Читать книгу A Man Under Authority - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 5

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“I do not approve of her,” said Mrs. Winch.

“I am sorry,” said the Vicar.

“Do you?” Her voice was a challenge.

He looked beyond her to the sunny garden and the aloe so conspicuous from his window. “That’s not my job, Mrs. Winch,” he said. “You forget I am only a servant.”

That rebuked even the redoubtable Mrs. Winch. She quitted the subject with some abruptness. “I have been hoping you would come in. Miss Mason has been raising difficulties about her district which I consider somewhat unreasonable, but you may take a different view.”

The Vicar did not repudiate this possibility; he merely smiled. He had a sunburnt, pleasant countenance and his smile revealed white teeth in a fashion that added considerably to the geniality of his appearance.

Mrs. Winch continued with some severity, as though not expecting much sympathy. “She complains that Mrs. Phipps is very abusive, and none of the children ever come to the Sunday School. Also, that old Pemberton will smoke and spit all the time that she is talking to him. And in consequence of this she threatens to give up her work. I consider it very poor-spirited of her, for after all, we were not sent on earth to do pleasant things. But I cannot persuade her to regard it as her cross, and so perhaps you can tell me what had better be done.”

She ended judicially. At least he could not say that this was not his job, and she intended that he should accept and discharge it without any nonsense. He was still looking out at the aloe as though nothing else held any interest for him, and the silence that followed her words was so intense that she began to wonder if he had paid any attention to them.

But at length, just as her patience was waning he turned and spoke. “I quite see Miss Mason’s point of view, at least with regard to Mrs. Phipps. The woman is a terror. Tell Miss Mason not to go there again!”

“Do you mean to give Mrs. Phipps up then?” Shocked protest sounded in Mrs. Winch’s voice.

Bill Quentin laughed. “I must think her over. I really don’t know what would be the best treatment for her. I’ll consult Father Gregory.”

“Really!” said Mrs. Winch, still further shocked.

“Or Mr. Banner, or Salvation Captain Short,” laughed the Vicar. “I’m going to start a Board to discuss the best treatment for obstreperous persons. You’ll be on it for one, as well as Gregory, Banner and Short. We ought to evolve something really practical among us.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Winch in a voice that trembled, “nothing would induce me to join so infamous a coalition. I hope and believe that you are speaking in jest, Mr. Quentin, but it is not a jest that appeals to me.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Vicar with contrition. “Let’s talk about something else! By the way, have you heard the latest? Lottie Morton—engaged to be married!”

“What!” said Mrs. Winch. “Lottie! You surprise me! And to whom, pray?”

“Guess!” said the Vicar.

Mrs. Winch regarded him with a keen and searching scrutiny. His blue eyes had a baffling look as though he dared her to be rash. But she tacitly declined the invitation.

“I cannot imagine any man wanting to marry Lottie Morton,” she said.

“I can,” said the Vicar.

“Are you sure you don’t mean Molly?” she questioned.

“Oh, quite!” He laughed again. “Molly could hardly be described as marriageable at present.”

“That,” said Mrs. Winch, “is a matter of opinion. Well, who is the unfortunate man whom Lottie Morton has managed to secure?”

“Give one guess!” teased the Vicar.

She yielded unwillingly. “Not yourself, surely!”

“Why not?” said the Vicar.

She faced him squarely. “Is it?”

He parried the direct question. “Don’t you think she would make an excellent parson’s wife?”

“Is it yourself?” insisted Mrs. Winch.

“Why not?” said the Vicar again.

“Then it is?” Her breathing quickened a little; she could have shaken him for his ill-timed levity.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said humbly.

She stiffened. “Why should I? What possible difference could it make to me?”

“She is a very nice girl,” pleaded the Vicar.

“They always are,” said Mrs. Winch uncharitably.

“Then you won’t congratulate me?” he said.

“If it is a matter for congratulation, certainly,” said Mrs. Winch.

He broke into a shout of laughter. “It isn’t! I mean, of course, yes, it is,—in a way! She is going to marry little Bird the curate.”

Mrs. Winch’s face cleared magically. She drew a breath of relief. But she did not join in his laughter. As she had said of his previous attempt at humour, it was a jest that did not appeal to her.

“I hope they will be very happy,” she remarked.

“Of course they will!” said Bill Quentin. “Happy as two turtle-doves! I am going over to congratulate them this afternoon. Come too!”

Mrs. Winch declined with some hauteur. She was not too pleased with the Reverend Bill at the moment. In fact, she considered that his little joke had verged upon vulgarity.

“Miss Barnet and I are going to tea with Mrs. Brace,” she said.

“Oh, are you?” said the Vicar without regret. “Well, give her my love—Dr. Brace, too, if you see him! And if either of them cares to come to that ghastly whist-drive at the Club to-morrow night—it would be an act of charity which would no doubt be suitably rewarded. Tell ’em that from me! Must you go? You won’t stay to lunch? Good-bye then, and a million thanks for the pudding! Give my—I mean, remember me with the utmost kindness to Miss Barnet! I’m coming round to her for advice about those little divils of choir-boys one of these days. That’s another Board I’m thinking of forming—obstreperous children this time. And she’ll be president. Good-bye, and thanks awfully!”

