The Project Gutenberg eBook ofAnderby WoldThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Anderby WoldAuthor: Winifred HoltbyRelease date: September 19, 2024 [eBook #74443]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: John Lane Company, 1923Credits: Tim Lindell, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANDERBY WOLD ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Anderby WoldAuthor: Winifred HoltbyRelease date: September 19, 2024 [eBook #74443]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: John Lane Company, 1923Credits: Tim Lindell, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
Title: Anderby Wold
Author: Winifred Holtby
Author: Winifred Holtby
Release date: September 19, 2024 [eBook #74443]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John Lane Company, 1923
Credits: Tim Lindell, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANDERBY WOLD ***
ANDERBY WOLDBy WINIFRED HOLTBYLONDONJOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEADFirst published 1923Reprinted 1938Reprinted 1939Reprinted 1948This book is copyright. No portion of it may bereproduced by any process without written permission.Inquiries should be addressed to the publisher.Printed in Great Britain byLOWE AND BRYDONE PRINTERS LTD., London, N.W.10for JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD, LTD.8 Bury Place, London, W.C.1TODAVID AND ALICE HOLTBYIS DEDICATEDTHIS IMAGINARY STORY OFIMAGINARY EVENTS ON ANIMAGINARY FARM
By WINIFRED HOLTBY
LONDONJOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
First published 1923Reprinted 1938Reprinted 1939Reprinted 1948
This book is copyright. No portion of it may bereproduced by any process without written permission.Inquiries should be addressed to the publisher.
Printed in Great Britain byLOWE AND BRYDONE PRINTERS LTD., London, N.W.10for JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD, LTD.8 Bury Place, London, W.C.1
TODAVID AND ALICE HOLTBYIS DEDICATEDTHIS IMAGINARY STORY OFIMAGINARY EVENTS ON ANIMAGINARY FARM
"Felicity is a continual progresse of the desire from one object to another, the attaining of the former being still but the way to the later ... so that, in the first place, I put for a generall inclination of all mankind, a perpetuall and restlesse desire of power after power which ceaseth only after death ... and there shall be no contentment but proceeding."
HOBBES LEVIATHAN, I, ii.
FULL SUZERAINTY
When Sarah Bannister's dog-cart bowled along the High Street of Market Burton, its progress was observed by several pairs of eyes, peeping discreetly from behind lace-veiled windows.
"Look, Lizzie, Sarah Bannister's got a new bonnet."
"My word, she'll be late if they don't hurry."
"This is the fourth year she's worn that black coat of hers. She made it in 1908, from some old stuff of her mother's."
Everybody in Market Burton knew that Mrs. Bannister and her husband were driving to a tea-party at Anderby Wold. Everybody knew that the party had been arranged to celebrate the final clearance of the mortgage from the Wold Farm. Sarah knew that they knew. Their furtive glances were not lost upon her; but she accepted all remark as a tribute to her highly respected personality.
It was a good thing, she thought, that her neighbours at least referred to her as "Sarah Bannister." Her sister Janet, and her sister-in-law Tilly, might be known familiarly as "Mrs. Donald" or "Mrs. Richard," as though their only claim to recognition lay in the identity of their lord and possessor. But no one could think that of Sarah. Anybody looking now at Tom's shrinking figure on the seat beside her might have guessed that he only crept through life like the shadow cast by the flame of his wife's vitality.
Sarah bowed severely to an acquaintance in the road. It was no use being too familiar with the wife of a retail grocer. Of course, as Mrs. Bannister, she had no claim to social superiority. Tom's father had come to the town as a cattle drover sixty years ago, when farmers sold by private agreement. It was only during the last ten years of his life that his "Now then, gentlemen!" had become a common-place of the Saturday market, and he had risen to respectability as a dealer of some repute. But as a former Miss Robson, Sarah had a position of importance to uphold in the East Riding.
The dog-cart passed the red villas and square, tree-encircled houses skirting the town, and began to mount the steady ascent of the Wolds. The December air was keen with frost and the wheels spun through fringes of ice along the puddles. Sarah drew more tightly round her the thick black coat she always wore when driving.
"You don't get stuff like this now, Tom," she observed, affectionately fingering her collar. "Not with all your newfangled electric factories and German dyes. My mother used to buy wool from a packman who came round the Wolds from the West Riding somewhere, and beautiful stuff it was too. When she died, her wardrobe in the best bedroom was full of gowns not a bit the worse for wear; but, if I died to-morrow, there wouldn't be anything worth keeping except a few bits I had from her like this cloth."
Her husband made no answer. Long ago he had acknowledged the superiority of his wife's intelligence, and considered that her judgments required neither criticism nor confirmation. He felt ill at ease, perched on the high box-seat, the foot-rest advanced to its nearest hole to accommodate his short legs. Sarah's lower seat seemed to emphasize her mental superiority.
"You're letting the reins slip down, Tom. It's a fault I'm continually having to find with your driving—let alone with other things. How do you expect the horse to know it's being driven unless you drive it? You seem to think the Almighty arranged the world on purpose to save you trouble."
Tom gathered up the reins obediently. It was useless to resent Sarah's criticism because, whether right or wrong, she had too much respect for her own judgment to acknowledge an error.
He liked a visit to Anderby; but his pleasure was always spoilt by the consciousness of Sarah's disapproval. Sarah didn't seem to like Mary. It was a pity they couldn't get on. Of course it was bad luck for Sarah that John should leave her after they had lived together for forty-two years. Still, what was a man to do? He was sure to marry one day and Mary was a fine woman even if her father had been a wrong 'un. Besides, she had been a Robson even before she married John, and that should count a good deal with a family which tended to despise every one who entered its ranks by marriage instead of by birth, as Tom knew only too well.
