Читать книгу Private Enterprise - Angela Margaret Thirkell - Страница 3

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Mrs. Noel Merton looked out of the dining-room window with considerable displeasure. It was mid-May and for at least the one hundred and thirty-fifth time that year the day was beginning with cold grey sulks accompanied by a highly unsympathetic wind. Every tree looked as if it had been blown inside out, the grass was as leaden as the sky, the river at the bottom of the garden looked like a cross between mud flats and dirty pewter. A few melancholy birds, their tails blown almost over their heads, their breast feathers untidily ruffled, were lounging aimlessly on the terrace. Not as it used to be, thought Mrs. Merton; a thought which was in the minds of all her elders and most of her contemporaries by day and by night. Since the glorious summer which marked the days of Dunkirk warmth and light had been withdrawn from England, and the peace, which certainly passed everyone’s understanding, had not had the faintest influence on the weather which had got the bit well between its teeth and was rapidly heading for the ice age.

Mr. Noel Merton, who had been out of the army for more than a year and was back at the bar doing extremely well, came into the room and put an arm round his wife’s shoulders.

“It’s like Horace,” said Lydia, rubbing her face against her husband’s coat.

“I’m sure it is,” said Noel. “But why?”

“You remember that summer you came home when I was at the Barchester High School,” said Lydia, “and that beast Pettinger set us some odes of Horace to do in the holidays and Everard helped me. I suddenly remembered it.”

“If you could explain yourself a little better, my precious love,” said Noel, “I might begin to have some idea what you are talking about. What is like Horace?”

“Well, I can’t remember any of the words,” said Lydia, “but it was something about everything being pretty awful and everything being much awfuller than it used to be but it will be much awfuller presently. You know what I mean.”

Noel said he did. Though why, he added, Lydia should think she was much worse than her parents and expect her progeny to be yet more corrupt than herself, he could not see.

“It isn’t so much the children,” said Lydia, at once up in arms to defend her young. “Lavinia does scream sometimes, but she is an angel, and I don’t know how anyone could say that Harry is corrupt. He has got two teeth. At least it was a tooth and a half last night and I am sure it is through this morning.”

“I am glad I am not likely to have to cross-examine you,” said Noel. “Come and have breakfast.”

So Lydia sat where her mother used to sit, behind what used to be called the breakfast equipage, and poured out her husband’s coffee. But Noel did not sit opposite her at the other end of the handsome mahogany table where old Mr. Keith used to sit, for he did not approve of a table coming between him and his wife, preferring to be near her and have his back to the wood fire which an English spring made so necessary.

“Another of the horrid things is the post not coming till after breakfast,” said Lydia, “and even when it does come it usually brings horrid letters. It was almost nicer when you and Colin and everyone were fighting, because we did get letters.”

“Well, if you really want another war,” said Noel, “doubtless someone will oblige soon. Only in the next war I shall be a red-tabbed Colonel at the War Office instead of a dashing Major in a hush-hush job. And where is Colin, by the way?”

Lydia looked at her brother’s empty chair and not seeing him very sensibly said she supposed he wasn’t down yet.

“It is very nice to have Colin here for Whitsun,” she said earnestly. “But I can’t help thinking what fun it was that Whitsun you and Everard were here and Colin was a master at Southbridge and it was sunny. It’s all different now.”

“We will try to go back if you like,” said Noel, always willing to oblige his Lydia, “but it might be a bit hard on Colin. He likes being a barrister much better than schoolmastering. And Everard mightn’t like it much now that he is to be headmaster next year, and he wouldn’t be married to Kate. And come to that, you wouldn’t be married to me or have Lavinia and Harry.”

“And there would be Dunkirk,” said Lydia, her eyes darkening as she remembered the long vigil till news of Noel’s safety reached her. “Sorry, Noel. I simply adore everything as it is. Only I do wish we could sometimes be warm.”

And this modest wish was but the echo of millions of men and women who could have forgiven an all-wise and all-merciful Creator, also all-bounteous and all-seeing if all that was said were true, for all their hells and purgatories, if only he had allowed the sun to shine as of old.

“Yes, it’s the ice hell of Pitz-Palu all right,” said Noel, referring to a pre-war film in which a man became frozen to death with great nobility because the hero had tried to climb an Alp with no guide and no previous experience and the heroine had gone to his rescue without her pullover. “Never mind, my precious love. We’ll saw some wood this morning. And thank God the hens are laying.”

He then applied himself to a boiled egg and began to discuss with Lydia the thousand interesting jobs to be done about Northbridge Manor.

“Buying this place back from your brother Robert was the best thing we ever did,” said Noel. “I still can’t think why he parted with it.”

“I don’t think he wanted to very much,” said Lydia, “but Edith never liked it. She thought the children might be drowned and this isn’t the right side of Barchester. She likes the Omnium Castle side. Hullo, Colin.”

And in came Colin Keith with a bundle of letters and newspapers.

“I went down to Twicker’s cottage before breakfast to talk about these new apple-trees,” said Colin, who spent a good deal of his spare time at his parents’ old home and knew nearly as much about its working as his sister Lydia, “and I met the post and the papers so I brought them in. I thought you’d like to have them for breakfast.”

The three breakfasters then disembowelled their letters, or prised them open with the handle of a spoon, or very neatly slit them with a small knife, according to the temperament of each. Noel, who never had a large post in the country as his letters waited for him in his chambers and were sorted by his clerk, had finished his first and idly ate bread and their own honey, speculating without much interest upon his wife’s and his brother-in-law’s expressions.

“If I didn’t know you better, Lydia,” he said, “I should suspect you of having run up a monstrous bill at your mantua-maker’s or lost prodigiously at cards, and having pawned your diamonds or your honour to meet your creditors. What is it?”

“It’s from Kate,” said Lydia, laying down her elder sister’s letter. “They have got mumps in the House and she hopes the children won’t get it. Do you think I ought to go over and see, Noel?”

“Certainly not,” said her husband. “Kate is a very good mother and she has a very good nurse and if you go into the mump-house you’ll give them to Lavinia and Harry. Besides they probably won’t get them. Anything else?”

“Only Lavinia Brandon,” said Lydia. “Francis is out of the army and is back at work in Barchester and she is having a party for him on Monday. It will be rather fun to go to a party, only one’s hands are so horrid.”

“So are everyone’s,” said Noel. “It is a shocking sign of these degenerate times, but whenever I see a woman with very clean, elegant hands I find myself saying automatically, ‘What did you do in the Great War, Mummy?’ ”

“Some of those evacuated teachers in the war had such awfully clean hands that one felt quite ashamed,” said Lydia thoughtfully.

“Of them or of yourself?” said Noel.