“Good-bye!” said Mrs. Winch, and firmly took her departure.

When the Vicar was in one of his “flipperty-gibbet” moods, she generally retreated in state since it was quite useless to attempt to get any sense out of him. His last remarks with reference to Miss Barnet were of course sheer nonsense. How could Miss Barnet’s advice ever, by the wildest stretch of the imagination, profit anyone? She resolved that it should never be asked in her presence. If he chose to waylay her and make a fool of himself in so doing, well, that was his affair. But nothing of the kind should take place if she could prevent it.—Miss Barnet!——

The Vicar returned to his study and tossed himself with some emphasis on to the knotty old sofa in the corner. He had bought all the furniture in the place from the previous vicar’s widow, and most of it was very ancient indeed and bore eloquent signs of the large family which had been reared in its midst. He was not a man to care greatly for the state of his surroundings, but something had struck a discordant note, and he looked about him with a dissatisfied expression. Then, his hands behind his head, his eyes wandered to the ceiling.

“Serve her right if I married old Barnet,” he said. “I don’t suppose she’s more than five years older than I am. And I believe she’d have me too—if I coaxed hard enough, poor old darling!”

He heaved a sigh, and pulled out his cigarette-case. It was empty, and he pitched it to the other end of the couch.

“What a life!” he said, and closed his eyes.

A few seconds later he bounced up, shook himself, and went to the ancient writing-table in the angle of the window. He found a sheet of paper and wrote rapidly for a few minutes, then his energy flagged. He looked up and his eyes rested upon the aloe and its long green spike of promise.

He began to gnaw the end of his pen. “You fool!” he said. “You damn’ fool!”

Then suddenly there sounded an unmelodious jangle through the house—the cracked gong in the hall summoning him to luncheon.

He leaped to his feet. “Thank heaven!” he ejaculated. “That’s changed the subject!”

He broke into a whistle, stuffed his writing into a drawer, his empty cigarette-case into his pocket, and departed.

Mrs. Henderson awaited him in the shabby dining-room, the hair brushed smoothly back from her shiny face. She managed his house for him with the aid of a girl from the village who was never permitted to wait upon the Vicar, and on the whole she managed very well.

“If you please, sir,” said Mrs. Henderson, “I’ve been somewhat hindered this morning, and the lunch is not quite as it should be, but I hope you will understand.”

The midday meal was always called luncheon by Mrs. Henderson, though the last meal of the day was invariably a cold supper. The Vicar never dined—unless he went to General Farjeon’s.

He received Mrs. Henderson’s apology with a good-humoured laugh. “I know—I know,” he said. “All right, Mrs. Henderson. Do your worst! I’m ready.”

Mrs. Henderson chuckled. “You’re such an easy gentleman,” she said.

“How dare you call me easy?” said the Vicar, frowning at her.

She chuckled again, but did not repeat the compliment. There was a very happy understanding between them.

“Did I see Mrs. Rivers of Beech Mount in here this morning?” she enquired, as she handed the potatoes.

“You did,” said the Vicar.

“A very handsome, upstanding lady!” was Mrs. Henderson’s comment. “She’s got a laugh to her like a shower of music, that’s what it is.”

“It is rather,” said the Vicar, absent-mindedly helping himself a second time to salt.

“And her son?” pursued Mrs. Henderson inquisitively. “He wasn’t here, was he?”

“No,” said the Vicar.

“My word, he’s a caution!” commented Mrs. Henderson. “Have you seen him, sir? A half-grown lad with a shock of black hair and great scared eyes as if he’d seen a ghost. It fair gives me a turn to meet him. But he’s foreign of course. That’s what’s the matter.”

“I haven’t seen him,” said the Vicar.

“No, sir, nor you won’t forget it neither when you do,” said Mrs. Henderson, collecting dish-covers preparatory to departure to her own premises. “But Mrs. Rivers, she’s a very gracious lady I should say from all accounts. I hope as she’ll drop in again.”

“I hope she will,” said the Vicar.

The door closed, and he proceeded to dispose of his solitary meal.

For years he had sat alone in that long spacious room that had once echoed to the shouts of a large family. The row of shabby chairs that stood against the wall presented a forlorn and forsaken appearance; they seemed to offer a mute reproach.

“I wonder if they’d feel any cheerier if I had them done up,” mused the Vicar.

Opposite to him, at the further side of the table, stood the companion chair to the one in which he sat—a straight-backed, prim piece of furniture, less worn than the rest, infinitely more austere. He regarded it with a rueful smile.

“I shan’t be able to look you in the face much longer,” he said.

And then, as if humouring his own fancy, he pushed his plate aside, leaned his elbows on the table, and stared at it from under brooding brows.