Noticing the uncompromising angle of Sarah's bonnet, Tom decided he was doomed to an uncomfortable afternoon. His wife cast a discerning eye across the Wolds and sniffed with meaning.
"Young Swynderby's got a fine crop of turnips there—pity they say he drinks too hard to see them."
The cart splashed on between bare, blackened hedges and chequered slopes of plough land and stubble. There were eight miles of undulating road to cover, but Sarah had no desire for the journey to end. Enjoyment was the last thing she expected from any party, but a festivity at Anderby Wold was almost too much even for her endurance.
John was, of course, everything a man should be, as Sarah frequently assured him. She ought to know, for after their mother's death she, as the eldest sister, had taken complete charge of his upbringing. She had packed his tuck-box with crab-apple jelly and plum loaves, when first he went to Dr. Deale's Academy for young gentlemen at Hardrascliffe. She had marked his linen and darned his socks and bound his hands when the blisters broke after his first heavy harvest forking in '81. When as a young bachelor he first began to farm on his own at Littledale, she had gone to keep house for him.
Of course she knew him better than Mary could. For years she had understood him with his alternating moods of obstinacy and indecision, far better than she understood herself. His orderly mind was like a familiar room, of which she held the key. She knew the thoughts from which his words arose as well as she knew the shelves from which her cups and dishes were brought to the table.
But now—it was all different. In looking for John, she found Mary.
"I do wish you'd tuck the rug in at your side, Tom. There's such a draught round my legs. Of course, if you want me to be crippled by rheumatism, there's an end of it. I've no doubt I should live somehow, and perhaps it's as well to get used to being uncomfortable before we go to that house of Mary's."
Anderby Wold was Mary's house. Littledale had been John's—John's and hers. He belonged far more to that solitary farm among the hills than to Mary's bustling place on the village street. John never had a word to say for himself at Anderby. The place bore the imprint, not of his personality, but Mary's. Mary had no right to marry him, just to make use of him. Of course it was easy to bully John, with his slow, kindly nature. He never would stand up for himself. But Sarah had managed him properly. When she had wished to visit her sisters at Market Burton she had delicately steered John to a confession of wanting to go himself. Mary simply went out and ordered the dog-cart.
"I've no patience with these newfangled ideas at Anderby," she continued. "'Hygiene' Mary Robson calls it. 'High fiddlesticks' I say. We were healthy enough before. My father died when he was ninety-two, and would have lived long enough then if he hadn't fallen out of the Upper barn when they were woolpacking."
"He was a fine old man," remarked Tom, seeking as usual for uncontroversial ground.
"No finer than most of us Robsons," snapped Sarah. But she remembered one Robson who had not been fine. Mary's father, Benjamin, had always been a most unsatisfactory person. Drinking and betting were bad enough, but there were other tales of servants hurriedly dismissed and governesses who would not stay. Of course it was a pity his wife had died when the girl was born; but she had been a queer, dowdy sort of creature, fond of books and no use in a house. Probably she would never have prevented the deepest disgrace of Ben's career—the mortgage that imperilled five hundred acres of land that had been farmed by a Robson since the sixteenth century.
"Who's building that house over there, Tom? she inquired.
"Oh, it's Sam Burrard. He's putting up a house so as not to have to drive out from the town to farm every day."
Sarah frowned.
"Why didn't you tell me? You never tell me anything worth hearing. It's just as well Sam is building himself a mansion in this world. From all accounts he won't get much of a one in the next."
In a quarter of an hour they would be at Anderby Wold. That was where Ben had died over ten years ago, and where John had called to see if he could do anything for Mary—eighteen-year-old Mary, left alone to cope with her father's debts. Oh, but she was clever! She knew that John was capable of managing two farms as well as one. Six month's tribute had been paid to decorum before she had married him—poor John being too guileless to understand her cleverness. And, for the hundredth time since the marriage, Sarah had to enter John's house as his wife's guest. It was hard.
The road rounded the summit of the hill and tilted towards the valley, two miles away. There from a cluster of leafless trees rose the welcoming smoke of Anderby Wold.
Well! Mary had everything now. Sarah wished her joy of it.
The thought of her husband driving placidly by her side, without a thought for her discomfiture, goaded Sarah to fury.
"Tom," she exclaimed, "I wish you'd use your handkerchief. There's a drop on the end of your nose!"
Tom and Sarah were the last of the family to arrive. Sarah had declined Mary's invitation to midday dinner, because she had made her Christmas puddings on the fourteenth of December ever since she was old enough to hold a wooden spoon, and nothing short of a sale or a stack fire would induce her to postpone the ceremony.
Their host and hostess stood in the porch to receive them, and Sarah alighted stiffly, passing a large white handkerchief across her lips before she came forward and kissed her brother.
"Well, John," she remarked, "I suppose I am to offer you my congratulations." To Mary she extended a more formal hand. "Well, Mary, I see you have a houseful. Has Uncle Dickie come?"
"Yes. We made him come last night so as not to be too tired for to-day. You're cold. Come in and take your things off."
"Thank you, I will. It was a very cold drive." Sarah sounded aggrieved, as though Mary were responsible for the weather.
They went upstairs. Mary's room always annoyed Sarah. The queer books, the vase of chrysanthemums, the fire in the grate, all looked as though they were trying to make it a little better than anyone else's.
"I can't think what you want a fire for at your time of life, Mary. What with coal strikes and everything and firing such a price."
"Oh, well"—Mary slid to her knees on the hearth-rug and knelt there fingering the poker—"I thought you would probably be rather cold after a long drive, and you know what the drawing-room fire is when the men get round it, backs to the mantelpiece, heels on the fender, and sixteen stones of John or Toby between us poor women and any ghost of heat. We have to do something."