“First of them,” said truthful Lydia, “because it did seem horrid to have clean hands when everyone else was dirty—I don’t mean dirty really, but not being able to get the dirt off however hard one washed—and then of oneself for thinking such beastly thoughts. And I expect they had special orders that they weren’t to do anything that would dirty them. I often think I’ll stop washing altogether,” said Lydia, gazing ruefully upon her capable, well-shaped hands, indelibly marked by every kind of war and peace work, by hospitals, by farms, by machinery, by the continual round of house and garden.

“I like them,” said Noel, who to his own amusement and deep pleasure became more fond of his Lydia with every day of his life. “Anything in your post, Colin?”

“Nothing particular,” said Colin in a voice so off-hand as to rouse even Lydia’s suspicions. “Just the ordinary kind of things. Oh, there is one that might interest you,” he added, making a pretence of looking among his correspondence in a way that deceived nobody. “It’s from Mrs. Arbuthnot—I don’t think you know her. She is looking for a house. Oh yes, here is the letter. She says do I know any nice small house in a village or a small town within reach of Barchester.”

Lydia asked who Mrs. Arbuthnot was.

“You’d like her very much,” said Colin. “Her husband was with an Indian regiment.”

This hardly seemed to Lydia sufficient ground for liking the unknown Mrs. Arbuthnot, but her fondness for Colin made her ready to accept any friend of his, so she asked what kind of house the Arbuthnots wanted.

“Arbuthnot was killed,” said Colin rather impatiently, “in the East. She was extraordinarily brave about it. She wants a small house, because she isn’t very well off. I think Arbuthnot had some money and ran through it, though of course she never told me about it. She isn’t that sort. So I said I’d look round when I came down here and let her know.”

So much were Noel and Lydia one in mind that they did not even look at each other, but each knew that the other was having the same thought. Colin Keith, the ex-schoolmaster, the lawyer, the soldier, and now again the lawyer, immersed in his profession, his chief recreation to visit his sister Lydia at their old home, by no means a hermit, dining out a good deal in London where he had a comfortable flat; this Colin, who as far as either of them knew had never felt Love’s wound apart from a few trifling irregularities such as wishing to marry his mother’s hideous under-housemaid when he was seven and being in love with a little girl with a gold band round her front teeth at the dancing-class when he was nine; this Colin, marked by heaven as a bachelor uncle, had evidently been smitten by the charms of this Mrs. Arbuthnot. Lydia did not mind. Much as she loved her favourite brother, or perhaps because she loved him so much and was herself so happily married, she had always hoped that he would present her with a very nice sister-in-law. And now perhaps this Mrs. Arbuthnot was to be she. If so, by all means let Mrs. Arbuthnot come to Barsetshire and have a small house to be not very well off in. And if she were nice enough for Colin, then Lydia would forward their affairs by all means in her power. Noel, knowing his Lydia well and having already had much the same thoughts, caught her eye and exchanged an amusing conspirator’s glance.

“We must find some nice houses,” said Mrs. Noel Merton, putting her elbows on the table and twining a leg round each of the front legs of her chair, much as Miss Lydia Keith used to do.

“Isn’t the Hollies to let?” said Noel, thinking of the pleasant stone Georgian house in Northbridge High Street where Mrs. Turner and her nieces used to live.

“It was when Mrs. Turner went to live in Norfolk with her niece Betty Topham,” said Lydia. “But it got taken a few weeks ago by some people from the new aerodrome. Mrs. Villars told me when I went to tea at the Rectory. Besides it’s not small. What about that cottage down at the Ferry next to old Bunce’s?

“My dear girl,” said Noel, “it’s out of the question. If only it were on Pomfret’s property one might get it put into order, but you know as well as I do that the Duke, or the Duke’s agent, will not do a thing about repairs. One might try Pomfret Madrigal.”

But Lydia had heard from Mrs. Brandon that there wasn’t so much as a hen-house unoccupied in the village, partly owing to the increasing age and size of the evacuees who had never been claimed by their parents, and partly because the Government Department housed at Brandon Abbey had overflowed into neighbouring villages, including Pomfret Madrigal. Several equally unfelicitous suggestions having been made and squashed on both sides, the Mertons agreed to make further inquiries and let Colin know the result.

“I’m sure we’ll find something,” said Lydia to her brother. “I’ll tell Kate to ask at Southbridge and I’ll ask Nurse. She might know of something at Worsted or Winter Overcotes. Come and see the children, Colin.”

So Lydia and her brother went upstairs and as they went Colin thanked Lydia for taking so much trouble about a cottage for Mrs. Arbuthnot, adding that he was sure Lydia would like her; a statement with which Lydia was quite prepared to agree, though reserving for Noel her own private opinion of Mrs. Arbuthnot whenever she should meet that lady. She also had at the same time a faint feeling that if Colin said even once more that she would like Mrs. Arbuthnot she might, for the first time in her life, find her beloved Colin a little exasperating. But the nursery door opened onto a delightful warmth smelling of milk and biscuits, and these darker thoughts vanished.

Nursery breakfast had of course been finished some time ago. Miss Lavinia Merton was seated on a small chair near the window, a small table in front of her, playing industriously with some small wooden cubes painted a different colour on each face. Master Harry Merton was lying on his back on a rug, waving his hands about with a general air of wondering where on earth these starfish creatures had come from. From time to time he gave a few convulsive kicks with his firm fat legs and smiled a broad almost toothless smile.

“Well,” said Nurse, a middle-aged woman of uncompromising appearance, coming in with a tray of breakfast things which she had been washing up, “isn’t it nice to see Uncle Colin, Lavinia? And baby is ever so pleased to see Uncle Colin, aren’t you, baby?”

Master Merton, who had managed to catch one of his fat feet in his fat hands and was a good deal surprised by what he had done, made a bubbling and quite unintelligible remark.

“He’s saying how do you do to Uncle Colin,” said Nurse.

This was so palpable a lie that Lavinia pushed all her bricks onto the floor and said, “Silly Harry,” in a very clear voice.

“Now you know that’s not the way to talk, Lavinia,” said Nanny, “in front of Uncle Colin too. Pick your bricks up nicely, there’s a good girl.”

“Uncle Colin,” said Lavinia, turning upon her uncle a bewitching and appealing smile.

Colin began to pick up her bricks.

“Now don’t you trouble yourself, sir,” said Nurse. “She’s just seeing how far she can go. When I was with Mrs. Dean, Jessica was just the same. Always a smile for the gentlemen. No wonder she took to acting. I expect you’ve seen her, sir. She gave me seats for her last play and I went with Mrs. Laurence Dean’s Nanny and we had ever such a nice tea between the acts, and the young lady took us round to Miss Jessica’s dressing-room afterwards. ‘Well, Jessica,’ I said, ‘what’s the use of my telling you times without number that there’s a place for everything and everything should be in its place and you keep your room in a mess like this.’ But she only laughed and then she gave Mrs. Laurence’s Nanny and I cocktails and cigarettes and we had ever such an interesting time and she wrote her name on her photo for me.”

“Do you mean Jessica Dean?” said Colin, his opinion of Nurse suddenly rising to fever height.

