THE PERFECT GUEST
Ursula stood in front of the looking-glass inspecting the angle of
her hat. It was a new hat. She had put it on to impress Mary. Mary
dressed rather like the worthier type of village school teacher. She
wore flannel blouses with high collars. It was time some one took her
in hand. "There's something about looking after a parish that makes a
woman forget to powder her nose," thought Ursula.
Ursula had come to Anderby on a mission of mercy. She was going
to brighten Mary up. Mary had been shut away too long with that
extraordinarily dull husband of hers. She thought that the only thing
a married woman could do, if she had any time left over from looking
after her own household, was to look after some one else's. Well,
Ursula was going to show her that there were lots of other things to
do. The perfect guest was one who contributed something to the life
of her hostess. Ursula was going to teach Mary how to dress, and play
bridge, and behave like a girl of twenty-eight instead of a woman of
forty. And yet she would be tender and gentle, with the tenderness
of expectant motherhood--fashionable yet considerate, thoughtful yet
spontaneous.
Ursula found continual pleasure in the contemplation of her own
spontaneity.
Mary re-entered the drawing-room, carrying a tea-tray. Now was the
time, thought Ursula, to lay her fur coat carelessly on the sofa, and
reveal the soft grey draperies of her satin dress. What a mercy she
looked so much nicer than most women in these circumstances. It just
showed there was no real need to let yourself go.
But Mary did not seem to notice the dress.
"We're having a cup of tea now," she explained, arranging the tray on
the table, "because I expect you would like one after your drive, and I
have to go out down the village on an errand."
"When? Now?"
Then she would not be present while Ursula spread on the antiquated
dressing-table the elaborate paraphernalia of her toilette--bottles,
scent, powder, manicure instruments. She would not be instructed by the
display of Ursula's fairy-like _lingerie_. She would miss part of her
education.
"I'm sorry if it seems rude, but it's rather important. I dare say you
will be glad of a rest, though."
"It's something that's worrying you, Mary. What?"
"Worrying me? Why, whatever makes you think I'm worrying?"
"My dear, you're hardly an expert at disguising your feelings. Do you
mind if I have a cigarette? Now then, come along! Confession is good
for the soul."
Mary must be worried if she was too preoccupied to notice the fur coat.
"I'm only going to see the schoolmaster about a boy John wants to come
and work on the farm this spring. The schoolmaster says he hasn't
reached the sixth standard yet, and doesn't want him to leave school."
"What are you going to do, then?"
"I'm going to Coast to tell him that the boy is thirteen and has put
in his attendances. If he hasn't got to the sixth standard now, he
never will. He's keen on sheep and hates lessons. On the farm he'll be
getting experience as well as making money. It's absurd to keep him
sitting at a desk chalking coloured flowers!"
"Oh, you talk to the schoolmaster like that, do you? But isn't there
something about education acts and things? I don't know much about it.
It's not my line, but the kid seems pretty young."
Ursula was not at all interested in lads and education acts. She
wanted to talk about her own interesting condition or Mary's style of
hairdressing. But she had made up her mind to be patient, and patient
she would be.
"Mr. Woodcock," continued Mary with heat, "says in the _Yorkshire
Chronicle_ that the people who make education acts are legislating for
the normal majority. It is the business of local knowledge to determine
the exceptions."
"My dear Mary, you talk like a Member of Parliament. Are you really
interested in these things?"
"Rural education? Yes, of course."
"Why 'of course'? I'm not. I never put my nose inside Middlethorpe. I
don't know if there's a village school or not except when the beastly
bell rings in the morning--and yet Foster seems to do pretty well on
the farm."
"It's not entirely a question of money though, is it?"
Mary looked at Ursula with grave, wide eyes.
"Isn't it? Philanthropy, then, and all that sort of thing, I suppose.
Does your schoolmaster enjoy it when you snatch his lambs away from
him? Does he, Mary?"
She laughed.
"No. I don't believe he does. But that's not the point."
"I don't really see that there is a point to it at all."
Ursula lit one cigarette from another and threw the dead end into
the grate. She did not like smoking a lot just now, but really, with
Mary----
"Well, some one's got to do it," said Mary.
"Why? Do what?"
"Oh, see that nurses are provided and that the girls get situations
and--oh, I don't know. Besides, I like it."
"Of course." Ursula smiled pityingly. "I suppose when you have so few
other ties----"
Mary flushed.
Ursula continued:
"You look tired. I'm sure you do too much. I shall speak to John about
it. Why don't you go in for golf?"
"Golf? I shouldn't be any good at that I'm afraid. Besides
Hardrascliffe links are so far away. I haven't time."
"Time? Of course you have time. As much time as anyone. As me, for
instance."
Mary shook her head slowly, and began to gather up the tea-things.
