A Bachelor's Comedy

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.”