A Bachelor's Comedy. J. E. Buckrose
possibly take care of it for me at the Vicarage until I did get a house where there was room for it.”
“Why, splendid!” said Andy. “The very thing. Of course I will.”
“Splendid!” said Jimmy, butting at Andy’s legs like a young goat.
“And mother can go across and shine it, can’t she?” said Sally gravely. “She doesn’t never let anybody shine it but herself.”
“Of course she can,” said Andy, “and you too. I have heaps of empty rooms.”
“But it must be in a room with a fire,” said Mrs. Simpson, beginning to weep again. “It would soon look different if it was put away in an unoccupied room.”
“It’s not a piano,” smiled Andy. “Oh, it’ll be all right in the drawing-room. That isn’t furnished yet you know.”
“It ought to be in a room with a fire,” persisted Mrs. Simpson, setting her lips.
“But my study is not large enough, and the dining-room is fully furnished. I really could not——”
“Of course. I said not from very first. I couldn’t expect it,” said Mrs. Simpson, rising with resigned sadness. “Shall I let Mrs. Will Werrit know, or will you?”
“But, Mrs. Simpson, I assure you it’ll be perfectly all right,” urged Andy.
“I’m sure you think so, Mr. Deane, and I’m most grateful to you for what you’ve done. I’ll drop a line to Mrs. Will Werrit at once.”
She turned to go into the cottage and Jimmy set up a piercing yell, the tired little girl whimpered; there were loose straw and paper blowing desolately about the garden. It seemed most melancholy to Andy, this everyday trouble of a broken-up home. The dreariness of it pierced through the young hope and glamour that surrounded him, and for one dull moment he heard the hopeless chant which underlies all life: “Is it worth while? Is it worth while?”
As Andy stood there, staring blankly at the dust and straw, the tasteful appearance of his dining-room seemed quite suddenly to be a very small thing—and he had thought it so tremendously important.
“We will put your sideboard into the dining-room, then, until we find a better place for it,” he said.
“Well, that is good of you—though it’s an ornament to any room,” said Mrs. Simpson, brightening at once. “We must make some arrangement by which it becomes your property altogether if I die first,” she added, in a burst of real gratitude.
“No,” said Andy, driven to asserting himself at last by the idea of being saddled with the sideboard for life. “No. To that I will never agree.” He paused. “But there’s no need to talk about dying at present.”
Mrs. Simpson dried her eyes, folded her hands, and spoke with almost her wonted tranquillity.
“You never know. Anybody would have taken a lease of Mr. Simpson’s life.”
“I am sorry I never knew your husband,” said Andy, resuming his professional manner.
“Well,” said Mrs. Simpson, “I don’t suppose you’d have seen much of him if he’d been here. He didn’t like the clergy. Not that he had anything against them, but he didn’t like them.” She paused, then, wishful to avoid offence, she added: “It was just a matter of taste. He never could eat oysters either, and they’re a delicacy, as everybody knows.”
“Of course,” said Andy solemnly, his face grave but his heart light with laughter, and the dolorous chanting of the underworld forgotten.
Life was a splendid thing—like the spring morning—and something glorious must be round the corner.
CHAPTER IV
Mrs. Stamford, the wife of the Squire of the parish, stood before the mantelpiece awaiting the arrival of the new Vicar. She was a tall, spare woman, and her garments always seemed to cling to her, not because they couldn’t come off, but because they dared not. Even in repose, Mrs. Stamford always looked as if she had that moment finished doing something energetic, or were just about to start again.
“Pleased to see you, Mr. Deane,” she said, when Andy, very flat and shining about the head, was ushered in. “Only got back a day or two since, or we should have looked you up before. Have you got settled down? How d’you like Gaythorpe?”
She fired these remarks with such directness that Andy could not help feeling as if some one had thrown something at him.
“I like it immensely.” Then, after a moment’s pause, and with a good deal of effort, “I am more than grateful to you and Mr. Stamford——”
“Oh, that’s all right; we’ll take that as read,” interrupted Mrs. Stamford with a short laugh so exactly like that of William the parrot that Andy could not help having a bewildered feeling that she would next begin to draw corks as well. However, she looked towards the door behind her guest instead, and remarked in a voice which she kept for that one topic—
“Here is my son, Dick.”
A tall young fellow, very like his mother, but somehow indefinably weaker, came forward and shook hands without effusion.
“Got settled down yet?”
“Quite, thank you.”
“You’ll find it dullish, I expect.”
“No—rather exciting, so far.”
The young men took each other’s measure, and then Dick Stamford said in a different tone—
“Well, come in and have a game of billiards with me when you’ve nothing better to do.”
“Thanks, I shall be very pleased,” said Andy.
It was queer how anxiously Mrs. Stamford had looked from one to the other during the little conversation, and more odd still that this tough, unemotional woman should be unable to keep back a long sigh of relief when it was over.
“Have a turn in the garden until the others turn up?” said Dick, after a pause.
So the two young men went out, and a moment later Mr. Stamford came into the room, limping slightly, and walking with a stick. As he closed the door he looked across anxiously at his wife.
“Well?”
“I think it will be a success. He has taken Mr. Deane round the garden.”
“I wonder, Ellen, if we ought not to have let him remain in the Guards. He showed no tendency to drink when he was with his regiment, so far as I know.”
Mrs. Stamford’s mouth set into those firm lines her husband knew so well.
“It was his duty to come home and look after things when your accident made you unable to do so. He will be master here. He must learn how to manage the estate.”
Mr. Stamford smiled at his wife, and it could be seen then whence Dick’s weakness came.
“You wanted him home, Ellen, and so did I.”
“I should never have suggested it if I had not thought it the right thing,” said Mrs. Stamford, flushing a little.
“Of course not—of course not,” agreed her husband. “Young companionship is all he needs, and I think Mr. Deane will supply that deficiency. It was his open look and pleasant, manly tone that struck me when I first heard him preach. ‘Just the sort of young fellow to make a nice companion for Dick,’ I said to myself.” He rubbed his hands together as he repeated this little story for the hundredth time, after the manner of people who live deep in the country and have little to talk about. “I went straight to my cousin after the