The poker slipped from her fingers and fell clattering into the grate. Sarah did not know that when she was not present Mary rarely fidgeted. She thought to herself, "I don't know how John stands it. She's never still for a minute, and just think of a woman married ten years sitting about on the floor like that!"
The youthful ease of Mary's movements flaunted Sarah's sixty-three years in her face.
"I'm sorry you didn't get over in time for dinner. You'd have liked to see the spread we gave the men in the front kitchen. They had roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and apple pie and cheese. It was a business, but Anne and Louisa helped me, so we got through." Mary sighed with satisfaction.
"I should have thought it would have been better to make a bit of money to set aside for a rainy day instead of spending all this as soon as your debts were paid. If you are not careful, you'll be your father all over again, Mary. Was this John's idea?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, it was mine. But John was perfectly willing. The men have helped us more than anything and it's only fair we should show them we appreciate it. Are you ready to go down?"
They might as well go down. Sarah had not come to John's house to wrangle with his wife. Anyway, it was no use criticizing Mary since she was so obviously convinced of her own perfection. They descended in silence.
The family was assembled in the drawing-room. Sarah rustled forward and greeted with varying degrees of formal familiarity her uncle, brothers and cousins. She kissed each of the women with distaste.
Mary had grouped them carefully—Aunt Jane, Uncle Dickie, Richard, Sarah's brother, his wife Tilly, who talked at intervals to nobody in particular, Anne and Louisa Robson, relegated to the window-seat as became undowered spinsters. Sarah could hear them now whispering together over a quarrel they had begun in their cradles and saw no particular reason for ever finishing. On the sofa Janet, whose profitable marriage with Donald Holmes had been her unique contribution to the world's welfare, laboriously displayed a London-made satin gown to her relations.
"Janet's getting fat," thought Sarah. "She doesn't wear as well as the rest of us. That's what comes of living in hotels and such and lying in bed till all hours. No wonder she's always suffering from nerves."
She moved across the room to Mrs. Toby Robson, the solicitor's wife. "And how are the girls?" she asked. "I suppose they'll be getting measles again this spring as usual?"
Mrs. Toby's four unattractive little daughters possessed the sole talent of acquiring infectious diseases.
"It's to be chicken-pox this year, and mumps next. I asked." Ursula, the winner of North Country Golf Championships, whom Foster Robson had introduced into the family, replied before Mrs. Toby could collect her wandering wits.
"Oh, indeed." Sarah did not like Ursula.
She sat very straight in her chair, and drew from her velvet reticule a half-knitted sock. Presently she found Mary at her side. "That's pretty wool. Are those for Tom?"
"Yes. I always make them myself. The things you buy in shops nowadays are useless—shrink up to nothing in the first wash."
"I know. I knit John's too. I'm just making some for him now. Look, I've got a new stitch for double heels. They're so nice to wear with heavy boots."
"John does not like double heels. He has such tender feet. From a boy he blistered easily." Sarah announced this distinction proudly.
"Oh, he'll like these. They are of the softest wool."
"Has he worn any yet?"
"Not like this, but he's going to this spring. I got the wool at Dobbin's in Hardrascliffe, four shillings a pound. It's lovely and soft—it couldn't hurt."
"I think you will find that it will, Mary. I've known John's feet longer than you have and his skin won't stand double heels. We Robsons are delicate in our skins. Of course if you want to save yourself the trouble of darning——"
The colour rose to Mary's face. She looked angrily at Sarah for a moment, then her knitting-needles clashed in the silence. After a little while she left the room.
Sarah watched her smile at one relation and then another on her progress to the door. It was ridiculous, the way she behaved, as though she were a queen holding a court. Well, nobody was likely to bow down to Mary, unless one counted the villagers, who were said to make an absurd fuss of her.
Sarah hoped she had gone to see about tea. Really with Mary you never knew. She might just as easily have gone off to drive old Mrs. Simpkins in to the hospital, or to sit up all night with a sick cow. She would think nothing of leaving all her relations in the drawing-room, thirsting for tea. Poor John! Double heeled socks indeed!
The gong boomed through the house.
THE TOAST
Sarah felt more comfortable when tea was served and the family established round the table. The meal was correct according to the best Robson tradition. All the food was rich, substantial and self-satisfied. The roast chickens, plump and succulent, were flanked by a dignified ham of Anderby curing. The butter oozed from luscious golden tea-cakes. On the sideboard lay a second course of tarts and cheese-cakes with filmy pastry. Plates of spiced bread, black and sticky, surrounded the huge cake.
Under the influence of warmth and rich food Sarah's irritation disappeared. She allowed Violet to pass her plate for another helping of chicken. Violet's hands were hot and red, but Sarah had come prepared for imperfections, so that was easily ignored. It was harder to overlook John's forgetfulness when he carved for her a slice of breast. Ten years ago he would never have forgotten she preferred brown meat.
Across the table Ursula chatted with Toby Robson. "But, my dear man, it's ridiculously easy. I always drive myself. Foster prefers a Humber of course, but I think an American car so much lighter. Mary, don't you like my new two-seater best?"
"I really don't know anything about cars, Ursula. Ask Mr. Holmes, he knows far more than I, and I haven't seen your two-seater yet."
No, thought Sarah, Mary would know nothing about motor-cars and, knowing nothing, would decide that there was nothing to know.
Tilly, Richard's wife, helped herself to a third cheese-cake and wistfully regarded the netted frill of a doily on the plate before her.
"Do you get these doilies up yourself, Mary?" she asked. "I always find netting goes so badly when you iron it. I do wish you'd tell me what to do."
"Yes. We do all our own laundry work. I ironed those myself. It's simply a matter of careful starching, and then pulling them away from under the iron."
