Kitabı oku: «A Bachelor's Comedy», sayfa 6

CHAPTER VII

Andy did not feel inclined to go to bed when he got home, and so had a bath and went to work in the garden. He was not what you would call a sentimental gardener, and only weeded the herbaceous border because it was full of weeds, and he had invited the Attertons and the Stamfords to luncheon on the following day – so, of course, he wished everything to be perfect before it greeted the eyes of the Perfect Lady.

But after a while the windless freshness of the early morning began to have its effect on his preoccupied thoughts, and he felt a sort of cool spaciousness in the little hot chambers of his mind, as if all the doors had been thrown open.

Every one knows how. The hot throbbing of a thousand anxious thoughts, the gradual subsidence, the sense of freshness and peace – but only one person has been able to put it into words, and that one is Thomas à Kempis: he no doubt felt it one early morning, after having striven all night long for cool light amid a hot darkness full of fears.

 
“Quietness of heart and pleasant joy.”
 

That’s it.

But Andy’s only conscious thought was that he felt fresher now, and that he would take a few vegetables up the lane to Mrs. Simpson. She had nothing more than a little flower-garden before her cottage, and would no doubt be glad of them.

So he ate his breakfast with an appetite which almost justified his early reputation in Gaythorpe, and went off with a basket of green things, all wet with dew, to his neighbour’s door.

“You’re very kind,” said Mrs. Simpson. “I never touch greens myself, but the children will like them. It takes a green stomach to tackle greens, I always think.”

She glanced placidly from Andy to the two children by the door, so evidently including him among the green things of the earth that he felt bound to assert himself.

“It is extremely bad for the health to take no vegetables,” he remarked, with a flavour in his voice compounded of the senior curate and the lady lay helper.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Simpson, moving her calm gaze from the distant fields, where it had strayed, “well, my great-grandmother lived to be ninety-six, and she never touched greens.”

Andy frowned. That was the way things happened in real life – so different from a well-ordered parish – no method anywhere.

“I’m glad you’ve made friends with Mrs. Jebb,” he said, begging the question until he thought of a good reply. “It’s rather lonely for her, and I shall be grateful if you would look her up sometimes – without your furniture polish,” he added, with a laugh.

“You know Miss Elizabeth bid for the sideboard to give me as well?” said Mrs. Simpson.

“Yes,” said Andy eagerly, so delighted to speak of Elizabeth that he quite forgot to address any further admonition on the subject of ‘greens.’ “Yes, it was a queer thing we should both think of the same thing, wasn’t it?”

How lovely the ‘we’ sounded! Andy thrilled to the exquisite, fresh music of it.

But Mrs. Simpson stroked Sally’s hair and said calmly —

“I don’t know that there was anything so strange about it. All my life I’ve had things happen like that. When I was a little girl like Sally here I lost my best gloves – new ones they were – and I went up into the china-cupboard by myself and prayed hard to find them, and I did find them under my bed – a place nobody would think of finding new gloves in, would they?”

“N-no,” said Andy.

“And it was the same thing,” continued Mrs. Simpson, “with the cupboard. I prayed hard about that sideboard, and I said if anything could cheer me up a bit, it would, and I got it. I expect Them that overlooks all thought I had had as much as I could stand.” She paused, then added, just in the same tone, “Sally, if that boy swallows that carrot he’ll choke himself.”

Sally’s responsible little face sharpened, and she ran out to rescue her charge from an untimely end.

“Naughty boy,” she said, taking the carrot from his fat hand to substitute her own ripe gooseberry, and she did it without any ill-feeling; he was behaving, of course, as well as you could expect boys to behave.

But as Andy tramped off with his empty basket, an almost incredible idea crossed his mind. Could Mrs. Simpson have reached a place beyond him?

Ridiculous! Her idea of the Deity as a sort of Lost Property Office was an altogether wrong and hideously material one.