"You'll excuse me going away now, won't you? I shan't be long. You'll
just have nice time to unpack comfortably and I expect John will be in
any moment now."
She left the room.
Ursula curled herself comfortably on the sofa and putting another
cushion behind her head, prepared to enjoy a grievance. Really it was
rather casual of Mary to go and leave her just after her arrival. She
did not seem to realize her good fortune in having her cousin there at
all. "She's hopelessly limited and narrow-minded. Poor Mary! Anybody so
thoroughly pleased with herself must be disillusioned one day. She'll
come a cropper soon," prophesied Ursula.
She was too tired to go upstairs and dress. Besides, what was the use,
when John and Mary never changed for high tea?
Her head sank back among the cushions.
"Oh, that you, Ursula? How are you?"
John stood before her holding out a polite but rather grimy hand. His
beard was grizzled with frost. His farming boots distributed little
pools of melting ice on the carpet. Leather breeches encased his great
legs.
Ursula sat up and patted her perfectly-ordered hair.
"Good gracious! I must have been dozing. How are you, John? I'm
perfectly fit, thanks."
"Where's Mary?"
"She's gone off up the village somewhere. I say, John, you ought to
keep an eye on that wife of yours. She works much too hard."
John tugged at his beard and smiled lazily down at Ursula.
"Oh, I can't stop her. If she wants to do anything she will. What's she
up to now?"
"She's off to tell the schoolmaster some home-truths about a lad or
something. She says you want him on the farm and he's under age."
"Jack Greenwood? I don't want him. That's her idea. How long has she
been gone?"
"Oh, I don't know. Ages. Do sit down and talk to me."
John looked apologetically at his boots. Near Ursula's fragile
daintiness he felt more than ever conscious of his bulk and clumsiness.
"Where's Foster?" he asked.
"He's away in Scotland buying stock. He's crazy about crossing
something or other with Highland Cattle. _I_ don't know." Ursula seemed
preoccupied. Her brow was ruffled with thought. "John, does Mary always
rule things in the village in this high-handed way?"
"What? I dun' know. That's her business. I never interfere."
"But don't you see she's wearing herself out? Making an old woman
of herself while she ought to be still a girl? Besides, after all,
you're the farmer, aren't you? Of course," with a sigh, "I know she's
magnificent."
"Oh--ay."
"But it must make it a little uncomfortable for every one if she will
set the village by the ears."
John sat silent for a minute. Ursula lay and watched him, her sharp
brown eyes quietly searching his ruminative face. There was something
about John that reminded her of an ox--large, docile, fated. "Well,
it's nowt to do with me," he said at last. "I'd better go and clear
away some of this mess. So long."
He left her.
Well, it was evident that nothing could be done with John. She
would have to concentrate on Mary. The determination to reform her
cousin-in-law's existence pursued her throughout the evening. It would
be an entertaining game, the sole relief of a rather monotonous visit
to otherwise boring people.
Next morning she was awakened by Mary, standing over her bed with the
breakfast tray. One irritating thing about Mary was that she always
seemed to be carrying trays somewhere.
"Good heavens! What's the time?"
"Half-past eight. John wanted breakfast at a quarter past seven this
morning. He had to go to Littledale early."
"Well, it's awfully ripping of you, but you know you shouldn't spoil
me."
"It's not a question of spoiling," returned Mary serenely. "I couldn't
let you get up so early, especially as I don't suppose you feel quite
at your best in the mornings just now."
How like Mary to emphasize the unromantic aspect of a really rather
romantic thing! Ursula surveyed the tray which Mary arranged in a
businesslike fashion by her side. Mary's manner always reminded Ursula
vaguely of a hospital nurse. She made you feel as if you weren't a
person at all, but only an object of her philanthropy.
Ursula decided that the time had come to assert her personality. "Oh,
Mary, I'm so sorry, but do you mind if I don't eat this bacon? I never
take it now, nothing but an egg or a scrap of fish. No, no! Don't take
it away. I might perhaps try to manage it."
"Oh, for goodness' sake don't eat it if it would upset you. I ought to
have asked last night. It was silly of me. You really should have told
me. And perhaps you'd rather have tea instead of coffee?"
"Oh, no. Don't bother. I couldn't think of troubling you. I'll manage
with coffee this morning. It mayn't make me ill." Ursula smiled
brightly.
"Oh, does it make you sick? I'll bring some tea in a minute."
Mary vanished from the room and Ursula lay and wondered whether it was
worth while getting out of bed to brush her hair before Mary returned.
Just like Mary to come in and find her asleep with dishevelled hair and
her face still covered with the cream she had put on before retiring.
It was not at all in keeping with the effect she had intended to
produce. But perhaps Mary hadn't noticed much. Ursula climbed out of
bed, wincing as her toes touched the cold carpet. There were always
such appalling draughts in these old houses. A rug against the door
would be a good thing. She mentally recorded the suggestion.