Possibly she was right. Mary was a good housekeeper. Sarah impatiently speared a pat of butter and began to spread it on her bread. Was it never possible for half an hour to pass without some one asking her advice? And accepting it when given as though it were as reliable as the Bible? No wonder the girl's head was turned. And really there was nothing so extraordinary about her. Why, she wasn't even good-looking!
Yet, watching her tall figure, broad-shouldered and long-necked, her wide mouth with its faint indication of complacency, and the sudden upward thrust of her chin when she wished to emphasize a statement, Sarah knew well enough wherein lay Mary's attraction for John. Her finely shaped hands were unusually muscular. Every easy motion of her arms or body suggested that behind it lay a reserve of strength. Her gentleness seemed to be compounded of restricted energy rather than weak emotion. All the qualities which John had admired in Sarah he found softened by youth in Mary.
Sarah looked towards the head of the table where John sat behind the chickens. He was a fool to sit like that quietly carving or looking up occasionally to catch Mary's eye with his shy smile. Why couldn't he get up and say something for himself? Once he got started he had as many wits as any of them. It was only because Mary was convinced he couldn't talk that he never did.
"John," Sarah asked suddenly, "why didn't you show that shorthorned bull of yours at York? You know there was nothing to beat it from the North Riding."
"We are not going to begin showing yet," interposed Mary, ignoring Uncle Dickie's unfinished anecdote. "It's too expensive. We're going to start when we get a little capital laid by."
"I asked John," commented Sarah, and said no more. But she mentally registered Mary's spasmodic extravagance over the men's feast and her meanness over the show as another grievance against her.
Uncle Dickie resumed his narrative. He was enjoying the society of his hostess. Prompted by her smiling responses he had passed from one story to another, sometimes abandoning one before he reached its climax. But as Mary knew them all by heart that did not matter much and was perhaps more entertaining. He had told the story of the bull-pup at Highwold and the gardener's son, and of the ghost seen by Sir Michael Seton's great grandfather ... or was it great grand-uncle? He was not quite sure ... getting an old man, and Mary must not expect his memory to be as good as once it had been ... well, perhaps great-grandfather of the present Sir Charles....
Mary accepted each tale serenely, dispensing appropriate answers with the same unflurried precision as she dispensed second cups of tea to their rightful owners.
Ursula leaned forward and picked a cocoa-nut bun from the plate before her. She bit off a little circle with her white teeth and ate it slowly before she turned to Toby Foster.
"WhydoesUncle Dickie tell all those awful old chestnuts?" she asked.
Toby cocked his head. Being the only professional member of the family he had a reputation for wit, and felt that something good was expected of him.
"Because, my dear lady, I expect he has learnt that in the telling of stories, as in other things, it is more blessed to give than to receive."
Uncle Dickie was only deaf enough to ask people to repeat phrases whose repetition might embarrass them. The fear that he might miss any of the good things of life haunted him ceaselessly. He stopped suddenly and turned round.
"What's that? What's that? Some one mention me? Hey?"
The family was silent till Mary turned to him smiling. "Cousin Toby was only saying—though I don't think you were meant to hear—that you were one of those people who have learnt that it is more blessed to give than to receive."
"Stuff and nonsense!" Uncle Dickie threw out his chest like a cock-sparrow. The room was warm; the meat had been tender; Mary enjoyed his stories. After all, in spite of his eighty-seven years, he was still an entertaining companion. It occurred to him at last that his family's declared affection might arise from appreciation of his good qualities rather than from expected enjoyment of his bank balance.
Under the table-cloth he groped for Mary's hand with his knotted fingers.
Sarah, noticing the gesture, sniffed.
One of the famous Robson silences held the company spellbound. Then John, prompted by a sign from Mary, went to the side-table, and the pop of a cork closed the incident.
"We thought we would have some champagne to-night as this is a rather festive occasion," said Mary. "We don't often have an excuse."
"Splendid! Just the thing!" Toby licked his lips and winked at Ursula, intimating that he and she stood apart, belonging to a world where tea and champagne were only mixed at wedding-breakfasts. A faint smile quivered at the corner of Ursula's mouth.
Sarah felt more convinced than ever that Mary was leading John to ruin.
The glasses were filled and the guests paused. Then Aunt Jane, sitting at John's right hand, became aware with awful certainty that her husband was about to make a speech. She turned to John in fluttering horror.
"Oh, John, your Uncle Dickie's going to make a speech. Do stop him. He always says something dreadful, and it upsets him so that he can't sleep for nights afterwards."
But to John the effort of initiative, especially concerning his own relatives, was intolerable. He shook his head and said nothing. Uncle Dickie rose slowly to his feet.
"We have come together," he began without further ceremony, "on a most auspicious occasion. Ten years ago our little lass here was married to John."
"Little lass!" thought Sarah. "Why, the woman's five feet ten at least."
"Not but what ten years is a short enough time for a man and his wife to live together without quarrelling. Our Jane and I have stood it for three score. But, when John crossed over the hedge from Littledale and hung up his hat in Anderby as you might say, things weren't exactly plain sailing."
He paused and ran his fingers up and down the table-cloth awaiting further inspiration. His wife coughed apprehensively.
"There was some matter of a mortgage what had to be paid off. And a bad business it was too."
"Hear, hear!" commented Donald Holmes. Then realizing that emphasis on this point was undesirable, he relapsed into stifled silence.
"A bad business for those that had less sense than these young folks. But I understand that now the final payment has been made. I'd hoped to see them comfortably settled before I went, for John is a good lad and Anderby a fine farm, and now it seems that nothing is wanting to make us happy but a young Robson to hold it after they're gone. But I've no doubt——"
Jane had suddenly choked and looking up Uncle Dickie caught sight of Sarah's grim perturbation and Mary's crimson-flooded cheeks.