And yet —

A thought forced itself from somewhere outside upon Andy’s mental vision. Had she not perhaps grasped with the fingers of superstition a corner of that gigantic truth which is above all creeds – all theories – the truth that there is no limit whatever to the power of faith?

Andy sat down to his study-table and wrote his article for a paper to which he contributed at those times – very rare times – when the editor would accept his contributions. And after he had been writing five minutes he felt perfectly certain, of course, that he knew more about everything in the world than Mrs. Simpson could ever possibly do.

Still – there had been a moment —

About eleven o’clock he began to get restless and to wonder at what hour a young lady would be likely to visit the invalid parrot of a deceased great-aunt.

Not so very early, because, after all, William was not a lovable person in himself.

And not so very late, because of the great-aunt deceased.

Andy washed his hands, put on a clean collar, which is all a young person can do, be he never so much in love, and strolled carelessly through the garden to the back lane which led past the Petches’ cottage.

He pretended not to see Sam Petch as he went by the asparagus bed, and hummed abstractedly when he went out of the little corner gate. It was as if he said to himself, “Ah, here is a gate – I may as well go through it.”

And he walked a step or two up the lane, then viewed the garden hedge with an intent air, as if he were laying deep plans about it. He even pulled a leaf or two, critically, and so managed to reach the holly bush at the end where there was a stile deep in shadow.

Again he paused, appearing to say to the blank universe, “This is actually a stile. Stiles are made to sit upon. I will sit.”

Thus he waited for his girl to pass, by a sort of logical sequence, which impressed the sparrows very much, and quite allayed any undue curiosity on the part of the fieldmice.

But Sam Petch, being neither a sparrow nor a fieldmouse, peeped through the holly bush and wondered.

Then he saw Elizabeth coming along, and he did not wonder any longer, but he did wish Andy good luck, for he had a sort of generosity, had young Sam Petch, and a sort that is rarer than it seems – he could be glad that somebody else was enjoying a treat while he had to work.

But all the same he chuckled to himself at the thought that Andy was going without butter, and he had no scruples whatever about drinking all he could afford to pay for, as usual; for he considered that his master had interfered with the most sacred right of a Briton – the right to get drunk on beer – and that the punishment exquisitely fitted the crime.

Still, he was growing fond of Andy, and he gazed after him through the hole in the holly bush with a benevolent eye.

“Gosh, I could put him up to a thing or two! He doesn’t know how to begin. Squeeze ’er ’and, squeeze ’er ’and, you young ijiot!”

And he quite danced with impatience behind the holly bush at the respectful brevity of his master’s salute.

Then the young couple went sedately down the lane, and Sam Petch strolled back to his work, remarking scornfully, “I could do better than that when I was fifteen.”

He would have been more scornful still if he could have walked behind them, for Andy knew, and Elizabeth knew, and both knew the other knew, that this was not a chance meeting. It was, for both of them, the first definite step upon that journey which leads to the mysterious City of Wedded Love.

It lay before them, as it does before every young lover – strange, wonderful, and yet with familiar streets that we all know by name – an enchanted muddle of realism and romance.

“I think it’s going to rain,” remarked Andy, but, of course, his heart said, “How sweet you are – sweeter even than I thought!”

And Elizabeth replied —

“Yes, the glass has gone down,” but, of course, she really said, and Andy understood, “I’m glad to be here with you.”

Then for a little while they walked along saying nothing at all, because that had been so tremendous. Only Andy’s young body worshipped the exquisite harmony of his lady – cream gown, skin of that peach-like shade that has no name, golden eyes, and pure, burning sunlight in the brown of her hair.

And his soul worshipped the kindness of her voice and the clear candour of the girl’s eyes.

Oh, he was in love, body and soul, was Parson Andy.

He would never have believed that Norah was really far the better looking of the two sisters, with lovely features, graceful figure, and perfect colouring, which left nothing for the imagination of a lover to idealise, while Elizabeth’s charm must always be, to a certain extent, in the eye of the beholder.

