THE TOAST
Sarah felt more comfortable when tea was served and the family
established round the table. The meal was correct according to
the best Robson tradition. All the food was rich, substantial and
self-satisfied. The roast chickens, plump and succulent, were flanked
by a dignified ham of Anderby curing. The butter oozed from luscious
golden tea-cakes. On the sideboard lay a second course of tarts and
cheese-cakes with filmy pastry. Plates of spiced bread, black and
sticky, surrounded the huge cake.
Under the influence of warmth and rich food Sarah's irritation
disappeared. She allowed Violet to pass her plate for another helping
of chicken. Violet's hands were hot and red, but Sarah had come
prepared for imperfections, so that was easily ignored. It was harder
to overlook John's forgetfulness when he carved for her a slice of
breast. Ten years ago he would never have forgotten she preferred brown
meat.
Across the table Ursula chatted with Toby Robson. "But, my dear man,
it's ridiculously easy. I always drive myself. Foster prefers a Humber
of course, but I think an American car so much lighter. Mary, don't you
like my new two-seater best?"
"I really don't know anything about cars, Ursula. Ask Mr. Holmes, he
knows far more than I, and I haven't seen your two-seater yet."
No, thought Sarah, Mary would know nothing about motor-cars and,
knowing nothing, would decide that there was nothing to know.
Tilly, Richard's wife, helped herself to a third cheese-cake and
wistfully regarded the netted frill of a doily on the plate before her.
"Do you get these doilies up yourself, Mary?" she asked. "I always find
netting goes so badly when you iron it. I do wish you'd tell me what to
do."
"Yes. We do all our own laundry work. I ironed those myself. It's
simply a matter of careful starching, and then pulling them away from
under the iron."
Possibly she was right. Mary was a good housekeeper. Sarah impatiently
speared a pat of butter and began to spread it on her bread. Was it
never possible for half an hour to pass without some one asking her
advice? And accepting it when given as though it were as reliable as
the Bible? No wonder the girl's head was turned. And really there was
nothing so extraordinary about her. Why, she wasn't even good-looking!
Yet, watching her tall figure, broad-shouldered and long-necked, her
wide mouth with its faint indication of complacency, and the sudden
upward thrust of her chin when she wished to emphasize a statement,
Sarah knew well enough wherein lay Mary's attraction for John. Her
finely shaped hands were unusually muscular. Every easy motion of her
arms or body suggested that behind it lay a reserve of strength. Her
gentleness seemed to be compounded of restricted energy rather than
weak emotion. All the qualities which John had admired in Sarah he
found softened by youth in Mary.
Sarah looked towards the head of the table where John sat behind the
chickens. He was a fool to sit like that quietly carving or looking up
occasionally to catch Mary's eye with his shy smile. Why couldn't he
get up and say something for himself? Once he got started he had as
many wits as any of them. It was only because Mary was convinced he
couldn't talk that he never did.
"John," Sarah asked suddenly, "why didn't you show that shorthorned
bull of yours at York? You know there was nothing to beat it from the
North Riding."
"We are not going to begin showing yet," interposed Mary, ignoring
Uncle Dickie's unfinished anecdote. "It's too expensive. We're going to
start when we get a little capital laid by."
"I asked John," commented Sarah, and said no more. But she mentally
registered Mary's spasmodic extravagance over the men's feast and her
meanness over the show as another grievance against her.
Uncle Dickie resumed his narrative. He was enjoying the society of his
hostess. Prompted by her smiling responses he had passed from one story
to another, sometimes abandoning one before he reached its climax. But
as Mary knew them all by heart that did not matter much and was perhaps
more entertaining. He had told the story of the bull-pup at Highwold
and the gardener's son, and of the ghost seen by Sir Michael Seton's
great grandfather ... or was it great grand-uncle? He was not quite
sure ... getting an old man, and Mary must not expect his memory to be
as good as once it had been ... well, perhaps great-grandfather of the
present Sir Charles....
Mary accepted each tale serenely, dispensing appropriate answers with
the same unflurried precision as she dispensed second cups of tea to
their rightful owners.
Ursula leaned forward and picked a cocoa-nut bun from the plate before
her. She bit off a little circle with her white teeth and ate it slowly
before she turned to Toby Foster.