“I had all Mrs. Dean’s younger children, sir,” said Nurse. “Jessica was the baby. I’ll never forget the day we met the bull in the lane and Jessica fell off the donkey, Neddy we called him. Young Mr. Tebben saved her life. We did think there was something between him and Miss Susan, that’s Miss Jessica’s next elder sister, but it seems there wasn’t. Miss Susan is working for the Barsetshire Red Cross Hospital Library. You would like Miss Susan, sir.”

And that, thought Lydia, as she watched her brother reeling slightly under so much information about a family whom he hardly knew intimately, will learn you not to say you know people will like people. But Colin for the moment appeared to be entirely absorbed in Nurse’s connection with Jessica Dean, looking upon her with a reverence which amused Lydia, who had not realized that her brother was such an admirer of the young actress. For Lydia, having spent nearly all her life in the country, first working and then being married and very much occupied in running Northbridge Manor, knew little of London. Now that Noel was working so hard at the bar they had a flat in town, but she did not often leave Northbridge and was not in touch with London events, and the name Jessica Dean meant little to her. Still, if Colin liked her she must be a good actress and if Nurse approved of her she must be nice.

“Oh, Nurse,” she said. “A friend of my brother’s is looking for a small house or a nice cottage. You don’t think Mrs. Dean would know of anything at Winter Overcotes or Worsted, do you?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, madam,” said Nurse. “But I can ring up Miss Susan and ask. She stays in Barchester for the week, at the Deanery, but she’s always at home at the weekends. Would it be a real cottage the gentleman wants, sir, or a nice one?”

Colin said he thought a nice one. It was for a lady, a widow, he added nervously and then felt that his character was ruined in Nurse’s eyes. A war widow, he added even more nervously, and knew he had damned himself for ever.

“Well, poor things, they can’t help it,” said Nurse charitably. “But I must say it was all much better when we didn’t have these wars and things and ladies could live quietly without their husbands being killed. It doesn’t seem natural. And so many of them were babies too, sir, and no more fit to look after them than Mrs. Merton is.”

“Oh, I say, Nurse,” said Lydia. “You know I look after them frightfully well on your day off.”

“Now Mrs. Carter,” said Nurse, “there’s a lady that does understand children. Really, the way Mrs. Carter looks after the young ladies and gentleman, you’d think she’d been in the nursery all her life.”

Much as Lydia loved her sister Mrs. Everard Carter this unfairness was more than she could bear, so she made a diversion by telling Nurse that mumps had broken out in the Carters’ House.

“I did want to go over and see Kate,” she said, “but Mr. Merton didn’t want me to.”

“Quite right, madam,” said Nurse. “You might bring them back with you. Now Mrs. Carter, that’s a lady that wouldn’t have mumps. Don’t you worry, madam, just leave it all to Mrs. Carter and I’ll be sure to ring Miss Susan up about a cottage. But I don’t think there’s much chance, sir. Is it a young lady, sir? Some of these war widows are very young, poor things, and it doesn’t seem right. Before the war a lady that was a widow was a widow, sir. These poor young ladies they really don’t hardly know what they are.”

“I think you would like Mrs. Arbuthnot very much, Nurse,” said Colin. “She is very lonely. Her husband was killed in Burma and she hasn’t any children.”

But if Colin thought he could win sympathy by this appeal he was wrong.

“Tschk, tschk,” said Nurse (which but feebly represents the sounds we wish to convey). And this appeared to damn so irretrievably the unlucky Mrs. Arbuthnot that Colin hardly dared to speak for fear of making matters worse. But speak he did and immediately regretted it.

“They had only been married a year,” said Colin.

On hearing this Nurse kept silence with a vigour that was quite terrifying and was so obviously making Gampish calculations that Colin felt the nursery was no place for a man and said he ought to answer some letters.

“Say good-bye to Uncle Colin, Lavinia,” said Nurse.

Lavinia looked at the floor and then looked up under her long lashes at her uncle.

“I think,” said Colin to Lydia, “that Mrs. Brandon gave your daughter more than her name. Mrs. Brandon herself couldn’t have given me a more alluring look. Good-bye, Lavinia.”

He picked his small niece up and hugged her, a most pleasurable sensation. He then set her down and she ran to Nurse and hid behind her, looking round Nurse’s skirt at her uncle.

“That’s enough, Lavinia,” said Nurse. “Come and get your things on to go in the garden, there’s a good girl.”

She withdrew her young charge to the night-nursery. Master Merton, who had lost his foot and given it up as a bad job, smiled broadly at his uncle and chuckled to himself.

“Come on,” said Lydia. “We’ll go and see Nanny Twicker.”

She put her arm through her dear Colin’s and led him away from the nursery.

Mrs. Twicker, as all Lydia’s friends must know, was the wife of Twicker the gardener, a North-countrywoman who had been nanny to the Keith family and still treated them as if they were her adored young charges, thinking but poorly of her own grown-up children because they were not gentry. Already did Miss Lavinia Merton know that in Nanny Twicker’s cottage she could break all nursery rules with impunity. As for Master Harry Merton, we should not like to take it upon ourselves to say what went on in his fond and foolish mind, but though a placid and silent child at home he burst, whenever taken to the cottage, into such a spate of melodious and unintelligible conversation as made his mother fall into helpless laughter, though Nanny Twicker indignantly said that she understood every word Master Harry was saying.

Though Robert Keith, Lydia’s married brother, was Nanny’s favourite as her first nursling she felt very affectionately towards the rest of the family. Her welcome to Colin took the form of a large cup of cocoa with cream on the top and to Colin’s mind quite nauseously oversweetened, accompanied by two large slices of bread and dripping.

“Oh, I say, Nanny, you shouldn’t,” said Colin, appalled by the sight of this rere-breakfast so soon after coffee, boiled egg, toast, butter and honey.

“Now you sit down, and eat what Nanny’s given you,” said Mrs. Twicker. “It won’t do you no harm. It’s not that nasty dripping you get at the shops,” said Nanny, who as a North-countrywoman had the deepest contempt for everything that was not made, grown or reared on the estate. “That’s the old gander, Mr. Colin. We fattened him up for Christmas and he ate like a young pullet,” said Nanny, alluding to the quality of the gander’s flesh rather than his appetite, “and the fat I got off him would have surprised you. I did it all down and put it in a nice jar and greaseproof paper on the top and made it air-tight with some candle grease the way the Women’s Institute showed us and I put it on a nice cool shelf in the larder. Many’s the time Twicker made sheeps’ eyes at it, but ‘No, Twicker,’ I said. ‘No. That’s meat for your betters,’ and I gave him a nice bit of pork dripping Twicker got off that little runt in the old sow’s last litter. You remember, Miss Lydia, the one that had such a funny shaped back and died. There was a gentleman come from the Government or somewhere said Twicker must kill the runt and burn the body, some rubbish or other about making you ill, and then the poor thing died, so I said to Twicker, ‘You humour the gentleman, Twicker, and say you killed the runt and leave the rest to me,’ and he cooked beautiful. I don’t like gentlemen interfering round my place, Mr. Colin, and by this one’s boots he’d never so much as set foot on a midden.”

