A Bachelor's Comedy. J. E. Buckrose
to put it off a little longer while he took Mrs. Petch’s hand and bade her “Good morning.”
She placed her other hand on her heart, and began to speak quickly in a thin, high voice with a gasp in it.
“I’m done up, sir—waiting here so long for you—will you step in?”
So, of course, Andy went through the little garden in the wake of Mrs. Petch’s dragging footsteps.
“It’s such a comfort,” said Mrs. Petch, sitting limply, “to feel we’re settled again. Unsettledness is what tries the female nerves worse than anything, as you’ll no doubt find out some day, sir.”
Andy passed his hand across his brow. It was very difficult. But it was now or never. He rushed blindly at the fence with an incoherent—
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Petch, but I have—that is to say—your husband’s services will not be required.”
He mopped his brow, forgetful of all clerical dignity, while Mr. and Mrs. Petch looked at him and said nothing, and he felt as if red-hot worms were crawling about his unprotected person. Still they said nothing; and that was what made it so awful. At last a parrot screeched in the stillness.
“You—you have a relative to—er—fall back upon,” said poor Andy.
Mrs. Petch took a drink of water and passed a handkerchief across her eyes, then she asked faintly—
“What relative?”
“One named—er—William,” said Andy. “I understand——”
“T-that’s William!” interrupted Mrs. Petch, pointing to the parrot; then she laughed hysterically and burst into tears. “We get five shillings a week from an old mistress of mine as long as the parrot lives. And for that my poor husband is to lose his place. Oh, it’s hard—it’s cruel hard.”
Andy stood up, rather upset, but determined now to go through with it.
“Look here,” he said. “That’s not the only reason. I gather that your husband is addicted to drink.” Andy paused and elevated his chin. “A clergyman’s household must be above reproach.”
“It’s not true,” said Mrs. Petch eagerly. “He’s always so much livelier than the other men at Gaythorpe that when he gets a glass and is a bit livelier still, they think he’s drunk.”
“Give me a chance, sir,” said Sam Petch, in a low tone, speaking at last.
And of all the winged words in any language which he could have chosen to shoot straight at Andy’s heart, those were most sure to hit the core of it.
A chance!
Oh, Andy’s young soul had been wrung during those two years in London by the sight of thousands who had never had a chance, or who had missed it, or had wilfully wasted it. The ragged horde of them with haggard eyes and dirty soft hands seemed to press about him in the flowery silence of the cottage doorway.
“All right,” he said, drawing a long breath. “I’ll give you a chance.”
“You shan’t have cause to regret it, sir,” said Sam Petch quietly, with a simple manliness that pleased Andy.
All the same, on leaving the cottage, he felt bound to pause at the door in order to deliver a further warning.
“I must ask you to adhere to the strict truth in all our dealings together,” he remarked austerely.
“He always does,” said Mrs. Petch, before her husband could reply.
“I shall be glad to find it so,” said Andy.
“Only,” added Sam Petch, scratching his head, “it’s so hard to tell the difference. A lie—well, often it isn’t exactly a lie——”
“What else can it be?” demanded Andy.
“A lie——” repeated Sam. “Well, it’s often”—he searched the ceiling and derived inspiration from a string of onions—“it’s often the truth the other way out.”
“The difference between truth and falsehood is always perfectly clear and distinct,” said Andy, opening the door. And, really, he was still young enough to think so.
Sam Petch accompanied him with a sort of subdued dignity to the Thorpes’, and there said farewell.
“You may rely on me, sir,” he said.
Andy held out his hand impulsively.
“I think I may, Petch.”
Then the churchwarden’s wife came hospitably forward and shook hands with the new Vicar. She was as fat as Mr. Thorpe, but with a different sort of fatness; for while he seemed to be made of something very solid, like wood, she shook and wobbled to such an extent that Andy, following her down two steps into a cool room, held his breath involuntarily for fear she should crack.
“Mr. Thorpe’s out still,” she said, panting slightly. “But my nephew will take you to wash your hands. Wa-alter!”
A fat youth with round cheeks that swelled up under his eyes came reluctantly through the French window, followed by a friend.
“They’re holidaying,” said Mrs. Thorpe. “Now you go and have a wash, and then come down and help yourself. I shall be somewhere about when you’ve finished your meal.”
The fat boy escorted the guest upstairs, and left him in the spotless stuffiness of the spare-bedroom, where everything smelt of camphor and lavender. When Andy came down he was almost dismayed to see the banquet which had been prepared for him. Cold fowls. A whole ham. A huge trifle. A dish of tarts and cheesecakes. A cream cheese. It was stupendous. And Mrs. Thorpe’s fowls and cheeses and hams were all bigger, tarts more full of jam, cheesecakes more overflowing with yellow richness, than any in the whole shire.
Mrs. Thorpe had never been an uncharitable woman, and in speaking of a mean relative the most scornful thing she could say was, “You could eat one of her cheesecakes in a mouthful. Now you know the sort of woman!”
Andy sat down, realising that he was very hungry, and he was rather consoled to find that some one had obviously been lunching before him. He would scarcely have dared to mar the exquisite proportions of the trifle or to disturb the elegant decoration of the fowls. The previous luncher had even spilt fragments on the shining tablecloth.
He glanced at his watch, and began to eat hastily, finding his time was growing short, and as he was finishing Mrs. Thorpe came in. She paused at the door, gave a little grunt of astonishment which she changed into a cough, and said heartily—
“Well, I am glad you’ve enjoyed your lunch. Mary”—she shouted down a long stone passage—“bring in the coffee.”
Mary—and this was a queer thing—Mary also paused in the doorway with a grunt of astonishment which she turned into a cough; but Andy did not notice this, and after drinking his coffee he climbed into Mr. Thorpe’s cart, and was driven to the station, feeling as only a man can feel who gets what he wants from life before he loses his illusions.
The groom eyed him curiously as he sat looking straight ahead with the light of youth and hopeful candour shining in his eyes—but the groom’s gaze was upon his slack waistcoat, not upon his face.
And in a corner of the Thorpes’ orchard fat Walter and his friend were still munching the last remnants of a stolen feast.
The cart arrived so early at the railway station that Andy had nearly half an hour to wait, and as one country person after another came upon the platform, and joined a group, an obvious whisper went round, followed by a furtive inspection of the black-coated stranger.
Andy straightened his shoulders, and unconsciously endeavoured to assume an expression of benevolent dignity. Naturally, they were interested in the new Vicar of Gaythorpe. It would have surprised Andy very much at the moment to have met any one who was not interested in