"Why _does_ Uncle Dickie tell all those awful old chestnuts?" she asked.
Toby cocked his head. Being the only professional member of the family
he had a reputation for wit, and felt that something good was expected
of him.
"Because, my dear lady, I expect he has learnt that in the telling
of stories, as in other things, it is more blessed to give than to
receive."
Uncle Dickie was only deaf enough to ask people to repeat phrases whose
repetition might embarrass them. The fear that he might miss any of the
good things of life haunted him ceaselessly. He stopped suddenly and
turned round.
"What's that? What's that? Some one mention me? Hey?"
The family was silent till Mary turned to him smiling. "Cousin Toby was
only saying--though I don't think you were meant to hear--that you
were one of those people who have learnt that it is more blessed to
give than to receive."
"Stuff and nonsense!" Uncle Dickie threw out his chest like a
cock-sparrow. The room was warm; the meat had been tender; Mary enjoyed
his stories. After all, in spite of his eighty-seven years, he was
still an entertaining companion. It occurred to him at last that his
family's declared affection might arise from appreciation of his good
qualities rather than from expected enjoyment of his bank balance.
Under the table-cloth he groped for Mary's hand with his knotted
fingers.
Sarah, noticing the gesture, sniffed.
One of the famous Robson silences held the company spellbound. Then
John, prompted by a sign from Mary, went to the side-table, and the pop
of a cork closed the incident.
"We thought we would have some champagne to-night as this is a rather
festive occasion," said Mary. "We don't often have an excuse."
"Splendid! Just the thing!" Toby licked his lips and winked at Ursula,
intimating that he and she stood apart, belonging to a world where tea
and champagne were only mixed at wedding-breakfasts. A faint smile
quivered at the corner of Ursula's mouth.
Sarah felt more convinced than ever that Mary was leading John to ruin.
The glasses were filled and the guests paused. Then Aunt Jane, sitting
at John's right hand, became aware with awful certainty that her
husband was about to make a speech. She turned to John in fluttering
horror.
"Oh, John, your Uncle Dickie's going to make a speech. Do stop him.
He always says something dreadful, and it upsets him so that he can't
sleep for nights afterwards."
But to John the effort of initiative, especially concerning his own
relatives, was intolerable. He shook his head and said nothing. Uncle
Dickie rose slowly to his feet.
"We have come together," he began without further ceremony, "on a most
auspicious occasion. Ten years ago our little lass here was married to
John."
"Little lass!" thought Sarah. "Why, the woman's five feet ten at least."
"Not but what ten years is a short enough time for a man and his wife
to live together without quarrelling. Our Jane and I have stood it for
three score. But, when John crossed over the hedge from Littledale and
hung up his hat in Anderby as you might say, things weren't exactly
plain sailing."
He paused and ran his fingers up and down the table-cloth awaiting
further inspiration. His wife coughed apprehensively.
"There was some matter of a mortgage what had to be paid off. And a bad
business it was too."
"Hear, hear!" commented Donald Holmes. Then realizing that emphasis on
this point was undesirable, he relapsed into stifled silence.
"A bad business for those that had less sense than these young folks.
But I understand that now the final payment has been made. I'd hoped to
see them comfortably settled before I went, for John is a good lad and
Anderby a fine farm, and now it seems that nothing is wanting to make
us happy but a young Robson to hold it after they're gone. But I've no
doubt----"
Jane had suddenly choked and looking up Uncle Dickie caught sight of
Sarah's grim perturbation and Mary's crimson-flooded cheeks.
"I've no doubt that we--John--I was saying--auspicious occasion----"
His flow of eloquence was checked, but he remembered his carefully
considered peroration and raised his glass.
"I want you to join with me in drinking their health. Ladies and
gentlemen, I give you John and Mary Robson of Anderby Wold."
They drank in awkward silence until Toby, glad of an excuse to cover
Uncle Dickie's lapse from tact, broke forth into a lusty carolling of
"For he's a jolly good fellow!" And the company caught up the chorus.
Even Anne and Louisa, their cheeks flushed by the unwonted champagne
and their emotions slightly beyond control, joined in with their creaky
sopranos.
Foster called upon John to reply. He looked helplessly round the table
until he met Mary's encouraging smile and then rose slowly to his feet.