So enthralled was Colin by this story of village Hampdenism that he had eaten all the goose-fat slices and drunk the rich cocoa without noticing.

“That’s right, Mr. Colin. You do as Nanny says and you won’t go wrong,” said Nanny approvingly.

Then they made a tour of Nanny’s little dairy, her hens, her bees, her vegetable plot exquisitely kept by her husband, her jam, her dried apple rings, her little laundry. Here Nanny paused.

“Whenever I do a bit of washing, Miss Lydia,” she said, “I think of the summer Mr. Tony and Mr. Eric and Mr. Percy were here. They all helped me turn the mangle and I had a lovely time washing their shirts and underpants and mending their socks. I often wish they were here, Miss Lydia. Have you any news of them?”

Lydia said she thought Tony Morland had been in the East and was now demobilized.

“I don’t know where Swan and Hacker are now. Do you, Colin?” she asked.

Colin said he thought Hacker had been in some Ministry or other during the war and was now a Fellow of his own college, Lazarus. Of Swan no one had any news.

“Oh, Nanny,” said Lydia. “Colin has a friend that wants a little house or a cottage somewhere about here. If you hear of anything I wish you’d let me know.”

Nanny, eyeing her ex-charge piercingly, said was it a lady or a gentleman, as of course it all depended.

Colin feeling himself getting hot, much to his own annoyance, said it was a lady. The widow of an army friend, he said, and he was sure Nanny would like her.

“They say liking goes by favour,” said Nanny oracularly. “Still, if she’s a real lady, sir, I’m sure we’ll find something.”

“I should have thought that was exactly the way not to find anything one wanted,” said Lydia with what was for her unusual bitterness. “The more one’s a lady or a gentleman, the less chance one has.”

“Now, that’s quite enough, Miss Lydia,” said Nanny. “You know it says in the Bible that you don’t see the righteous forsaken nor his seed begging their bread.”

“Nous avons changé tout cela,” said Colin, addressing a distant imaginary audience.

“Look at Geraldine Fairweather,” said Lydia. “She’s got two babies and can’t get any help. And three of the Dean’s grandsons are demobbed and can’t get jobs. And Noel knows millions of young lawyers that are back from the war and have to live on their parents. And I know heaps of girls that were Wrens and things and can’t find work. And all their people were pretty righteous.”

“I suppose,” said Colin, “that there is a difference between being righteous and being a lady or a gentleman. As a matter of fact there are uncommon few people in the Bible that one would want as paying guests, or to marry into one’s family. Come to that, of course, there are very few people anyhow now that one wants to see much of. All the nice people seem to have got into holes or been submerged. I don’t know.”

“That’s quite enough, Mr. Colin,” said Nanny. “Now don’t you worry about the lady, sir. I’m sure we’ll find her a nice little house and a nice steady woman to look after her. Is she bedridden?”

“Lord, no!” said Colin, startled. “She’s quite young. If she can get a bit of rough help she’ll manage splendidly. She loves the country and dogs.”

Nanny’s icy silence made her disapproval of young widows who liked the country and dogs and were befriended by Colin all too plain. But in a few moments her kind heart reasserted itself and she began to plan a spider’s web of inquiries all across the country via the Women’s Institute. Then Colin and Lydia said good-bye to her. Colin said he would walk about the place till he found Noel. Lydia recommended him to go to the bailiffs cottage and then returned to the house and her duties.

Northbridge Manor included a small farm with a good dairy herd, some pasture, some arable land, and a small wood. Old Mr. Keith, a wealthy Barchester solicitor, had never attempted to manage the property himself, nor had his son Robert who inherited the place. For the last few years the management had been in the hands of a middle-aged naval man who had left the service after the 1914 war to take up farming, rejoined for the 1939 war and been invalided out of the service after Dunkirk. When Noel and Lydia bought the place back from her elder brother they were very glad for him to stay on, and Mr. Wickham was glad to stay, and had been accepted by the countryside and the Close and elected to the Country Club. He came to supper at the Manor on most Sundays, for Noel was usually at home for the week-end and Lydia hardly ever went away. And once a year he was with great difficulty forced to take a holiday which he spent in Norfolk, watching birds with great affection and interest all day, sometimes through a telescope, sometimes in a flat-bottomed boat with a kind of camouflage of rushes, and sitting up all night in the middle of a fen in gum-boots and lovingly shooting hundreds of birds as they flew over at dusk and dawn. But such are bird-lovers, a peculiar race, apart from the ordinary run of mankind, self-sufficing, slightly inhuman, absorbed, their eyes almost as distant and expressionless as those of the birds they adore and kill.

Colin went by the side door into the agent’s office where he found Noel and Mr. Wickham talking about their possible entries for the Barsetshire Agricultural Show in the autumn.

“Cheerio, Keith,” said Mr. Wickham. “A spot of navy rum? A pal sent me some from Bombay. Queer place to get rum from, but you never know.”

“On any other morning there’s nothing I’d have liked better,” said Colin, “but I’ve just been to see Nanny Twicker and she made me drink a cup of very strong sweet cocoa and eat two huge pieces of bread and goose dripping.”

Mr. Wickham said navy rum would settle anything. He had a pal, he added, who used to top off a binge with a spoonful of Epsom salts in hot rum and water and always came up bright and smiling. Rum, he said, navy rum, was the thing, but if Colin didn’t feel like it, what about a finger of whisky? Whisky, he said, wasn’t rum, but its settling properties were notorious wherever the Flag flew. Colin thanked him very much but said he had made a promise to himself not to drink anything before lunch.

“Well, if you won’t, you won’t,” said Mr. Wickham. “Merton?”

Noel also declined.

“Then,” said Mr. Wickham, who had already opened a well-stocked corner cupboard, “it will have to be a Johnny Woodser.”

He poured some rum into a tea-cup and drank it.

“What is a Johnny Woodser?” Noel asked.

“I don’t know who he was,” said Mr. Wickham, “but when I was at Sydney in the last war I heard his name a lot. He was a fellow called Johnny Woods who wasn’t sociable and always kept his drink for himself, so if any fellow stood himself one and didn’t shout his pals he was called Johnny Woods and the drink was a Johnny Woodser. I daresay there never was such a person. Mythical, you know. Like the old gods and goddesses, what? Well, one more for luck.”

He poured himself a second drink, drained the tea-cup, and put the bottle in the cupboard.

“And now, what about that heifer?” he said.