"I've no doubt that we—John—I was saying—auspicious occasion——"
His flow of eloquence was checked, but he remembered his carefully considered peroration and raised his glass.
"I want you to join with me in drinking their health. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you John and Mary Robson of Anderby Wold."
They drank in awkward silence until Toby, glad of an excuse to cover Uncle Dickie's lapse from tact, broke forth into a lusty carolling of "For he's a jolly good fellow!" And the company caught up the chorus. Even Anne and Louisa, their cheeks flushed by the unwonted champagne and their emotions slightly beyond control, joined in with their creaky sopranos.
Foster called upon John to reply. He looked helplessly round the table until he met Mary's encouraging smile and then rose slowly to his feet.
"I can't make a speech," he said, "any more than the gardener could who was invited to dinner at Edenthorpe Hall because he fished young Master Seton out of the lake. He had to reply to Sir Michael's vote of thanks, and he hummed and hawed till his wife came to the rescue. 'Now, Sir Charles,' said she, 'you mun excuse our John. 'E ain't used to speechifying. Any talking that's done in our 'ouse—ahdoes it'!"
He sat down suddenly, his large form shrinking abashed behind the ham. His confidence deserted him as rapidly as it had arrived.
"Get up, Mary," Toby called, knocking on the table with his fork. "Come along! Your man's given you away. You'll have to do it."
Mary rose.
"I'm not much of a speaker either," she began, but to Sarah her low clear voice betrayed no self-distrust. "I can only say thank you all very much for your kindness and you, Uncle Dickie, for your good wishes. John and I could never have managed if you had not stood behind us and given us confidence. It mayn't seem much to have done, but we are pleased to-night because Anderby is safe. And—and we thank you all for coming and hope you'll often come here again."
She paused and smiled at her relations round the table. "She doesn't hope we'll come here again," Sarah was thinking. "She doesn't care if she never sees us again. She cares for nothing but her farm and that people should think she's a wonder!"
Mary concluded:
"I don't think I can wish you anything better than the old toast, 'Ere's tiv us, all on us. May we niver want nowt, naun on us. Nor you, nor me, nor ony on us—nor me neither!"
The last dog-cart had rumbled down the darkness of the road; the last guest had been escorted to bed with candles and hot whisky, before John and Mary stood alone together in the drawing-room. The fire had burnt low. A heavy scent of tobacco, chrysanthemums and hot whisky hung about the room. The clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve thin, tinkling notes.
Mary knelt on the hearth-rug and swept the fallen ashes beneath the grate. There was a green line round the handle of the hearth-brush where Violet had omitted to rub away the brass polish. For a moment this absorbed Mary's attention. Then she turned to her husband and said:
"Well John, I think that went off all right, don't you?"
"Oh, ay," responded John without enthusiasm.
"John—I——" She rose, and began to straighten the chintz covers on the sofa. "I've been wondering—I mean—you know I'm sorry about Uncle Dickie—I mean that he should have to say—all that about a young Robson to carry on here—I mean—I wonder somethimes how much you mind——"
"Oh, that's all right. Don't you worry, honey. It can't be helped." John turned slowly from her and left the room. In passing the silver table near the door he knocked over a small vase. Always in the drawing-room he seemed to occupy more than his fair allowance of space.
The door closed. Mary went forward and picked up the fallen vase. It was a flimsy fluted thing, a wedding present from Anne and Louisa. Mary held it in her hand while she listened to John's footsteps on the mat, on the tiles of the hall, on the stair carpet. One stair creaked. They must get a new board there, she thought. At a turn of the stair he hit his foot against a brass rail that rang jangling through the house. Then she heard him in the room above, now by the window, now sitting down to throw off his shoes, now by the bed. It creaked and groaned. Then there was silence.
She knelt again by the fire, holding her hands above the glowing ashes.
Well, that was that. It had been a long day, and even her vitality could not stand unlimited exertion. Still, it had been worth it. Mrs. Holmes's toupee, Sarah's nastiness about the socks, the hole in the best linen sheet—all these were only echoes and shadows from another world. The only real and solid thing was the knowledge that the mortgage was paid. Nothing else mattered. She was prepared to sing herNunc dimittisfor the consummation of her life's work, forgetful that over forty years of her three score and ten still remained in which all sorts of things could happen. This was her hour of triumph in which she tasted that unfearing gladness which gives no hostage to defeat.
The ashes crumbled and collapsed. The room was growing cold. She rose and began to move dreamily about the room, straightening chairs and tables, and flicking cigarette ends from the ashtrays into the fire-place.
Because of the mortgage she had lived for twenty-eight years on the Wolds under the shadow of their reproach. In her lonely childhood the fields of Anderby had assumed for her a more definite personality than any of the people whom she knew. Land was, after all, the thing that mattered most. That was why she had been so miserable when her father brushed aside the foreman's suggestions of improvement with a curt "We can't afford it. So there's an end on't." That was why she had laboured for nearly a whole day, trying to stuff up the cracks along the cowshed wall with bits of mud and straw because she was sure the Wolds must despise such shabby buildings.
And then that haunting fear that one day "They" would suddenly swoop down upon the farm and carry it away as the jinns in the fairy book carried off Solomon's palace ... and the restless uncertainty that seemed to stand between her father and any joy of possession.... All this, he had constantly explained with increasing emphasis as the farm grew more dilapidated, was not his fault, but the result of the mortgage.
Well, there was no need to lie any longer, as eight-year-old Mary had lain, with the bed-clothes drawn up round her ears to shut out the voice of the wind howling along the corridors, because it might be the voice of the mortgage, come at last from the dark sky to carry off "every stick and stone, lassie, every stick and stone." Her father had said that this would happen, and he must know.