A deft fingering of her dark hair and the addition of a rosy satin wrap
transformed Ursula. She snuggled back among the pillows as Mary came in
bearing a teapot, an egg-cup, a hot water-bottle and a shawl.
"There now," she said. "That's better, isn't it? Now put this shawl
round your shoulders. It's cold this morning, isn't it?"
"Thanks awfully. No I don't want the shawl, thanks. I have my wrap. It
was sweet of you to think of it, though."
"Would you care to come out a little later?"
"I'd love to. I'm longing to see this wonderful village of yours." She
shivered a little.
"Are you cold? Do have the shawl."
"No, thanks, but perhaps if you don't mind shutting the door."
"Well, then, I'll come for the tray presently. Don't hurry down. Have
you a book? I left a few on the table. Have you everything you want?"
"Yes, rather. Thanks awfully. And what about a bath? Do I just ring
when I'm ready or what? I could go along myself of course, only I don't
want to give any trouble. Perhaps Violet----"
"Violet's busy this morning. I'm sorry we haven't got a bathroom yet.
I'll bring some cans up to your room."
"Not a bathroom? Poor things! Why, if I don't have my bath every
morning I feel perfectly filthy. And bathing in one's room is such a
chill-some business, isn't it?"
"I'm afraid it is really. But you shall have a fire. I'll light one
now." She lit the fire and went out, leaving Ursula alone with the tray.
* * * * *
Ursula waited quarter of an hour for Mary in the hall, and while she
waited, she reluctantly yielded to an increasing sense of irritation.
She had come to Anderby prepared to be very nice to Mary--and here
was Mary trying to patronize her all the time. All that breakfast in
bed, and fire and bath business had subtly transferred Ursula from the
position of a friend to that of a dependent. "Perfection of service
lies in the appearance of rendering none," quoted Ursula to herself,
and decided she was badly used.
And when Mary at last appeared in the hall, she came forward with an
apology which implied no shame but was merely a statement of courtesy.
"I'm sorry I kept you waiting, but the butcher's cart came round and
then Mrs. Walker brought me her nursing subscription."
"Oh, don't worry about me. I've been as right as a trivet--only waiting
about half an hour. Where are we going?"
"Well, if you don't mind I want to go up to the churchyard. Old Jacob
Jordan died a day or two ago. They're burying him to-morrow and I sent
a man up to line the grave with evergreen. The old people haven't much
of a garden, and they do appreciate those little attentions."
"Do you go and decorate the grave yourself?"
"No, I only want to see how it's getting on. Here, let me open the
gate. You'll spoil your gloves."
But Ursula was already tugging at the iron bars, and withdrew her hand,
grimacing at the stripe of moisture across the doeskin gauntlet. She
felt that it would have been becoming in Mary to show some sign of
concern. But Mary only said quietly:
"You should have let me do it."
Ursula walked on for a little way in silence. Then she asked:
"Will you go to the funeral to-morrow?"
"Yes. If you'll excuse me for that time. It won't take long."
"Do you go to all their funerals?"
"The people in the village? Yes, mostly."
"Mary, how _can_ you?"
"Why shouldn't I? I don't mind."
"Funerals are so beastly depressing. If you go to a lot you'll get
morbid and queer."
"I shan't. I quite enjoy them."
"Enjoy them? Good Lord, that just shows how fearfully bad they are for
you. Enjoying a funeral! I never heard of anything so grizzly."
"It's not a bit grizzly really. If you lived about here, you'd
understand. People enjoy them nearly as much as weddings and a lot more
than christenings."
"Oh, I see." Ursula cracked a frozen puddle with the point of her
walking-stick. "A christening may be a farce and a wedding a fiasco,
but you know where you are with a funeral."
"Yes, I suppose so," said Mary calmly.
They had turned from the village street into a path that led up the
hill to the church. Ursula took up her tale.
"All the same, I think it's perfectly beastly, making a kind of
beanfeast because somebody is going to be shut up in the earth. Do you
know, if you don't mind I think I'd rather not go into the churchyard
just now--an open grave, it always gives me the shudders. I can wait
outside."
"Why, of course. How silly of me not to have thought about it. It
doesn't matter. I can go another time. Let's turn down here."
"Here" meant past the School House.
"What a hideous place!" said Ursula.
"Oh, I don't know." Mary resented anyone else who criticized her
village. "Why, there's the schoolmaster."
"Is he one of your adorers?" Ursula asked, looking with amusement
at the lean, black coated figure carrying a pile of books from one
building to another.
Mary flushed.
"Not exactly," she said, but as Mr. Coast approached she smiled at him
graciously. "Good morning," she called. "A blustery morning, isn't it?
How's Mrs. Coast?"