However, old Sam Petch, in his little shanty at the fag-end of the village, gave a description of his friend Elizabeth, which was perhaps correct, though not refined. “She’s just a niceish-looking lass,” he said; “no beauty, though.” Then he paused, pulled at his pipe, and winked at Andy, who was his visitor. “Bud, howivver,” he added, “she’s a cuddlesome one, she is.”

Andy had replied with cold dignity at the time, but he thought of it now, as he walked near Elizabeth – he thought of it to the exclusion of all the brilliant things he meant to have said to Her.

“Here we are,” said he, opening the gate of young Sam Petch’s garden.

“Oh yes, here we are,” echoed Elizabeth, who really was rather an intelligent talker as a rule.

But the ‘we’ she echoed was the second step – the enchanted muddle was that glorious much nearer – and they could find no words in face of such a view.

“How-do-you-do, Mrs. Petch?” said Elizabeth at last; then she glanced round for the next remark, quite forgetting what she had come for.

“And how are your legs to-day, Mrs. Petch?” said Andy, hiding his emotions under an expression of overdone sympathy. Then he felt a lady’s legs were perhaps not subjects to mention before Elizabeth, and added with incoherent haste, “But, of course, it’s heads the heat affects. Sunstroke. Most dangerous thing!”

Mrs. Petch glanced at the poor ostrich trying to stick his head in the sand.

“My uncle had sunstroke,” she said, helping to bury his wriggling extremities with a sort of tolerant contempt.

“Mr. Deane and I have been talking about the change in the weather ever since we met by accident in the lane,” remarked Elizabeth, with a little laugh. “It really is quite remarkable.”

“Indeed it is, miss. Fine to-day and dull to-morrow, as you may say,” assented Mrs. Petch cordially, casting a little sand over the other ostrich, but asking herself scornfully what they took her for.

Finally, Elizabeth remembered the purpose of her visit, and looking round the room for an absent bird-cage, she said hastily —

“William’s not dead, is he?”

“Why, no, miss; William’s a lot better, only he has to be kept quiet. Sam saw the bird-fancier when he went into Bardswell on Saturday, and he said perfect quiet was the thing. It just fell out lucky, Mr. Deane giving Sam the afternoon off to go and sell an old clock that the second-hand dealer’s been wanting so long. Just right it did, for it gave us a chance to get the best of advice for William. It isn’t,” said Mrs. Petch, applying the corner of her apron to her left eye, “it isn’t only what we get with him that makes us so anxious, but me and Sam has no bairns, and we’re fair soft about him. We love him like a child, that we do.”

It might have been thought that Mrs. Petch was talking on to ward off the question she saw trembling on Elizabeth’s lips, but if so, she was disappointed, for Elizabeth asked at once —

“Where is William? I should like to look at him. Mamma will not be satisfied if I go away without seeing him.”

“He stands on the dressing-table upstairs in our bedroom window,” said Mrs. Petch. “That looks out into the garden, and it’s just the place for him, and he’s scattering seed all over everything; but what do I care, poor lamb, so long as he gets better? Let him only get himself again, say I, and no matter – ”

“I should like to see him,” said Elizabeth, with a look which her family would have recognised. Indeed, she possessed rather more than her share of a quality which her friends called firmness, and her family something else.

“I really couldn’t take it upon myself with Sam away – ” began Mrs. Petch; then she glanced at Elizabeth’s face, and added reluctantly, “Of course, miss, if you accept the responsibility – ”

“I do,” said Elizabeth. “Shall I go up and see the bird?”

“I haven’t done the room yet,” said Mrs. Petch.

“Then I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to fetch him down,” said Elizabeth.

Mrs. Petch went slowly upstairs, creaking remonstrance at every step, and Elizabeth whispered to Andy —

“I’m convinced that William is either dead or dying, and Mrs. Petch is trying to hide it from us. Don’t you think so?”

Lovely to have her appeal to him, even about a bird with an unpleasant character. Andy thrilled as he responded baldly, “Seems so.”