"I can't make a speech," he said, "any more than the gardener could
who was invited to dinner at Edenthorpe Hall because he fished young
Master Seton out of the lake. He had to reply to Sir Michael's vote of
thanks, and he hummed and hawed till his wife came to the rescue. 'Now,
Sir Charles,' said she, 'you mun excuse our John. 'E ain't used to
speechifying. Any talking that's done in our 'ouse--_ah_ does it'!"
He sat down suddenly, his large form shrinking abashed behind the ham.
His confidence deserted him as rapidly as it had arrived.
"Get up, Mary," Toby called, knocking on the table with his fork. "Come
along! Your man's given you away. You'll have to do it."
Mary rose.
"I'm not much of a speaker either," she began, but to Sarah her low
clear voice betrayed no self-distrust. "I can only say thank you all
very much for your kindness and you, Uncle Dickie, for your good
wishes. John and I could never have managed if you had not stood behind
us and given us confidence. It mayn't seem much to have done, but we
are pleased to-night because Anderby is safe. And--and we thank you all
for coming and hope you'll often come here again."
She paused and smiled at her relations round the table. "She doesn't
hope we'll come here again," Sarah was thinking. "She doesn't care if
she never sees us again. She cares for nothing but her farm and that
people should think she's a wonder!"
Mary concluded:
"I don't think I can wish you anything better than the old toast,
'Ere's tiv us, all on us. May we niver want nowt, naun on us. Nor you,
nor me, nor ony on us--nor me neither!"
The last dog-cart had rumbled down the darkness of the road; the last
guest had been escorted to bed with candles and hot whisky, before John
and Mary stood alone together in the drawing-room. The fire had burnt
low. A heavy scent of tobacco, chrysanthemums and hot whisky hung about
the room. The clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve thin, tinkling
notes.
Mary knelt on the hearth-rug and swept the fallen ashes beneath the
grate. There was a green line round the handle of the hearth-brush
where Violet had omitted to rub away the brass polish. For a moment
this absorbed Mary's attention. Then she turned to her husband and said:
"Well John, I think that went off all right, don't you?"
"Oh, ay," responded John without enthusiasm.
"John--I----" She rose, and began to straighten the chintz covers on
the sofa. "I've been wondering--I mean--you know I'm sorry about Uncle
Dickie--I mean that he should have to say--all that about a young
Robson to carry on here--I mean--I wonder somethimes how much you
mind----"
"Oh, that's all right. Don't you worry, honey. It can't be helped."
John turned slowly from her and left the room. In passing the silver
table near the door he knocked over a small vase. Always in the
drawing-room he seemed to occupy more than his fair allowance of space.
The door closed. Mary went forward and picked up the fallen vase. It
was a flimsy fluted thing, a wedding present from Anne and Louisa. Mary
held it in her hand while she listened to John's footsteps on the mat,
on the tiles of the hall, on the stair carpet. One stair creaked. They
must get a new board there, she thought. At a turn of the stair he hit
his foot against a brass rail that rang jangling through the house.
Then she heard him in the room above, now by the window, now sitting
down to throw off his shoes, now by the bed. It creaked and groaned.
Then there was silence.
She knelt again by the fire, holding her hands above the glowing ashes.
Well, that was that. It had been a long day, and even her vitality
could not stand unlimited exertion. Still, it had been worth it. Mrs.
Holmes's toupee, Sarah's nastiness about the socks, the hole in the
best linen sheet--all these were only echoes and shadows from another
world. The only real and solid thing was the knowledge that the
mortgage was paid. Nothing else mattered. She was prepared to sing her
_Nunc dimittis_ for the consummation of her life's work, forgetful that
over forty years of her three score and ten still remained in which all
sorts of things could happen. This was her hour of triumph in which she
tasted that unfearing gladness which gives no hostage to defeat.
The ashes crumbled and collapsed. The room was growing cold. She
rose and began to move dreamily about the room, straightening chairs
and tables, and flicking cigarette ends from the ashtrays into the
fire-place.
Because of the mortgage she had lived for twenty-eight years on the
Wolds under the shadow of their reproach. In her lonely childhood the
fields of Anderby had assumed for her a more definite personality than
any of the people whom she knew. Land was, after all, the thing that
mattered most. That was why she had been so miserable when her father
brushed aside the foreman's suggestions of improvement with a curt "We
can't afford it. So there's an end on't." That was why she had laboured
for nearly a whole day, trying to stuff up the cracks along the cowshed
wall with bits of mud and straw because she was sure the Wolds must
despise such shabby buildings.