He must know—must know what? Why, of course, that a bowl of water placed in the middle of the room prevented it from reeking with stale tobacco for days after a party. She must go and get one.
Mary rubbed a drowsy hand across her eyes. She must have been half asleep, sitting in the big arm-chair while the room grew colder and colder. Wearily she rose and walked towards the door.
Then she stood still.
Out in the hall she heard a faint rustling sound. It could not be a mouse. No one would be walking about now. It must be ever so late. She looked at the clock—half-past two.
A click as though a door shut. The dining-room door. Some one was up. Not John. She would have heard him move. Who then?
She stood hesitating, the handle of the dining-room door in her hand. It was strange to wait again like this, wondering whether one ought to go on into the dining-room because Father was there and the whisky bottle and that was an undesirable combination....
Well, it couldn't be that now anyway. She opened the door and walked across the hall.
The dining-room door was ajar. A strip of light wavered against the darkness.
All this had happened before. If she entered the room, Mary was sure that her father would look up from the table and swear softly at her intrusion.
Of course he couldn't. He had died over ten years ago. Mary had seen him die, crying aloud that the mortgage, the mortgage, the mortgage had got him at last, and that she alone was left to fight it.
Her breath came quickly. There was a scraping sound, and somebody sighed heavily. She pushed open the door and went in.
Janet Holmes, in a voluminous quilted dressing-gown, knelt on the floor near the sideboard. Seeing Mary, she rose to her feet with greater alacrity than the Harrogate specialist would have thought possible but unfortunately in her haste she dropped a china biscuit jar that fell against the corner of the fender, breaking in a hundred fragments.
"Oh dear, oh dear! How you startled me!" she gasped.
"Is anything wrong?" asked Mary severely. The jar had been a relic of her mother's lifetime. It was old Spode, and Mary loved dearly the twisting blue flowers on its glazed surface. She regarded it ruefully.
"Oh dear! I'm so sorry. But you did startle me so. It just slipped out of my hand. I hope it was not of any great value, though with these things it's not what they cost, is it? It's the things they belonged to—I mean, you know since we went to the Grange—late dinner—my digestion—the doctor at Harrogate said 'Now, Mrs. Holmes, always take food one hour before retiring,' and I thought perhaps a biscuit——"
"Oh, I see."
Ten minutes elapsed before Mrs. Holmes could be consoled for the omission of late dinner, Mary's inopportune appearance, and the destruction of the biscuit jar. Mary escorted her to her room, and then returned to gather up the fragments.
Fingering the broken pieces reverently, she forgot that the jar had been cracked before and only remembered it as a beautiful thing that had once been hers. The thought of possession was comfortable and satisfying. Mary's mouth curved in a soft little smile. Anderby was hers. The mortgage was paid. That was worth anything; worth unlovely dresses made in the village, worth the constant strain of economy, worth the ten year's intimacy with a man whose presence roused in her alternate irritation and disappointment.
"Nothing is wanting to make us happy except a young Robson."
Mary brushed together the crumbs from the hearth-rug and straightened her back.
Well, worth that too, perhaps.
She looked round the shadowy room—ghostly dark beyond her feeble candlelight. The smile flickered again across her face.
"May we never want nowt, nawn on us," she whispered.
THE KINGDOM
While Uncle Dickie was proposing his toast in the Robsons' dining-room, another party was in progress up the village in the smoke-room of theFlying Fox. TheFlying Foxwas a cosy little inn, not frequented by strangers like theEden Arms. The men who now sat there, smoking and talking, were old habitués.
On the high-backed settle near the fire-place sprawled Ezra Dawson, the Robsons' shepherd, a great soldierly figure in corduroys. A drooping eyelid marred his handsome face, half obscuring his twinkling left eye in a perpetual wink. He was holding forth to a young farmer who stood sheepishly near the table.
"Noo, lad, tha may be a clever fellow." The men on the far bench snorted incredulously. "Ah'm not saying tha is, but taking it for a parable like. Tha may be a clever fellow, but if tha marries a fool she'll ruin tha. And if tha's a fool and weds a clever lass wi' a good hand for pastry, who feeds lads well and keeps in wi' gentry and dealers, tha's fair fettled up and mebbe'll find tha self a rich man some day."
"Then mun I marry a clever woman?" asked the boy.
"Noo, lad, ah wouldn't go so far as to say that. If tha' marries a good-for-nowt,'un she'll ruin tha, but if tha weds a clever lass folks'll give her all credit and call thee a fool."
Bert frowned anxiously.
"Then what am I to wed?"
"Stay single, Bert," advised another voice from the doorway. It came from a short, red-bearded man who had not yet spoken. "Stay single an' tha'll never have cause to rue."
"But if ah'm single ah'll have to get a housekeeper. Our Liza says she can't stay with me much longer." Bert was genuinely anxious to profit by their counsel.
"Noo then, Shep," laughed another, "who'd you say he ought to get as housekeeper, a clever lass or a fool?"
Dawson turned slowly.
"Nay lad, did'st ever hear tell of a clever housekeeper?"
Bert scratched his head but failed to recall such a phenomenon.
"You see," explained the shepherd gleefully, "all clever housekeepers marries their masters. Y'can't get round women. They scores all ways."
"Ah'm not denying they scores," said the red-bearded woman-hater. "What I asks is—why do we let'em? Because we're fond fools! That's why. Take any man you like an' any woman you like and set'em to do t' same job, and ye'll find t' woman fair beat before they've been at it ten minutes. Talk about women's reets—if they had their reets they'd all be shut up in their houses wi' their bairns!"
"Missus been a bit pawky to-day, Eli?" inquired Dawson with a quizzical glance at the fiery orator.