But, contrary to all expectations, William appeared to be in excellent health and feather; he looked better, in fact, than he had done for a long time. Elizabeth felt ashamed of having suspected the poor woman.

“William,” she murmured. “Poor old William!” and held out a finger. “Is that tea ready? Is that tea ready?”

But William, for the first time since Elizabeth had known him, failed to echo that familiar remark. He refused to whistle, to draw corks, to cry “Cat” – to do anything at all that he had been in the habit of doing for the past twenty years.

“That’s it!” said Mrs. Petch desperately. “I daren’t tell you. I knew Mrs. Atterton would think we’d been neglecting him, and we never have. He’s lost his vocaberlery. He can only make a hoarse shriek.”

She threw her apron over her head in a dramatic attitude of despair, and in that moment the parrot turned so that the light caught three yellow feathers in his tail.

“Why, William never had a yellow feather before!” exclaimed Elizabeth.

“No,” muttered Mrs. Petch, still hidden in her apron; “it’s the strong medicine the bird-fancier sent as has done it.”

Elizabeth’s glance met Andy’s rightfully indignant, then both pairs of eyes began to twinkle, and finally a tide of ridiculous, uncontrollable laughter rose up within them. They felt it coming, tried to keep it down, and were overcome by it.

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” laughed Elizabeth, clear as a bell.

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” laughed Andy in deeper tones, but just as fresh and jolly.

She put up her hand to wipe her eyes, when, somehow, she caught her elbow on Andy’s stick and hurt it. Andy instinctively touched her arm, drew it tighter as they laughed together. Then Mrs. Petch looked out from under her apron.

“Er – Miss Atterton has hurt her arm,” stammered Andy.

Mrs. Petch’s shrewd little eyes were lowered discreetly as she replied in a dejected manner —

“You seem to think it funny, miss, poor William losing his voice.”

“Well, it isn’t exactly – funny,” said Elizabeth, very red and more breathless than a fit of laughter should have left a gay young woman. “It’s more – what you would call peculiar, isn’t it, Mr. Deane?”

She paused, recovered her self-control with a rapidity that astonished Andy, and added briskly, “I must tell mamma about it; but no doubt his vocabulary will come back.”

“I doubt it,” said Mrs. Petch. “I doubt it very much.”

Elizabeth walked to the door and said good-bye, but at the last minute she turned back.

“Mrs. Petch, I think William had better give up taking the medicine that turns his tail yellow before mamma sees him, don’t you?”

Outside, Norah and the pony-cart were already in sight, so Andy only had time to murmur hastily —

“I say, you really ought to tell Mrs. Atterton; it’s a shame to let yourself be done like – ”

“Hush!” interrupted Elizabeth. “I am the only person it really matters to, because the money comes out of my pocket eventually. I inherit my aunt’s fortune when I am twenty-five, you know.”

“It isn’t a question of money only,” began Andy instructively.

“Then what is it?” laughed Elizabeth. But a glance at his face showed her that something else must be done, and she put her hand lightly on his arm.

“Let’s keep it a secret,” she said – “do.” – Oh, Elizabeth!

“Well, if you really think – ” said Andy.

Then Norah clattered up with the little cart, and Elizabeth got in.

CHAPTER VIII

It was the day of the luncheon-party at the Vicarage, and the Vicar sat in solemn conclave with his lady-cook-housekeeper.

“Then you really think boilers?” he said anxiously.

“I ordered boilers, so they’ll have to be,” said Mrs. Jebb, with the air of a person rather at the end of her tether. “We agreed that with white sauce and grated egg and lemon slices you could make boiled fowls look more dressy than plain roast.”

“Of course, of course,” said Andy hastily, wishing to keep her in a good temper until the great day was over. “Stupid of me to have forgotten that. And the asparagus” – he hardly dared it, but he did – “I suppose you’re quite accustomed to cooking asparagus?”