She was not going to let Ursula see that there was any fly in her
ointment of patronage.
But Coast regarded her coldly without a sign of recognition. From her
he turned to Ursula, in her fur coat and rakish hat. His scornful eyes
swept across them and he turned away.
Ursula suppressed a giggle of triumph. This was the worship offered by
Mary's beloved villagers. The family should hear of this. "What a rude
man!" she remarked airily.
"I expect the sun was in his eyes," said Mary.
Ursula decided it would be tactful to change the conversation. Poor
Mary! She looked like a lion tamer when Leo won't sit up and do his
tricks!
"You know, Mary," she began with pretty diffidence, running her
walking-stick along the path, "you're such a dear. I'd hate to see you
spoiled, and living this sort of life must be rather dangerous--likely
to get you into a groove."
"What sort of a groove?" asked Mary.
"Well, all this village work and so on. And sticking so closely to your
house and everything, as if you were one of your own aunts."
Mary held herself well in hand.
"I thought I had explained all that before," she said patiently. "You
see we've had to economize a lot because of the mortgage. We only
started even having a maid last year, though we could have two easily
in that house. And I do a lot of the garden myself, though it's really
too big for me to manage. You know the mortgage had to be paid."
"That old mortgage seems to have been the bane of your life, Mary.
Thank goodness it's paid now and you can forget it. You ought to play
bridge and dance. Can you dance? You look as if you could. You move
rippingly!" Ursula hummed a few bars from a popular waltz. "And then--I
know it sounds awful cheek on my part, but couldn't you do something
about your clothes?"
"My clothes?"
"Yes. You know, of course, I understand it's been awfully difficult
for you. And we all think you've been perfectly splendid, the way
you've toiled and pinched to pay those beastly debts, but now they're
all done with couldn't you go to some one rather more enterprising
for your coats and skirts? Of course I get mine in town, but I dare
say you wouldn't want to go so far. Still, there's York and Hull and
Scarborough. Oh, lots of places where there must be a decent tailor."
"I dare say. I can't afford it though. We're not millionaires yet. John
must get some capital laid by."
"Still, I don't see why you shouldn't do things, especially as you
haven't any children to keep you at home. Now _I'm_ quite prepared to
settle down for a bit after April but you really might be a bit more
normal. Of course, it's been bad luck, having to save such a lot and
all that, but it's all over now. You mustn't get in a groove."
Mary smiled, a queer, twisted smile.
So that was what they thought of the thing that had dictated the whole
course of her life, forced her into marriage with a man old enough to
be her father, and left her, now that youth was passing, deprived of
every interest except her village work. Something that was all over,
and might be comfortably forgotten.... Though, without it, she might be
going to have a child as well as Ursula....
"Of course I dare say I've no right to say anything, Mary. You know
it's only because you're such a dear really...."
Middle-aged. That was what Ursula said she was. Well, she often felt
it. She supposed it must be with thinking about the same thing for so
long. Monomania is an efficient destroyer of youth.
Well, if she was in a groove, there was no escape from it. Not by the
easy way of tennis parties and bridge which Ursula suggested. She had
placed herself irretrievably in the ranks of the older generation. If
youth meant the adventuring towards an uncertain choice of life, then,
when the choice was made, youth ended. Ten years ago Mary had made her
choice. Henceforward she was captive in a "groove," and must descend in
it steadily until the end of life, with no digressions that might lead
her to the hill-tops of success or the valleys of humiliation.
She opened the gate for Ursula and passed behind her up the wintry
garden.
Never mind! She would make it all worth while.
Anderby was going to be the most prosperous, popular, well cared for
village in the East Riding before she had done with it. She'd show them.
She went along the passage with shining eyes and began to prepare
dinner.
In spite of herself the elasticity of her youth had momentarily
triumphed.
John followed her and stood in the doorway watching her with his slow
smile.
She always knew when he had something to tell her. It was so irritating
of him just to stand there without speaking. She thrust her tins into
the oven and closed the door carefully before she looked up.
"Well?" she asked.
"Honey, I've just seen that chap Coast."
"Oh, have you? And what has he to say for himself?"
"He says that if you take young Greenwood away from school he'll report
you to the Inspector and you'll have to answer for your action in
Court."
John chuckled.
Mary tossed the oven cloth aside contemptuously. In the fine exaltation
of her mood she could afford to laugh at Coast.
"Let him," she said. "I'd love to see him try to have me up before my
betters. Think of old Sir Charles Seton's face when he saw me in the
dock! He told Mr. Slater, when I was put on the Nursing Committee, that
I was an estimable woman."
"Well, I wouldn't do anything rash if I were you."
"No, I'm sure you'd never do anything rash if you were anyone. Never
mind. Go along and wash your hands. There's Yorkshire pudding for
dinner, and it won't stand waiting."