The company nodded in sympathy. They knew the humour of a wife's tongue when the wind was easterly and the Christmas rent due, and another addition to the family expected. Eli Waite's domestic troubles had been a welcome topic at many similar gatherings, so, though he was unpopular and suspected as an extremist, to-night his audience was inclined to be gracious. But Eli disappointed those who hoped to hear further details of the Waite household. He changed the conversation.
"There's rare goings on up at t' Robsons to-night they say."
"Ay," replied Dawson, taking another drink. "T' family stayed on to tea, and health drinking and the like. Violet let me see table when I was up salting bacon this after' an' giv'd me a bit o' t' cake."
"And a drop o' whisky ah'll be bound," laughed old Deane. "Noo then, Shep, tell t' truth and shame t' devil."
"Ay. Mebbe a drop o' whisky. Allus keep in wi't women ah says."
"Ugh," growled Eli. "Ye talk o' women, Dawson, but ye'd any of you sell your souls for a bit o' dinner up at Mrs. Robson's. She knows how t' manage you all—coals an' Christmas pudding—an' then there'll be no grumblin' about wages at Martinmas."
"Tha eats dinner there tha'sen fast enough, Eli, when tha's chance."
"Ay. Chance is a bonny thing."
Eli turned upon the Shepherd. "Chance is a bonny thing wi' you, Shep, and Mary Robson—going following her aboot like a gawking lad, as if tha' hadn't wenches enough wi'out your master's woman."
"What's that?" Dawson's one eye suddenly opened.
"Ah only said tha' hadn't much self-respect, sucking up t' gentry," said Eli, retreating hastily.
"Ay. Tha'd better only say yon. Ah thowt mebbe it was a matter o' summat else."
"So did I, indade," broke in a sharp Irish voice from an obscure corner. A little, black haired man came forward and placed his glass on the table. "If you have anything to say about Mrs. Robson at all, you'll just have the goodness to step outside the door and repate it to me, slow and careful."
"Ah've no call to answer for my words to a drunken Irish harvester who stays beyond his times."
"Noo then, Mike," interposed Dawson. "Doant take on. Eli didn't mean nowt. 'E's been like a bear wi' a sore head ever since his missus hasn't been well like. Anderby air don't suit him like that out at Market Burton, does it, Eli?"
"I'll thank you to mind your own business, Misther Dawson!" began Mike O'Flynn.
But Dawson rose slowly and laid one hand on the little man's shoulder.
"It's my business as much as your'n, lad, that no one here speaks words like them there o' Waite's, what I wouldn't care for Mrs. Robson to hear. Ah've known her since she was a little lass, an' used to ride her pony up to Sheepfold as pretty as a circus girl. Eli's a stranger like, an' don't know what we of Anderby does."
"Then it's me who'll tell him quick enough bedad, if he clacks his foul tongue again."
"Doant be a fool, Mike." Dawson's deep voice rose from a cloud of blue smoke. "Waite won't say no more. Ye see, it's like this here, Eli. Mike was sick two years ago last harvest up at Littledale, and Mrs. Robson went up at night an' sat poulticing him an' the like for long enough."
"'Twas pneumonia I had," broke in Mike, unwilling to surrender to another the pleasure of telling this story. "Like to die I was, and seeing the gowlden gates half opened an' she came to me like an angel from heaven.
"'Is it the praste you'll be wanting?' says she. 'Now what should I want with a praste when 'tis the angels themselves have come to look after me'? says I. But she only smiled and sent for Father Murphy from Hardrascliffe, and for three days an' nights she hardly left me side an' me with a pain like hot iron across me chest, an' me voice like the creaking o' the pump when 'tis oiling it needs."
"Ay. That's all very well for Robsons, but all folks ain't like that, nor all farmers either. Mrs. Robson 'ud give away her last coat if need be; but ah've just come from a talk wi' Ted Wilson—him as is gardener for Willerby's up at Highwold."
The speaker was a lean, melancholy man who had been fidgeting by himself with a draught-board in the corner.
"They're new folks, ain't they?"
"Ay. Wust turn old Granger ever did to Anderby was dying like that an' letting Willerby take his farm."
"I thowt Willerby was a decent, quiet sort o' chap. 'E doant say much, but 'e could do worse nor that."
"Nay, but yon's not trouble."
Dawson took a pull at his pipe and hazarded grimly:
"It's a woman ah'll be bound."
"Ay. I said to Wilson, 'Ow'd ye come on wi' missus these days?' Ah says. And he gives me one o' them there slow, considerable looks like, an' says, 'She doant like rattens getting in among 'er chickens.' 'E does fowls up at Willerby's does Wilson.' 'Well,' ah says, 'nor does other folks, but it's all fortunes o' war.' 'It's fortunes o' war when it's other people's chickens,' says 'e. 'But it's danged carelessness o' some one else's when they're your own. Missus is a bad loser,' 'e says. 'Why, she bain't mean, is she, Ted?' ah says. 'Mean?' 'e says. You know that way 'e has o' waiting to let you get one word well chewed before 'e gives you 'tother. 'Oh no. She's not mean. She'd only steal t' shroud off her mother's corpse, an' then take on because it wouldn't wash!'"
"Ay," murmured Dawson sagely. "There's nowt so queer as folks."
"Except women, Shep," jeered Waite.
"Then what wages will they be giving up at Willerby's?" asked Bert Armstrong, feeling that as the only farmer present he ought to show a decent interest in the affairs of his new neighbours.
"Same as anyone else's. Same as Robson's. But when you get no bits o' beef, nor packets o' tea, nor nursing if you're sick, you can soon tell t' difference. Ah can tell you, Wilson says 'e won't stay after Martinmas unless things tak' up a bit."