“Any one can cook asparagus,” said Mrs. Jebb coldly. “I haven’t cooked it, because we never had it when I was a girl at home, and Mr. Jebb didn’t like it. But it’s boiled with plain water.”

“And melted butter served with it,” suggested Andy.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Jebb.

“I think we’d better not have any waiting,” continued Andy. “Sophy” (Sophy was the small maid) “will hardly be up to it, eh? And is there anything else that you can think of, Mrs. Jebb? Being a lady yourself, you will understand – ”

Mrs. Jebb thawed a little and considered dramatically, with her finger to her brow.

“Let’s see. What did we do when we entertained at ‘The Laurels’ in Mr. Jebb’s lifetime? Scented soap. Clean towels. Black and white pins. Ah, there’s one thing I have forgotten – if you really wish to provide all – but in a bachelor’s household they would never – ” She paused tantalisingly.

“What is it?” demanded Andy. “Anything I can – ”

“Well, perhaps it’s hardly a subject to mention to an unmarried gentleman,” hesitated Mrs. Jebb; “but if you want everything to be complete you ought to provide face powder. It’s always done. Ladies come in warm, or flustered, or shiny about the nose, and a dash of powder means everything to them.”

“But there’s none to be bought in Gaythorpe,” said Andy, cast down at the omission.

“Yes, there is. Go to the grocer’s and ask for a box of violet powder the same as he keeps for babies. That’ll do quite well,” said Mrs. Jebb.

“Oh, I can’t,” said Andy.

“Well, neither Sophy nor I have time to go,” said Mrs. Jebb, “and it doesn’t really matter at – ”

“If it’s the right thing to have I’ll go and fetch it,” interposed Andy desperately, which shows once more what any man – even a new vicar, who thinks he knows nearly everything – will do for the Beloved before he gets her.

It was disappointing that the Atterton girls did not enter the guest-chamber prepared for them with such care, after all, but laid their sunshades and dust-coats down in the hall.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t like to wash your hands?” urged Andy, thinking of the black and white pins, scented soap, and violet powder.

“Mine are quite clean. I don’t know about Elizabeth’s,” said Norah, with her little smile, marching into the dining-room, followed by her brother Bill.

“Mamma was so sorry not to be able to come at the last minute,” apologised Elizabeth. “But she is not very well to-day.”

“She took the schoolmaster’s words to heart the night of the dancing class and ‘wanted to willow,’ ” said Norah. “At least she wanted to willow more than she did. So she started some sort of treatment – hot water – strict diet – and it has upset her.”

“It wasn’t the treatment that upset the mater,” said Bill, with a grin; “it was the way she broke loose last night to make up for a week of fasting. I watched her.”

That was how they talked about their mother, and yet it was strikingly evident in every word they spoke how they loved her and one another. An atmosphere of invincible family affection surrounded the Attertons like a glow of firelight – as if they were always gathered in spirit round a cheerful hearth.

“Father’s in Marshaven, gloating over a new row of red-brick houses,” said Norah. “But you knew he couldn’t come? He has a magistrates’ meeting at Bardswell to-day as well.”

“Oh, here are Mrs. Stamford and Dick,” said Bill.

Voices were heard from the hall.

“No, thank you,” in Mrs. Stamford’s croaky, distinct voice.

Mrs. Jebb in a vague, persuasive undertone.

“No, my dear woman, I can’t and won’t wash my hands again. Do you think they’re as dirty as my gloves?”

Indeed, as the Squire’s wife came forward to greet her host, it could be plainly seen that her wash-leather gloves had known long and faithful service.

“Your housekeeper nearly pushed me up the stairs,” she said indignantly to Andy. “What’s she mean by it?”

“Well, Mr. Deane seemed rather anxious we should wash our hands,” laughed Norah, coming carelessly to Andy’s assistance. “I know what it is. The Vicarage is sacred, and you wash your hands when you enter in the same way as you take off your shoes at the door of a mosque.”