Had Colin not been used to the agent’s peculiarities he might have thought eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning a bad moment to drink two very large navy rums, especially when the choice of the local representative at the Barsetshire Agricultural was under discussion. But experience had taught him, and taught Noel and Lydia, that Mr. Wickham had a power of absorbing rum, gin and whisky without being even faintly affected by them, only equalled by the amount of whisky, gin and rum that came to him not only from pals in every corner of the globe, but from mysterious sources all over England and most of Scotland, for it was Mr. Wickham’s proud boast that he had never visited a pub without making a pal of the proprietor. Every year when he went to Norfolk the little post office at Duchess Loose (said by philologists to be a corruption of Dutchie’s Sluice, so named in the years of Dutch draining) had to engage the services of the village idiot (for the old civilization had not yet been throttled by Progress at Duchess Loose and each little village jealously conserved its idiot, thinking but poorly of the idiots in rival hamlets) to help to carry down to the station the birds that Mr. Wickham had shot overnight and was despatching to his friends, which gifts came back to him in the shape of drink from Christmas to Christmas every year. Noel had at first been a little shy of asking the agent to supper, for his own stock of drink was scanty and he felt he could not entertain Mr. Wickham as he would wish. But, as Mr. Wickham cheerfully explained to him, he only drank for courtesy and good comradeship when he dined out, preferring to do his serious drinking at home, so Noel found it simpler to fall in with the agent’s views, give him the glass of sherry or claret that he could provide and accept without false pride the drinks he offered in his own cottage.

“You’d better come and look at her,” said Mr. Wickham. “She’s as nice a heifer as we’ve had here.”

He shepherded his guests to the door and led the way down the garden.

“I’ll come with pleasure,” said Noel, “though you know as well as I do that you’ll send whatever you like.”

“Of course I shall,” said Mr. Wickham. “It’s no use keeping an agent and barking yourself. But I’d like you and Keith to look at her. Mrs. Merton was down at the farm on Friday and I asked her to pick the likeliest heifer and, by Jove, if she didn’t pick Verena at once. She’s got the Nelson touch about heifers.”

“What an unusual name for a cow,” said Colin.

“After the Rector’s wife,” said Mr. Wickham. “Not that she knows anything about cows, but she knows Duchess Loose, and that’s enough. She was as bucked as anything when I asked if I might call the heifer after her. I wondered afterwards if I ought to ask the Rector to christen her, the heifer I mean. I don’t mean really christen, but just give his blessing on the whole thing, so that he’d feel he wasn’t being left out of it.”

“And did he?” asked Noel, amused.

“Well, I thought it over,” said Mr. Wickham, “with a good tot of navy rum to help the brain to function, and I came to the conclusion I’d better leave it alone. Queer birds, clergymen. You never know with them. Daresay it’s the clothes they wear or something. But I asked old Tubby.”

“You asked who, or do I mean whom?” said Noel.

“Father Fewling. Tubby Fewling,” said Mr. Wickham. “You know him. The high church padre at St. Sycorax. He was in the Navy in the last war. A Commander he was and I only got as far as Second Lieutenant, but he’s one of the best. When the rum begins to get out of hand I have old Tubby down to the cottage and he helps me to straighten things out. At Easter,” said Mr. Wickham thoughtfully, “the cupboard was quite full and there was one bottle I couldn’t fit in, though I had them head to tail and double-banked. Now it’s a principle of mine never to leave spirits lying about and never to have them in the bedroom. So on Easter Monday I got old Tubby down here and we showed that bottle what the Navy is made of.”

“Was Father Fewling all right?” said Noel, who though he had never attended St. Sycorax, being put off by the ferocious smell of incense that came rushing out of it, had liked the hard-working, selfless priest-in-charge.

“The British Navy is always right,” said Mr. Wickham. “As a matter of fact it did him a lot of good. Easter must be plain hell if you go at it baldheaded like old Tubby. That bottle just saved him from a good old breakdown. Well, what do you think of her?”

They had by now reached the Home Farm where a number of cows were standing about in the yard, whisking their tails in a perfunctory way and chewing sideways.

“I told Bunce to have them here for you to look at,” said Mr. Wickham. “Come over here, Bunce.”

The cowman slouched across the yard. It was at such moments that Noel Merton, the very successful barrister, a man of the world equal to almost any occasion, able to tip exactly the right amount, felt how insignificant he really was. To Wickham and Bunce his legal fame, the large retaining fees marked on his briefs, his acquaintance with the best of what is left of London’s good society, his delightful and competent wife, his two excellent children, his position (through his wife) as practically Lord of the Manor, including the right of presentation to the living of St. Mary’s, Northbridge, alternately with the Bishop of Barchester, meant absolutely nothing. It is true that most of these things were quite unknown to them, but had they heard of them they would have been equally unmoved. A man who did not know cows, or was incapable of talking as if he knew about them, was not worth considering. Deeply did he envy Colin who had lived at Northbridge most of his life and knew who everyone was. Colin could ask Bunce how his wicked old father Bunce the ferryman was, and how Mrs. Bunce’s rheumatism was doing, and whether his disgraceful sister Effie Bunce had had her baby christened yet.

“Well, no, sir, not rightly christened,” said Bunce to Colin. “She’s expecting again, sir, and she don’t rightly know who the father is. I seed her coming out of the bushes at Christmas with young Hibberd, that’s old Hibberd’s son that’s gardener at the Rectory leastways it’s his father that’s gardener if you take my meaning, and I reckoned it was him, but Mum she caught our Effie in that old air-raid shelter outside St. Sycorax with that young Syd Fitchett and she gave Effie a rare old beating. I did laugh. So did Dad. He laughed till his teeth got crossed-like in his mouth and Mum she had to hit him on the back to stop him. So Effie says she’ll have them both christened together and Mrs. Villars is going to be godmother and Effie says she’s going to be confirmed now she’s got two to work for, if it costs her the last penny she’s got.”

“Splendid,” said Colin. “Tell your father I’ll be coming down to see him before I go back to London. And now let’s see the heifer you’re showing.”

“That’s her, sir,” said Bunce, pointing to a group of four cows all exactly alike.

“Well, you’ve never bred a nicer one,” said Colin approvingly and fell into technicalities with Bunce and the agent.

Noel thought seriously of emigrating, and had he not been extremely fond of Lydia might have done so at once, except that he had not the faintest idea how to set about such a thing, assisted passages for emigrants not being one of the subjects in the law curriculum. He also thought of suicide and of catching the next train to town. By this time the inspection was over. Bunce opened the yard gate and the herd moved slowly out, elbowing each other with their large hip-bones with a kind of lazy spitefulness.

“Here’s good luck to Northbridge Verena,” said Colin, handing half a crown to Bunce.

“All the best to you too, sir,” said Bunce and went back to whatever he was doing.

“Come back and have a drink before lunch,” said Mr. Wickham.

Noel thanked him but said they ought to be getting back.

“By the way, Wickham,” said Colin, as they took the path back by the water-meadows. “You don’t know of any small house or cottage anywhere in the neighbourhood, do you? Or really anywhere round about Barchester. It’s for the widow of an army officer, a friend of mine. She’s not very well off.”

