A Bachelor's Comedy. J. E. Buckrose
he was quite right. Of course this boy can’t preach.”
“No.” Mr. Stamford chuckled. “I believe, though, he thinks he got the living on account of that sermon about Saul.”
“Oh, well, so long as he doesn’t preach more than half an hour I don’t care what he says.”
They were both smiling as the two young men came in through the glass door, and then luncheon was announced.
“Mrs. Atterton and Elizabeth can’t be coming,” said Mrs. Stamford, glancing at the clock. “Anyhow, we won’t wait any longer.”
So they went across the spacious old hall into a dining-room where everything was so harmonious and so mellowed by long companionship, that you noticed the various objects in it at first no more than you do, at first sight, the details of any beautiful thing which has grown and not been made. Mr. Stamford himself was no more conscious of his treasure-house than he was of the nose upon his face. He was, of course, in some hidden place, proud of both. The nose was the best kind of nose, and the house was the best kind of house, and it would have been incongruous if a Stamford of Gaythorpe Manor had been provided with a nose or a house that was less than the best; but he felt no more inclination to draw his visitor’s attention to his surroundings than to his nose.
“Cold beef, please,” said Andy, in answer to the butler’s discreet inquiries; and when the man returned with quite a mountain of thins slices on the plate he felt too much of a stranger to offer any remonstrance.
Mrs. Stamford gave the man an imperceptible nod of approval, for it had already penetrated to her ears—as such things do penetrate in country places—that the new Vicar had an enormous appetite.
But Andy wrestled with the cold beef, all unheeding, for it takes a lifetime to learn—and some happy ones never learn—how different are people’s thoughts of us from what we imagine they must be—not worse, necessarily, or better, but so extraordinarily different.
Then a cart went past the window to the front door and they all looked up.
“Elizabeth at last. Dick!” said his mother.
The young man left his luncheon and went, with more alertness than Andy had supposed him capable of, to welcome the belated guest. A minute later he returned with her, and Mr. and Mrs. Stamford both glanced with pleased eyes at the tall, gallant-looking couple who came down the long room together. Evidently, felt Andy, there was something in the air, though he saw, when Elizabeth sat down, that she had no engagement ring on her finger.
“I’m so sorry to be late,” she said, “but at the last moment mamma’s back gave way.”
“Oh, how unfortunate; but I quite understand,” responded Mrs. Stamford, more nearly gushing than Andy could have believed possible.
“I hoped Mrs. Atterton’s back had been better of late,” said Mr. Stamford.
Then Mrs. Stamford added, to draw the stranger into the conversation, “Poor Mrs. Atterton is troubled with a weak back, Mr. Deane.”
Thus was Andy introduced to that feature of Gaythorpe society—Mrs. Atterton’s back. He looked across at Elizabeth and remembered vividly his first sight of her, shining out, as it were, between the drab, middle-aged crowd, and his secret resentment against her was increased. She obviously had everything; it must have been simply a childish desire to ‘best’ him which had led her to bid against him until he was obliged to pay some pounds more than he need have done.
“And how,” said Elizabeth, leaning towards him, “do you like Gaythorpe?”
The question did not surprise him, because it would have been much more unusual at this period if any one had failed to ask it; but what did astonish him was the change in Elizabeth’s manner from the extreme stiffness of their last parting to an eager kindness that made Andy say to himself, with some pleasant feeling of man-of-the-worldness, that she was evidently the sort who would flirt with a broomstick if nothing else were available. He had known that kind in London town. And he winked to himself astutely over the fruit-tart as he responded to her overtures with some reserve.
After luncheon they all went into the garden, and just for a moment, while Dick fetched the key of one of the fruit-houses, and Mrs. Stamford was settling her husband in his long chair, Andy and the young lady were alone together on a broad grass walk beside a hedge of lilacs. There was a border of flowering plants on the other side just coming into bloom, and at the end you could see a little figure of Love without an arm under a copper beech. Somewhere in the distance a pigeon was cooing. The full sun lay very calm and bright and even over the old stable tower and the long house, and the grass path before them. The stable clock chimed a quarter to three. It all seemed the very embodiment of age-long prosperity and pleasant ease.
Andy felt at peace with all the world. She could flirt with him if she liked—he didn’t care.
“So you’re fond of walking?” he said indulgently, continuing a topic started at luncheon.
“Yes,” she said, staring at the grass path. Then she put out a hand, not touching him, only nearly, and the colour in her cheeks deepened until they were like some exquisite fruit that a young sun had kissed in orchards that belonged to the youth of the world. But Elizabeth was always greatly annoyed at her trick of blushing, and compared herself bitterly to a beetroot.
“You were going to say!” remarked Andy.
“Oh, there’s Mr. Stamford coming. I must tell you. I’ve been to see Mrs. Simpson,” said Elizabeth.
“Well?” said Andy, taken aback.
“You wanted it for her. And I bid against you until you had to pay pounds more than you need have done. And you must have had so many expenses getting into your house. And it was all so idiotic of me. My sister always says I’m an idiot, and I am. I only stopped when I did because I hadn’t another penny until next July.”
“Why”—Andy stood still, facing her, and the most wonderful scent from all the sun-warmed lilacs blew across them—enveloped them—“why—you wanted it for Mrs. Simpson too?”
“You surely couldn’t think,” said Elizabeth, “that I wanted that beast for myself!”
“You thought I did,” muttered Andy.
“Oh—a man—that’s different,” said Miss Elizabeth.
“My furniture is all Sheraton—modern, of course, but good in style,” said Andy loftily. Then he saw Elizabeth’s hair against the lilacs, all brown and gold, and something made him forget he was the new Vicar—he was a boy and she a girl, with a joke between them. “I say,” he chuckled, “you know it wouldn’t go into her house. She’s made me put her sideboard into my dining-room.”
Ha-ha-ha! They laughed together for the first time, and the sound mingled with the rustling of young leaves and the love-song of a thrush, as much a part of the sweetness of nature in springtime as the rest.
Then Dick Stamford came towards them with his mother, and Elizabeth slipped her arm through that of the elder woman with her little air of reposeful tenderness which sat almost oddly on a young girl. She had that sort of kindness in her ways which most girls only learn from their first baby, and her voice held deep notes which caught the heart every now and then, breaking her light chatter like a stone in a narrow stream.
“You’ll stay tea, Elizabeth, and then Dick shall take you home,” said Mrs. Stamford.
“I’m awfully sorry, but I must have the cart round in half an hour. Mamma’s back——” apologised Elizabeth.
So mamma’s back was not only a convenience to herself, personally.
Then Andy said good-bye, and Mrs. Stamford, leaving Dick and Elizabeth alone, strolled down the drive with her other guest.
“You will find Gaythorpe very quiet,” said Mrs. Stamford at the gate, obviously thinking of something else, and yet lingering.
Andy