And then that haunting fear that one day "They" would suddenly swoop
down upon the farm and carry it away as the jinns in the fairy book
carried off Solomon's palace ... and the restless uncertainty that
seemed to stand between her father and any joy of possession.... All
this, he had constantly explained with increasing emphasis as the
farm grew more dilapidated, was not his fault, but the result of the
mortgage.
Well, there was no need to lie any longer, as eight-year-old Mary had
lain, with the bed-clothes drawn up round her ears to shut out the
voice of the wind howling along the corridors, because it might be the
voice of the mortgage, come at last from the dark sky to carry off
"every stick and stone, lassie, every stick and stone." Her father had
said that this would happen, and he must know.
He must know--must know what? Why, of course, that a bowl of water
placed in the middle of the room prevented it from reeking with stale
tobacco for days after a party. She must go and get one.
Mary rubbed a drowsy hand across her eyes. She must have been half
asleep, sitting in the big arm-chair while the room grew colder and
colder. Wearily she rose and walked towards the door.
Then she stood still.
Out in the hall she heard a faint rustling sound. It could not be a
mouse. No one would be walking about now. It must be ever so late. She
looked at the clock--half-past two.
A click as though a door shut. The dining-room door. Some one was up.
Not John. She would have heard him move. Who then?
She stood hesitating, the handle of the dining-room door in her hand.
It was strange to wait again like this, wondering whether one ought
to go on into the dining-room because Father was there and the whisky
bottle and that was an undesirable combination....
Well, it couldn't be that now anyway. She opened the door and walked
across the hall.
The dining-room door was ajar. A strip of light wavered against the
darkness.
All this had happened before. If she entered the room, Mary was sure
that her father would look up from the table and swear softly at her
intrusion.
Of course he couldn't. He had died over ten years ago. Mary had seen
him die, crying aloud that the mortgage, the mortgage, the mortgage had
got him at last, and that she alone was left to fight it.
Her breath came quickly. There was a scraping sound, and somebody
sighed heavily. She pushed open the door and went in.
Janet Holmes, in a voluminous quilted dressing-gown, knelt on the floor
near the sideboard. Seeing Mary, she rose to her feet with greater
alacrity than the Harrogate specialist would have thought possible but
unfortunately in her haste she dropped a china biscuit jar that fell
against the corner of the fender, breaking in a hundred fragments.
"Oh dear, oh dear! How you startled me!" she gasped.
"Is anything wrong?" asked Mary severely. The jar had been a relic of
her mother's lifetime. It was old Spode, and Mary loved dearly the
twisting blue flowers on its glazed surface. She regarded it ruefully.
"Oh dear! I'm so sorry. But you did startle me so. It just slipped out
of my hand. I hope it was not of any great value, though with these
things it's not what they cost, is it? It's the things they belonged
to--I mean, you know since we went to the Grange--late dinner--my
digestion--the doctor at Harrogate said 'Now, Mrs. Holmes, always take
food one hour before retiring,' and I thought perhaps a biscuit----"
"Oh, I see."
Ten minutes elapsed before Mrs. Holmes could be consoled for the
omission of late dinner, Mary's inopportune appearance, and the
destruction of the biscuit jar. Mary escorted her to her room, and then
returned to gather up the fragments.
Fingering the broken pieces reverently, she forgot that the jar had
been cracked before and only remembered it as a beautiful thing that
had once been hers. The thought of possession was comfortable and
satisfying. Mary's mouth curved in a soft little smile. Anderby was
hers. The mortgage was paid. That was worth anything; worth unlovely
dresses made in the village, worth the constant strain of economy,
worth the ten year's intimacy with a man whose presence roused in her
alternate irritation and disappointment.
"Nothing is wanting to make us happy except a young Robson."
Mary brushed together the crumbs from the hearth-rug and straightened
her back.
Well, worth that too, perhaps.
She looked round the shadowy room--ghostly dark beyond her feeble
candlelight. The smile flickered again across her face.
"May we never want nowt, nawn on us," she whispered.