Mr. Wickham said he would look out, but the outlook wasn’t too bright. What with Government offices still occupying the big houses and the wrong kind of people sticking like leeches to the small ones, he didn’t see where the right kind were going to have a look in.

“Does she need much looking after?” Mr. Wickham asked. “I know Miss Talbot and Miss Dolly Talbot have taken a lodger from time to time since their old father died. An aunt of Mrs. Villars’s who had arthritis stayed with them last winter and said they were most kind and made her very comfortable.”

Damn people, thought Colin, why on earth do they think widows must be old. Aloud he only said, with a forced cheerful patience that amused Noel and put him back into his usual good temper again, that Mrs. Arbuthnot was quite young and would manage splendidly if she could get a woman to help in the mornings. She was very nice, he rashly added.

“Veuve Clicquot, eh?” said Mr. Wickham. “Well, let’s hope she’ll click with someone. I can’t think of anything at the moment, but I’ll keep my eyes and ears open in Northbridge. I’ll ask at all the pubs. They know what’s going on.”

Colin’s desire to call Mr. Wickham out for his coarse witticism was cancelled by his gratitude for Mr. Wickham’s evident wish to be of use. So instead of offering him a choice of rapier or pistol he thanked him very much. They then separated; the agent to look at a sluice that needed repair, Noel and Colin to go in by the little gate from the water-meadows and on through the garden.

“Funny how one remembers things,” said Noel. “Do you remember the summer Everard and I were here, before the war, while you were still a schoolmaster at Southbridge? I fell very slightly in love with Kate, really nothing to mention, but then I saw her give Everard a piece of honeysuckle from this bush and I realized that I wasn’t in love with her at all.”

“When did you begin to fall in love with Lydia?” said Colin.

“Not for quite a long time,” said Noel. “I was very much attracted to her all along and thought she was an extremely good sort. It wasn’t till your father died and I suddenly found her looking lonely that I knew.”

“Does one always know?” Colin asked.

“I couldn’t say,” said Noel, pausing at the garden door. “I knew at once when I saw her looking sad. I expect everyone knows in a different way. Lord! how glad I am I didn’t marry Kate. She is quite perfect, bless her heart, but it would be like being married to a warm fire and a feather bed and sixpenny-worth of toasted crumpets swimming in butter.”

“I suppose,” said Colin, in a rather legal voice, as if asking counsel’s opinion, “that it sometimes comes on one by degrees.”

“I expect it does,” said Noel, adding rather unkindly, “but in any case it sticks out a mile when one is in love with anyone. I do hope we shall be able to find a house for your charming friend. I feel sure we shall like her.”

He then escaped into the house, rather ashamed of himself, and hoping that Colin would not detect the parody.

Lunch was not marked by any special incident unless it were that Lydia nearly choked over a fishbone and had to be beaten on the back by Colin. After lunch the sun came out, though in a very amateurish way, and Lydia said they ought to clean out the boatshed in case it ever got warm enough to go on the river, so they went down the water-meadows carrying the cushions for the punt and the rowing-boat. The boat and the punt were well dusted, the cushions put in their place, the punt pole and the sculls brought from the shed where they hibernated, and everything was ready. But no one felt much inclined to do anything.

“It’s quite dreadful,” said Lydia, “but I suppose we are all too grown-up. Or else it’s the war.”

“More probably the peace,” said Noel. “When we were at the Warings—was it three winters ago?—we were at least ten years younger than we are now. Apart from my work in London, which I do really like, I feel I am an old, old man, doddering about the haunts of my childhood.”

“I don’t a bit want to punt up to Parsley Island,” said Lydia. “And I’d hate to fall into the river. What’s wrong?”

“I’ll tell you, my precious love,” said Noel sententiously. “We have seen the end of a civilization. It began to crash in 1789 and this is its last gasp. It’s a sickening thought, but there it is. All our scrabblings and scutterings, our trying to save a bit here and a bit there are useless. We are out of date. All we can do is to bring up our children to have nice manners and not tell them how much they have missed. They’ll never believe us; no more than I believed my father when he told me that life was much happier before motors were invented. Perhaps Horace was right.”

“Some people,” said Lydia, “think exercise is a good thing if one feels depressed. Let’s take the punt up as far as the Rectory and call on Mrs. Villars. We do owe her a call.”

At this moment the sun emerged from behind a cloud and a perceptible feeling of warmth stole over the river. Everyone’s spirits rose, Lydia’s plan was adopted and the punt set out on its journey. For the first time since 1939 the authorities responsible for the river had been at work. A large elm that had been blown down near the ferry and had accumulated such a mass of weed and rubbish in its branches as almost to constitute a dam had been in great part removed and the sight of a tractor on the bank, neatly tarpaulined against the weather, with a heap of chains and other tackle beside it, gave hopes that the course of the river would be cleared before long. Beside the tractor old Bunce was sitting on a log while a grandchild of shame, the child of the disgraceful Effie Bunce, was making mud pies at his grandfather’s feet, just as if he knew his father’s name. Lydia and Colin shouted greetings to old Bunce. The child, with the engaging friendliness of the State-protected young of to-day, threw a handful of mud at them and yelled a few words of fine old Anglo-Saxon obscenity. Its grandfather gave it a hearty cuff. The child returned to its mud pies.

“How’s Mrs. Bunce’s rheumatism?” Lydia shouted.

“Main bad, Miss Lydia,” said old Bunce. “When I do hear her groaning about the house of a morning I do laugh till my cough fair chokes me. Main bad my cough is, but I’ll carry it to my grave with me, Miss Lydia, and that’s more than our Effie will do with her load of trouble. Mother and our Effie had a rare old turn-up last night. Couple of gert sillies. If I’d a made a song and dance about all my bits of trouble when I was young, I wouldn’t be here now.”

And upon this old Bunce, who was well known to have assisted materially in increasing the population in his younger days, fell into a fit of wicked reminiscent chuckling which rapidly developed into a terrifying cough. The grandchild of shame, using most unsuitable language for one so young, threw a handful of mud at its grandfather who gave it another hearty cuff. The child yelled. Effie Bunce came down from the cottage, slapped the child, said a few highly unfilial words to her father, and sketched a kind of rough salute or obeisance to the punt.

“Hullo, Effie, how are you?” Lydia shouted, as Colin began to push the punt up-stream again.

Effie, apparently pleased by their informal afternoon call, shouted across the water that she was fine and not to take no notice of father because he wasn’t nothing but a gormed old fool. As the punt swung round the bend in the river the child of shame could be seen hitting with malicious vehemence at its mother’s legs, while Effie’s voice, hurling abuse in a mixture of American filmese and the authentic language of King Alfred, came to them across the water.

“At least,” said Lydia rather proudly, “that’s something this Government can’t spoil.”