“The – the fact is,” said Andy, “Mrs. Jebb has made everything as smart as she could upstairs, and I expect she wanted you to see.”

“Oh, poor thing! I say, Mrs. Stamford, let us go after all. She’ll be so disappointed,” said Elizabeth.

“I’ll come too, if you like,” suggested Dick, whose conception of wit was rather elemental.

“Don’t be foolish, Dick,” said his mother, who actually enjoyed his jokes because they showed his frequent moods of sullen discontent had lifted for the time being.

Then they all went out and returned in five minutes, Norah’s nose being conspicuously white.

“You see we’ve used all the luxuries you provided,” she said.

Andy gave an involuntary chuckle, for the coating of coarse, white violet powder had such an odd effect on her little nose, contrasted with her delicate face. Then all the others began to laugh too – Mrs. Stamford because the rest did, and she wished to be a sort of jolly-good-fellow with her son’s friends. It was really almost grotesque to see this woman run counter to every instinct but that of mother-love in order to please her boy – at least it would have been grotesque if it had not been almost tragic.

But a violent irritation was produced in her by the effort, all the same, and she turned sharply to Bill Atterton.

“When do you start work?”

“In October. At least I’m supposed to be reading with old Banks and Bardswell now, but I go up to Cambridge in October.”

“Hum,” said Mrs. Stamford. “Well, it’s time you did. You are getting too stout. Face of fourteen and figure of forty.”

The Atterton girls laughed and took it all in good part – they were so used to shafts of that kind flying about the family – but it hit Bill on his most tender spot.

“I can return the compliment,” he said, with a pleasant smile. “Now, you have the figure of sixteen and the face of sixty.”

They all involuntarily glanced at Mrs. Stamford’s spare, angular form and weather-beaten face, and found it too true to trifle with.

“What nonsense,” said Norah, with a lightning glance at Bill.

“Ha-ha! I call it rather good,” laughed Dick Stamford.

Mrs. Stamford laughed too, with him; but something pulled tight inside of her. So that was how she looked to her son!

Then they all began to cast surreptitious glances at the clock, and Andy saw that it was already ten minutes past two, though the guests had been invited for one-thirty. The anxious host began to fidget about the room and give distracted replies, and the conversation grew more desultory than ever.

“So this is Mrs. Simpson’s sideboard,” said Norah. “How dreadful in this room! And how weak of you! Don’t you hate it?”

Andy caught sight of Elizabeth’s averted face and for a moment forgot all about the lateness of the luncheon. She was thinking the same thing as he was thinking. Glorious moment!

“Don’t you hate it?” repeated Norah.

“No, I – er – sort of like it now,” said Andy.

Then a faint colour crept up the bloomy cream of Elizabeth’s cheek to her ear, and Andy could not help trying to make her turn towards him with a futile, “What do you think of it, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Oh, it’s hideous! But there’s something I rather like about it too,” said Miss Elizabeth demurely.

Then the little maid appeared in the doorway with an expression which would have made the most obtuse hostess on earth remember that she had forgotten her handkerchief and go hastily in search of it. But Andy, being a man, only glared vacantly at her and wondered what she wanted.

She whispered a ‘Sir’ so hoarse with nervousness that no one could hear it, and then in despair she beckoned with her forefinger.

“I think,” suggested Elizabeth apologetically, “that your maid – ”

“What is it? Luncheon ready? Then bring it in,” commanded Andy.

But the child shook her head hopelessly and tears appeared in her goggling blue eyes. A sound as of wood crackling and a range roaring, with all dampers out, came through the open door behind her.

“What is it?” asked Andy again, with some impatience.

“She said I was to tell in private, but you won’t be private,” burst forth the maid, half crying and finding her voice at last “The asparagus won’t cook. We’ve been feeding the fire since twelve with all the firewood there is, and the soft end is boiled to a mush, but the hard end’s as hard as ever it was. You’ll have to do without it.”

Then she flung up her apron and clattered back to the kitchen.

