodge of
Thormanby Park I met Lalage. She was riding a bicycle and jumped down as
soon as she saw me. I pulled up my pony, of course. Even if Lalage
had not jumped down I should have pulled up the pony. Lalage is a sure
harbinger of trouble. Crises attend her course through life. Yet I
cannot help stopping to talk to her when I get the chance. I suppose I
am moved by some obscure instinct which makes me wish to know the worst
in store for me as soon as possible.
“I’m darting on,” said Lalage, “to secure Pussy Battersby, but I
stopped for a moment to tell you to go straight to the rectory.”
“You can’t get Miss Battersby now. She’s settling flowers.”
“I must. She’s of the utmost importance. I must bring her back with me.”
“Has the Archdeacon arrived unexpectedly?”
“No. What on earth put that into your head? Good-bye.”
“Wait a minute, Lalage. Take my advice and don’t go on. It’s not safe.
My uncle is threatening you with all sorts of violence. You can guess
the sort of temper he’s in.”
“Gout?”
“No. Your letter.”
“My letter? Oh, yes. I’d forgotten that letter for the moment. You mean
the one I wrote to him about the Archdeacon’s marriage.”
“Now you know why you’d better not go near him for a day or two.”
“Silly old ass, isn’t he, to lose his temper about that? But I can’t
stop to argue. I must get Pussy Battersby at once. There isn’t a moment
to spare.”
“If the Archdeacon hasn’t turned up, what on earth do you want her for?”
“The fact is,” said Lalage, “that Hilda’s mother is at the rectory.”
“I thought she’d arrive some day. You couldn’t expect to keep her at bay
forever. The wonder is that she didn’t come long ago.”
“She travelled by the night mail and was rather dishevelled when she
arrived, hair a bit tousled, a smut on the end of her nose and a general
look of crinklyness about her clothes. Hilda has been in floods of tears
and sobbing like a steam engine all morning.”
“I don’t wonder at all. Any nice-minded girl would. It can’t be pleasant
for her to see her mother in such a state.”
“Don’t drivel,” said Lalage. “Hilda isn’t crying for that. She’s not a
perfect idiot, whatever you may say.”
“I didn’t say anything of the sort. I said she was a nice-minded girl.”
“Same thing,” said Lalage, “and she’s not either the one or the other.”
“Then why is she crying?”
“Because her mother is taking her home. That’s the reason I’m going for
Pussy Battersby.”
“She’ll be a poor substitute for Hilda,” I said. “She’ll boggle at
simony every time.”
“What are you talking about now?”
“Miss Battersby. I’m trying to explain that she’ll hardly be able to
take Hilda’s place as the companion of your revels.”
“What I’m getting her for,” said Lalage severely, “is to restore the
confidence of Hilda’s mother. She doesn’t trust me one bit, silly
of her, isn’t it? And she’s ragged poor father into a condition of
incoherence.”
“Will Miss Battersby be any use? I should hardly have thought her the
sort of person who would deal successfully with a frantic mother.”
“She’s tremendously respectable,” said Lalage, “and Hilda’s mother will
have absolute confidence in her the moment she sees her. Remember how
she agreed to that Portugal trip once she knew Pussy was to be with
us, and she hadn’t even seen her then. When I trot her out there’ll be
absolutely no further trouble. Good-bye, I must be darting on.”
Lalage put her foot on the pedal and balanced the bicycle.
I stopped her again.
“You said something about my going to the rectory,” I said. “What am I
to do when I get there?”
“Attend to Hilda’s mother of course.”
“Do you mean that I’m to take a basin of hot water and a sponge and wash
her nose? I couldn’t possibly. I don’t know her nearly well enough. I’d
hardly venture to do such a thing to Hilda herself.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the smut on her nose,” said Lalage. “What I want
you to do is to keep her in play till I get back. I sha’n’t be long, but
it’s not possible to start Pussy Battersby off on the first hop. She’ll
want to titivate a little.”
“If you think I’ll be any use----”
“Of course you will. You’re very nearly as respectable to look at as
Pussy Battersby.”