This was one of the moments when Noel Merton suddenly felt the immense guilt that still exists between the city-bred and the true countryman. A boyhood in Barchester, by now so large as to be almost entirely urban in its outlook, and a life of hard concentrated work in London, made a gulf between himself and the world of Bunce which neither his goodwill nor his intellect could span. For the friendly, practical, unillusioned attitude of Lydia and Colin he felt admiration and some envy. Never would he be entirely at his ease with the Bunces of this world. Among townspeople, among the well born, well placed, or highly intelligent people of his own world he could move in complete freedom and security. But never, he knew, in spite of his position as a landowner and his serious attention to his county duties during the Law Vacations and at week-ends, never would Bunce look upon him as anything but Miss Lydia’s husband.

“It’s a pity there aren’t more like old Bunce in the Government,” said Colin. “We need a more eighteenth-century set to see us through this mess. If they were gentlemen in the proper sense of the word, if they drank and gambled and whored—excuse me, Noel, and I do hope I pronounced it properly, but one always feels a bit nervous about it—and put people in the pillory or cut their ears off and encouraged child-labour, I’d feel some faint hope for England. But as their one idea appears to be that everyone should do no work and be highly paid for not doing it, I don’t see where we are going.”

“What I really mind is their trying to burst up the empire,” said Lydia, whose deep if undigested patriotism made her use words which her more sophisticated friends were too self-conscious to tolerate. “I mean like leaving Egypt and trying to give India to the natives. If they try to do anything to Gibraltar I shall put on a striped petticoat and a muslin fichu and murder them all in their baths, because traitors ought to be murdered,” said Lydia, the single-minded.

Chaotic though Lydia’s speech was, her loving husband and her very fond brother had to admit that she had evoked the figure of Charlotte Corday in a very striking way.

“I believe you would, Lydia,” said her husband, gazing upon her with deep admiration and the affection that her mere existence perpetually kept warm in his heart. “And I’ll get you off. I am not quite sure though,” he added, “whether a husband is allowed to defend his wife on a capital charge. You might look that up for me, Colin.”

“Our sort are the worst traitors,” said Lydia, pursuing her own peculiar train of thought. “I mean the ones that aren’t our sort don’t know any better and of course they want to show off by making a lot of laws and making children stay at school till they are too stupid to learn anything sensible. But the ones that were properly brought up like us are the real betraying ones. I expect their wives are frightfully ashamed of them.”

“What worries me,” said Noel, “is the deliberate extinction of the upper middle class. We aren’t running to seed yet, as some of our betters are. There are some very honourable families of old title who really need suppressing altogether, because all the brains and vigour have gone to the women, and the men are spineless or fanatics. But I think we have still a few generations of good work to do. The people in power know it, and they are frightened of words like patriotism, or integrity, or incorruptibility. So they hope to tax us till we die out. I daresay they will.”

“Meanwhile,” said Colin, who as punter had the advantage of seeing where they were going, “here are the Rectory steps, and owing to being out of practice I am probably going to make a very bad landing and fall into the water, and then you’ll have to get me out.”

His deeds belied his words, and in another minute the punt lay-to neatly at the bottom of the Rectory garden.

“I suppose,” said Lydia, as they landed, “we’d better put the cushions and the paddle in Mr. Villars’s boatshed. One never knows.”

It was, her hearers felt, too sadly true. Nothing was safe now. Being a half-holiday it was quite on the cards that a boatload of the conceited, half-educated oafs and louts from Barchester might pass and help themselves to portable property. Or the village school, red forcing-ground for revolution, might steal what it could carry and throw the rest into the water. In neither case would the police dare to prosecute, for very few magistrates dared or wished to support their own police.

“Blast,” said Colin. “But I expect you are right.”

So all stealable parts of the punt were carried into the Rectory boatshed and Colin took the precaution of putting the key in his pocket.

The Rectory garden sloped pleasantly down to the river with the handsome church in the background. Outside the drawing-room window they found Mrs. Villars pulling up weeds and grass from the flagged terrace. She was pleased to see her visitors. Northbridge Manor and the Rectory had always been on friendly terms and during the war, with her own house full of billeted officers, her sons away and the Manor taken over by a business firm, she had missed the friendly intercourse with the Keiths. Now the Rectory was her own again and the Mertons were established as neighbours, and though her sons could not often visit her, she was content.

“I will not,” said Mrs. Villars, who had got up from her knees, taken off her gardening-gloves and apron and given herself a general shake, “offer you tea on the terrace, because if I did the sun would go in at once. There is a fire in the drawing-room.”

She stood aside for her guests to go in by the french window. The drawing-room was full of the afternoon sunshine, a large wood fire was burning and everything looked worn yet comfortable.

“If you would shut the window,” said Mrs. Villars to Colin, “I think we shall be safe. Ever since this peace one cannot trust the sun for a single moment. Gregory is in the study, supposed to be writing a sermon for tomorrow, but I think he is really asleep. At least I went in a quarter of an hour ago and he was pretending to read The Times. The Bishop was speaking in the House of Lords yesterday and Gregory thought he might find something useful in his speech.”

“Does the Bishop ever say anything useful?” said Colin.

“What Mrs. Villars meant,” said Lydia, “was that the Bishop might have said something silly like loving the Germans.”

Her explanation appeared perfectly clear to her hearers, who were all anti-Palace to the death.

Mrs. Villars then rang for tea, a proceeding which impressed her guests deeply, and the faithful though rather tyrannous parlourmaid Foster brought it in, followed by the Rector. Conversation flowed mildly on such original subjects as the defects of the Government, how nice it was that Mr. Churchill had not taken a title, the probable shortage or complete disappearance of coal, electricity, gas, coke, candles, oil and matches during the ensuing winter, and, as always, food rationing.

“I know,” said Mrs. Villars, staring straight into infinity in a sibylline way, “that the next thing they will ration is bread.”

“And how do you know, my dear,” said her husband.

“Because they said they wouldn’t,” said Mrs. Villars.

A discussion then arose as to whom one meant when one said “they.” Lydia, the single-minded, said she meant the present Government. Mr. Villars said that if he took the trouble to examine his own thoughts, which he rarely did because he had other things to think about, he would probably find that “they” was the equivalent of person or persons unknown. Mrs. Villars said there were all sorts of different theys and the ones she was talking about were, she supposed, the people who were responsible for all this rationing. But not, she added, Lord Woolton, because he had done the rationing so well and so fairly that one couldn’t possibly call him They.

“ ‘There is example for’t: the lady of the Strachey married the yeoman of the wardrobe’: Twelfth Night,” said Colin and then apologized, adding that he didn’t know why he said it and hadn’t the faintest idea what it meant.

“Everyone knows why you said it,” said Lydia. “It’s because Mrs. Villars was talking about Lord Woolton. That’s cause and effect or conjunctivitis or something of the sort. But if it’s in Shakespeare it must mean something, because what he says always means something, even if you can’t understand it. I expect he didn’t always understand what he was saying either. I mean a thing like what Colin said must mean something, because if it didn’t there would be no sense in saying it.”