“It’s really most – ” began Andy, pale with annoyance, striding towards the door.

But Bill caught hold of a flying coat-tail.

“Easy on,” he said. “She couldn’t help it. She’s done” – he paused, then burst out into an irresistible guffaw – “she’s done her best!”

“It’s very kind of you to make a joke – ” began Andy again, when Norah remarked —

“Make a joke! You couldn’t make a joke like that!”

And the whole party, excepting Mrs. Stamford, laughed with such infectious gaiety that the agitated host at last joined in.

However, the little maid now reappeared bearing the chickens, which were so elegant in their white sauce and golden egg and green parsley that Andy felt comforted.

“Nothing I like so much as a boiled chicken,” said Elizabeth, assuming an air of greedy expectation.

“I always maintain,” said Bill, “that if you ask the King to lunch and give him a fowl, he’s all right.”

“I expect that’s what you gave him, last time he lunched with you, eh?” chaffed Dick Stamford.

Andy took no part in the conversation. He was too much engaged in carving, and being at no time an expert, he failed to find the joints of the fowls and cut slices from various parts. It required a silent concentration of mind and muscle to sever the legs, of which in cooler moments he would have been incapable.

At last, however, everybody was served, and he sat down, bathed in perspiration, to talk about the weather. He had already done so twice over, but he could think of nothing else. He forgot to give himself any chicken, and ate potatoes agitatedly with a knife and fork.

“One wonders if this weather can possibly last,” he said, unconsciously grasping at the manner of the senior curate in his emergency. “It will be a providence for the farmers if it continues to – ”

His voice slackened – stopped. He glanced from one guest to the other. No one had even touched their chicken.

“I hope – ” he began.

Then Mrs. Stamford, as it were, stepped forward.

“We’re so very sorry. No doubt your cook, being from the town, is accustomed to have the fowls ready prepared.” She paused.

“I got these from Mrs. Werrit. Usually we have them from Mrs. Thorpe,” said Andy hopelessly.

“In summer,” continued Mrs. Stamford, “it is usual about here to send the poultry home not drawn – it keeps better so.”

“Not drawn,” echoed Andy vaguely, all at sea.

Then Bill took hold of the situation.

“The old girl’s boiled ’em with their insides in,” he explained.

“I thought,” said Andy, staring wide-eyed from one to the other, “that there was something funny. But I never dreamed of anything as bad as this.”

“Mrs. Jebb’ll die. She’s so refined,” said Dick Stamford, trying to turn the thoughts of his host from his own despair.

“She deserves to die,” said Andy with extreme bitterness.

The Beloved for the first time under his roof – and he had offered her this! If he had been a woman he would have wept.

“Poor Mrs. Jebb! She decorated them so beautifully. She tried so hard,” murmured Elizabeth.

“I must say I’m sorry for the woman. It will never be forgotten in Gaythorpe so long as Gaythorpe exists,” said Norah.

“Look here,” said Bill. “It is rough on the poor old thing. She’s tried her best. Let’s bury the bits in the garden, and she’ll think we’ve eaten them, and we’ll say nothing about it.”

“Ridiculous!” said Mrs. Stamford. “Personally I like bread and cheese for lunch better than anything, so I am going to help myself from that Gorgonzola on the sideboard.”

But the idea of burying the lunch in the garden struck the Atterton family as novel and delightful. And when they were in certain moods there was no withstanding them; so a procession headed by Mrs. Stamford and closed by Andy, each person bearing a plate, actually did creep with caution through the French window of the dining-room.

“A spade,” whispered Bill, to whom the whole thing had already become a thrilling adventure.

“Here’s one,” replied Andy in the same tone; he was gradually warming to the spirit of it all and forgetting his despair. “That’s a good place under the gooseberry bushes.”

“You’ll have some juicy ones next year,” suggested Dick Stamford.

“Now,” said Norah. “We must do the thing in proper style. Mrs. Stamford – you first. Mr. Deane – you didn’t take any.”