“I shall hate to see Hilda crying.”
“Then cheer her up. Good-bye for the present.”
This time Lalage really did mount the bicycle. I drove on in the
direction of the rectory, turning over in my mind various plans for
keeping Hilda’s mother in play. Some of them were very good plans which
I think would have been successful, but I shall never be certain about
that because I did not have the chance of putting them to the test.
A mile from the rectory gate I met a car. There was a good deal of
luggage piled on the well, and two ladies sat together on one side. I
recognized Hilda at once. The other lady I supposed, quite rightly, to
be her mother. I ought, I saw afterward, to have made some effort, even
at that eleventh hour, to keep her in play. I do not think I could have
succeeded, but it was certainly my duty to try. My nerve unfortunately
failed and I simply drove past, raising my hat and bowing sorrowfully to
Hilda.
When the car was out of sight I stopped to consider my position. There
was nothing to prevent my returning home at once and settling down, as
I had originally planned, in the corner of the deserted greenhouse. My
inclination was, of course, to do this, but it occurred to me that it
would be a charitable and kindly action to comfort Canon Beresford. He
had, so Lalage told me, been reduced to a condition of incoherence by
the ragging of Hilda’s mother. He was also likely to have been a good
deal distressed by the sight of Hilda’s tears and the sound of her sobs.
He would probably be sorry to lose Hilda. In spite of anything Lalage
might say I still believed Hilda to be a nice-minded girl, the sort of
girl that any man would like to have staying in his house. For all three
reasons the Canon would require sympathy and comfort. I drove on to the
rectory.
There I had, once more, to reconsider my position. The Canon was
comforting himself. He had, so the maid informed me, gone out fishing.
My first impulse was to start for home with a sigh of relief. Then
I remembered that some one would have to explain to Lalage and Miss
Battersby that Hilda and her mother had really gone. The Canon would not
be able to do this because he had gone out fishing before they left. The
maid was obviously a stupid girl. It seemed to be my duty to wait for
Lalage and tell her, soothingly, what had happened. I went into the
Canon’s study and made myself comfortable with a pipe.
At about one o’clock Lalage arrived without Miss Battersby. She made
no comment at first on the absence of Hilda’s mother. Her mind had
evidently been turned away from that subject. She flung herself into a
chair, and dragged furiously at the pins which fastened on her hat. When
she had worked them loose she threw the hat itself on the floor.
“Great Scott!” she said. “I’ve had a time of it!”
“I rather thought you would.”
“Curious, isn’t it? For he can be a perfect pet when he likes. Glad I
don’t get gout.”
“You know perfectly well that it wasn’t gout which was the matter with
him this time.”
“It can’t have been all my letter, can it?”
“It was,” I said.
“Of course I wasn’t going to stand that sort of thing,” said Lalage.
“What sort of thing?”
“The way he talked, or, rather, tried to talk. I soon stopped him.
That’s what makes me so hot. I wish you’d seen poor Pussy’s face. I was
afraid every minute he’d mention her name and then she would have died
of shame. That’s just the kind of thing which would make Pussy really
ill.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I told him that it was his plain duty to put the matter before the
Archdeacon and that if he didn’t do it I should simply get some one else
and then he’d jolly well feel ashamed of himself and be afraid to look
any one in the face for weeks and weeks. I didn’t mention that Pussy
was the future wife, of course. I’m much too fond of her to hurt her
feelings.”
I should have liked to hear a description of the expression on Miss
Battersby’s face. I should also have liked to hear what my uncle said in
reply to Lalage’s remarks, but I felt an anxiety so acute as greatly to
dull my curiosity.
“Had you any one particular in your mind,” I asked, “when you said that
you’d get somebody else to go to the Archdeacon?”
“Of course I had,” said Lalage. “You.”
“I was just afraid you might be thinking of that.”
“You’ll do it of course.”
“No,” I said, “I won’t. There are reasons which I gave to my uncle this
morning which made it quite impossible for me----”
“You’re not thinking of marrying her yourself, are you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then there can’t be any real reason----”
“Lalage,” I said, “there is. I don’t like to mention the subject to you;
but the fact is----”
“If it’s anything disagreeable I’d much rather not hear it.”