“After Mrs. Merton’s masterful exposition of the subject,” said Mr. Villars, “I feel that there is hardly anything to add. I would merely suggest that Mr. Keith, though his remark has thrown no light at all upon a quotation which is one of the permanent puzzles to Shakespeare scholars, has at least given what journalists call a new slant on the question.”

Colin hastened to disclaim any kind of theory as to the literary or historical meaning of the quotation, adding thoughtfully that the worst of the name was that there were no rhymes to it, so one could not write scurrilous lampoons in rhymed couplets.

There was a brief silence while each of the party tried to think of a rhyme, in silent but fruitless emulation.

“Oh!” said Lydia suddenly. “Arbuthnot.”

“Darling, Lydia, ’tis a pity, You have lost your wits, my pretty,” said Noel. “Spell it as you may, it does not rhyme with Arbuthnot.”

“Well, Mr. Villars said scurrilous lampoons, so of course I thought of Pope. Not that I’ve read him, except a bit we had to do for that foul School Certificate and that beast Pettinger made us learn it by heart,” said Lydia vengefully, “but Arbuthnot was a doctor or something. Anyway Pope or someone wrote about him. So it reminded me about the cottage, Colin, and I thought you might ask Mrs. Villars.”

No single member of the party had been able to grapple with Lydia’s speech as a whole, though several of them had thought they understood parts of it. Colin, realizing that his sister was thinking about the little house that Mrs. Arbuthnot wanted, threw her a grateful look and said to Mrs. Villars that he was looking for a little house for the widow of an army friend of his, a Captain Arbuthnot, and would be very grateful if she knew of anything suitable.

“I do wish I did,” said Mrs. Villars, quite truthfully, for she had a high standard for the duty of a Rector’s wife and felt herself mildly responsible towards anyone who needed help. “I am afraid little houses are very difficult to find.”

“Or a cottage,” said Colin. “She’s not very well off.”

Mrs. Villars nearly said Don’t be silly, for very few people were well off and the difference between a cottage, at any rate the kind of cottage Colin meant, and a little house existed entirely in the imagination.

“I know that Mrs. Dunsford, the General’s widow, you know, sometimes lets the first floor of Hovis House, with service. But perhaps Mrs. Arbuthnot would find the stairs too much.”

“Mrs. Arbuthnot,” said Colin, goaded beyond patience, “is quite young and I’m sure you’d like her. And she is awfully good-looking,” he added, coming out into the open.

Noel and Lydia almost winked at each other. Mrs. Villars apologized for her mistake. Ever since that idiotic poster of a widow wearing a hat and weeds that no self-respecting woman would be seen dead in had been stuck up everywhere to stop people walking straight into buses and cars as they always will, one had been apt to think of widows as being at least fifty, she said. Of course if Mrs. Arbuthnot could do her own housework and cooking it would be easier to find a home for her, and she would certainly make every possible inquiry and let Colin know.

“As a matter of fact,” said the Rector, “that very over-dressed woman in the poster never cared about her husband in the least. She is looking like that because she voted Labour and suddenly saw what she had done.”

The guests looked at Mr. Villars with a respect they had not hitherto felt. Immersed in his own work and in learned articles on patristic literature, the Rector seemed to most of his acquaintances rather aloof and unconcerned with daily life. But he had been taking notice all the time and had just offered a valuable contribution to—well, no one could say exactly to what, but they all felt it had helped to clarify things in general.

Colin then thanked Mrs. Villars for her offer of help and the party broke up. Mr. Villars said he would walk down to the river with them, which made Colin have to confess that he had pocketed the boathouse key.

“Quite right,” said the Rector. “Some friends who came from Southbridge left their boat tied up with some soft cushions in it. They were all stolen by the school children who sold them in the village. I met several of the cushions in various cottages where I was visiting, but the police couldn’t or wouldn’t take action although the children were boasting openly about the money they had got for them. It was quite useless to preach a sermon about it, for none of them go to church, nor do their fathers and mothers. One often thinks of Herod with sympathetic understanding.”

“And of Elisha,” said Noel. “Even one she-bear would be a help; she would account for twenty-one of them.”

The Rector, pleased to find the brilliant lawyer so well brought up, fell into conversation with him about their favourite characters in Holy Writ. Noel said that after a long day in court he often wished he was the Tachmonite that sat in the seat, and was delighted that his pastor could not immediately place the reference.

When they got back Lydia went upstairs to assist at the baths and suppers of her offspring, while Noel and Colin split some wood for kindling and discussed in all its bearings an incredibly dull case of company law. Dinner was chicken and vegetables and fruit, all grown on the place. Then they read newspapers and were comfortably silent till the telephone bell rang.

“It’s for you, Colin,” said Lydia, who was nearest to the instrument. “I’ll switch you through to the pantry.”

Colin was absent for a considerable time and came back with the air of one who had just stepped out to look at the sky and see what the weather was like. Noel and Lydia, half-asleep in their chairs, very naturally made no comment and no inquiries.

“Sorry I was so long,” said Colin, with an expression that an ill-wisher might have called fatuous.

“That’s all right,” said Noel lazily. “The other end pays.”

“Oh,” said Colin, “I told them to charge it to this end. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” said Lydia. “I’m going to bed.”

Colin, apparently hurt by his sister’s want of interest, said he didn’t suppose she wanted to know who it was.

“It wasn’t to say Kate’s children had got the mumps, was it?” said Lydia, suddenly alert.

“Good Lord, no,” said her brother. “It was only Peggy ringing up to ask if I’d got anything. It was awfully nice of her to ring up so late.”

“Thank God it wasn’t any later,” said Noel, “or Lydia would have jumped to the conclusion that all the young Carters had swelled and died. Well, good-night.”

He turned out his reading-lamp and got up. Lydia did the same.

“It doesn’t matter of course, but I thought you might just care who it was,” said Colin.

“You said it was Peggy, darling,” said Lydia. “Good-night.”

“How did you know her name was Peggy?” said Colin suspiciously.

“What on earth are you talking about?” said Noel. “Come along, Lydia. See that the lights are out when you come up, Colin, like a good chap.”

“I only thought,” said Colin with the patient articulation of a gentleman suffering from drink or the tender passion, “that you’d be pleased that Peggy Arbuthnot rang up. She was awfully grateful that you are going to find a house for her. I wanted her to wait and talk to you, but she rang off. You’d have liked her voice awfully.”

“I am sure we would,” said Lydia and quickly shut the drawing-room door upon her brother. She and Noel looked at each other and laughed, though carefully, for they didn’t wish to seem unsympathetic.

“Poor lamb,” said Lydia, suddenly feeling a great deal older and more worldly than her elder brother. “It’s the first time as far as I know. I do hope she is nice. But even if she isn’t I shall like her very much so long as she is nice to Colin. I must say though that I think Peggy is a dull sort of name.”

Noel said that Lydia appeared to him to be distinctly the name of a cat and upon this they went upstairs to bed.