Did some shadowy form take outline while he gazed? Something he seemed to see there, for his look grew gradually more intent as the smile died out of his face. He was not by nature a dreamer; in fact some people complained that he was almost too obvious. The sprightly Molly Morton of Hatchstead Rectory was wont to say that whatever his sins she was sure they were committed with thoroughness; there would be no half-measures with the Reverend Bill. But on that morning in May there seemed to be some magic in the air, for he sat in absolute stillness staring with the eyes of a visionary at an empty chair.

Was it the sunshine that made the place look so shabby and desolate? He had been aware of its shabbiness before, but it had never so compelled his attention as it did to-day. And that chair—somehow it had never looked so conspicuously empty before.

It would be filled on the afternoon of the S. P. G. Sewing Party—probably by Ellen Barnet, thin and eager, pathetically anxious to please, while Mrs. Winch would occupy the one in which he sat and complacently direct the proceedings. He always avoided these parties himself though he conscientiously made a point of appearing in the hall at their conclusion and shaking hands with every fluttering female ere she departed. An irresistible laugh suddenly broke from him. Funny if some day positions were reversed and Ellen Barnet the despised were to take the place of honour! Funny,—yes, confoundedly funny if it happened once, or even twice,—but always?

His laughter died. He made an excruciating grimace and dismissed his dreams just as Mrs. Henderson threw open the door and entered with some pomp, bearing the snow-flake pudding.

“It’s gone a bit brown on the top,” she remarked, as she placed it in front of him, “but I daresay it will eat quite as nice. It’s the oven, sir; you can’t do nothing with it some days.”

“It’s the devil, I expect,” said the Vicar. “I know those days, Mrs. Henderson. No matter! I’ve no doubt that, as you say, it’ll eat just as good, if not better.”

“And will you be in to tea, sir?” questioned Mrs. Henderson, hanging on the door-knob, so to speak. “Because my niece’s husband has just got back from the Antipoads, and I was wondering if I could just pop across to see them all, that is, if you was going to be out, sir.”

“Oh, by all means,” said the Vicar. “I’d like to see him myself, sometime. I’ve often wondered what they were like—the Antipoads, I mean. But I’m going over to Hatchstead this afternoon to congratulate Mr. Bird on winning Miss Lottie Morton for his bride.”

“Oh, lawk-a-mussy!” ejaculated Mrs. Henderson. “You don’t say as Miss Lottie’s going to be married!”

“To Mr. Bird,” said the Vicar.

“Who ever would have thought it?” said Mrs. Henderson.

“Hope you don’t know of any cause or impediment?” said the Vicar.

“Oh, none, sir, none!” she hastened to assure him. “And I wouldn’t mention it if I did, not once they was engaged, I wouldn’t. I hope as how they’ll be very happy, I’m sure.”

“Good! I’ll tell them so,” said the Vicar.

Mrs. Henderson still hung upon the door-knob. “It’s nice to get settled, sir,” she said significantly.

The Vicar turned in his chair. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of getting married again, Mrs. Henderson!” he besought her tragically. “I couldn’t bear it!”

Mrs. Henderson smiled at him archly. “Not me, sir,” she said reassuringly. “I’d never do it twice, no, that I wouldn’t. It were you I were a-thinking of, if you’ll pardon the liberty. I’ve sometimes thought as Miss Lottie would have made a very good vicar’s lady at Rickaby.”

“Too late!” said the Vicar.

“Yes, sir, yes. But there’s three of ’em left besides Miss Molly, who is a bit giddy-like, I’m told. There’s Miss Fanny for one.”

“Heaven forbid!” said the Vicar.

“Yes, I know, sir. She’s a bit on the old side for you. But there’s the other two. There’s Miss Bertha and Miss Maude. Very nice young ladies, both of them.” Mrs. Henderson sounded almost wistful.

The Vicar groaned, but the next moment broke into a laugh. “But they always hunt in couples, you know, and I couldn’t marry them both. It isn’t done. Besides, I’m not quite sure that they’d have me. That’s another thing you haven’t taken into consideration.”

“Ho! Wouldn’t they?” said Mrs. Henderson with scorn. “But there, don’t let me hinder you, sir! No doubt you’ll find some nice lady in your own good time!”

“Hustle is a better word,” said the Vicar, returning to his pudding. “But I promise you you shan’t do either, Mrs. Henderson. You might tell Joe to saddle old Paddy as soon as he comes back from dinner. And if I don’t stay to tea at Hatchstead, I’ll get it somewhere else.”

“But you will get it, won’t you, sir?” urged Mrs. Henderson.

“Oh, yes, I’ll get it all right. Don’t you worry!” The Vicar was bolting his pudding with more celerity than zest. “There are lots of people I ought to go and see. I shall probably have to consume a dozen beastly teas.”

“Lor, sir!” protested Mrs. Henderson.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, and I don’t deserve one of ’em,” he said. “But that’s a little detail that nobody knows but you, so I hope you won’t give me away.”

Mrs. Henderson uttered a fat chuckle and turned to depart. “How you do go on, to be sure, sir!” she said. “It’s a good thing as there’s no one but me to hear you.”

“There I am inclined to agree with you,” said the Vicar.