“It is, very; though it’s not true.”
“You appear to me to be getting into a tangle,” said Lalage, “so you’d
better not go on. If you’re afraid of the Archdeacon--and I suppose that
is what your excuses will come to in the end--I’ll do it myself. After
all, you’d most likely have made a mess of it.”
I bore the insult meekly. I was anxious, if possible, to persuade Lalage
to drop the idea of marrying the Archdeacon to Miss Battersby.
“Remember your promise to my mother,” I said.
“I’ve kept it. I submitted the matter to Lord Thormanby just as I said I
would. If he won’t act I can’t help it.”
“The Archdeacon will be frightfully angry.”
Lalage sniffed slightly. I could see that the thought of the
Archdeacon’s wrath did not frighten her. I should have been surprised if
it had. After facing Thormanby in the morning the Archdeacon would seem
nothing. I adopted another line.
“Are you perfectly certain,” I said, “about that text? Don’t you think
that if it’s really in the Bible the Archdeacon would have seen it?”
“He might have overlooked it,” said Lalage; “in fact, he must have
overlooked it. If he’d come across it he’d have got married at once.
Anybody can see that he wants to be a bishop.”
This seemed unanswerable. Yet I could not believe that the Archdeacon,
who has been a clergyman for many years, could have failed to read the
epistle in which the verse occurs. I made another effort.
“Most likely,” I said, “that text means something quite different.”
“It can’t. The words are as plain as possible.”
“Have you looked at the original Greek?”
“No, I haven’t. What would be the good of doing that? And, besides, I
don’t know Greek.”
“Then you may be sure,” I said, “that the original Greek alters the
whole thing. I’ve noticed hundreds of times that when a text seems to
be saying anything which doesn’t work out in practice the original Greek
sets it right.”
“I know that,” said Lalage. “At least I’ve often heard it. But it
doesn’t apply to cases like this. What on earth else could this mean in
the original Greek or any other language you like to translate it into?
‘A bishop is to be the husband of one wife.’ I looked it out myself to
make sure that Selby-Harrison had made no mistake.”
The text certainly seemed uncompromising. I had talked bravely about the
original Greek, but I doubted in my own mind whether even it would offer
a loophole of escape for the Archdeacon.
“It may,” I said, desperately, “merely mean that a bishop mayn’t have
two wives.”
“Do talk sense,” said Lalage. “What would be the point of saying that
a bishop mayn’t have two? It’s hard enough to get a man like the
Archdeacon to have one. Besides, if that’s what it means, then other
people, not bishops, are allowed to have two wives, which is perfectly
absurd. It would be bigamy and that’s far worse than what the Archdeacon
said I’d done. Where’s Hilda?”
Lalage’s way of dismissing a subject of which she is tired is abrupt but
unmistakable. I told her that Hilda and her mother had gone.
“That’s a pity,” said Lalage. “I should have liked to take Hilda with me
this afternoon.”
“Are you going to do it so soon?”
“The election is next week,” said Lalage, “so we haven’t a moment to
lose.”
“Well,” I said, “if you’re really going to do it, I shall be greatly
obliged if you’ll let me know afterward exactly what the Archdeacon
says.”
“I will if you like,” said Lalage, “but there won’t be anything to tell
you. He’ll simply thank me for bringing the point under his notice.”
“I’m not a betting man, but if I were I’d wager a pretty large sum that
whatever the Archdeacon does he won’t thank you.”
“Have you any reason to suppose that he has a special objection to Pussy
Battersby?”
“None in the world. I’m sure he respects her. We all do.”
“Then I don’t see what you mean by saying that he won’t thank me. He’s
a tiresome old thing, especially when he tries to be polite, which he’s
always doing, but he’s not by any means a fool where his own interests
are concerned. He’ll see at once that I’m doing him a kindness.”
I found nothing more to say, so I left Lalage. I had at all events, done
my best. I drove home.