"There you are," pronounced Shepherd triumphantly, removing his pipe from his mouth to give greater effect to his words. "'Tis t' woman again. Get a bad 'un and a good farmer's nowt. Get a good 'un and t' farmer don't count."
"If you think so much o' them, Shep, why have you never married yourself?"
"Ah've never yet found a lass wi' a bit o' brass who'd have me. If ever ah does find one wi' same mind as myself, ah'll away get wed."
"Tha mun have her rich then?"
"Oh ay." Dawson knocked the ashes from his pipe and prepared to depart.
"But if she turns out a bad 'un?" pursued Bert, in quest of information.
"Well then, she'll still have 'er brass, and a fat sorrow's better t' bear than a lean sorrow."
The company stirred and smiled. Old Deane in the corner shook his head.
"Ay. But you don't find 'em like Mary Robson growing on every hedge bottom," he said.
Outside, the wind tore at the stacks and hedges in a shrieking hurricane. It snatched at Mike's hat, and whipped the sleet across his face. He had left early, for work, interrupted that day, began next morning at six, and the long nights were short enough after back-aching days in the sheep-fold.
As he passed the railings of Mary's garden he heard through a lull in the storm the clop, clop of hoofs on the road before him, and Sarah Bannister drove past in a flurry of black shadows and yellow carriage lights. Upstairs in the Wold Farm, a single light burned and Mike, thinking it to shine from Mary's room, sighed sentimentally and murmured a paternoster for her soul's salvation. Neither his experiences as a soldier in India and Africa nor the indifference of his fellow workers on the farm had robbed him of a simplicity which somehow confounded the Mary of Anderby with the Lady of Sorrows.
Unfortunately for his pious intention the light before his shrine was only a candle carried by Violet into the spare bedroom where Foster and Ursula had decided to spend the night rather than face the violence of the storm.
THE QUEEN
Next morning Mike's devotion met with its reward, for as he rode along the village street, swinging his legs from the shaft of a turnip cart, he saw Mary emerge from her garden and turn towards him along the road.
Mike was whistling a tune as he rode, for after the storm the morning air was radiantly clear. In its cold clarity the sweeping curves of the Wolds, the filigree tracery of black branches against the sky, and the sturdy outline of the Norman church on the hill were as boldly defined as in an etching. From every blackened twig on the hedgerows trembled a lucid drop of moisture. There was a salt sting in the wind from the sea six miles away.
Mary seemed part of the freshness and gaiety of the morning. Mike watched her as she strode forward along the path, loving her buoyant, confidant movements and the sheen of her brown hair, like wet beech leaves below her small fur-trimmed cap.
She smiled at Mike. Her smile caught the sunlight and dazzled him.
"Well, and how does Becky go?"
Becky was the old mare who drew the turnip cart. Mary condescended to share with Mike the delicious intimacy of a secret that, left to herself, Becky would go as far as theFlying Fox, but there would stop, trained by Mike's predecessor to unbreakable habit. Such jokes gain point by frequent repetition.
"She goes well enough till she has to stop for her 'usual,'" laughed Mike. "Oh, Mrs. Robson, we're wishing it was married you were every day after the foine dinner we had yesterday."
"I'm very glad I'm not, Michael. You've no idea what a lot of work it makes, or how much washing up there is afterwards. And people about the house to get cleared away—and—oh, lots of things."
"Indade, it's lucky they are to have the chance of staying."
"It's not lucky for me. Here am I only just going up to decorate the Christmas Tree and late as it is because of everything. Still, there's fifteen years before our silver wedding...."
She smiled a gracious dismissal and passed on.
It was good to be alive, she thought, and good to be queen of so fair a kingdom, and to have worshipping subjects like Mike O'Flynn who paid her homage in the street. In no place sooner than in a village does philanthropy bring its own reward and Mary, pleased because her subjects' gratitude was swift, forgot it might be also transitory.
Everything had gone very well. Perhaps she had been a little too prompt in speeding her parting guests. Uncle Dickie had looked almost hurt when she bustled him into his carriage. But then such a busy person as Mary would never have time for anything if she always stopped to consider other people's feelings. There were so many really important things to be done. The Christmas Tree was important. She had superintended its decoration ever since she was fifteen. There was literally no one else who could do it properly.
Then it was a singularly pleasant thing to do. All the way up the Church Hill Mary was repicturing former trees and former decorations. She always felt a little awed by the tall, tapering tree, standing darkly green against the whitewashed walls of the schoolroom. Still untouched by frivolous hands its regal austerity retained something of the frosty stillness of pinewoods on a starlit night. For a moment—this silent dignity; then with the arrival of noisy helpers the scene became one of riotous carnival. For they carried boxes of coloured balls, bales of scarlet and yellow bunting, baskets laden with glittering tinsel, trumpets painted silver and vermilion, dolls in vivid muslin dresses, stars and medallions, tops and skipping ropes, and tumbled them in festive profusion over baskets and chairs. They tied the oranges on first and the tree was rich with the gold of alien fruit, then the stars and balls and spangled disks, and finally the gaily tinted candles in fragile metal stands, till the tree stood in many-coloured splendour ripe for its fantastic harvest.
She entered the school.
The room was in a state of chaos. All the desks lay piled at one end, so that the door would hardly open. At the other a group of women surrounded the tree.
The door squeaked as Mary pushed it open. Mrs. Coast, the schoolmaster's wife, set down a basket of coloured balls and came forward to greet her. She was always a little more afraid of life than usual in Mrs. Robson's presence, half admiring her, half abashed. Mr. Coast did not like Mary, and where Mr. Coast disliked Mrs. Coast must not admire.
"Well, this is good of you, Mrs. Robson," she said quite sincerely. Mary generally managed to impress other people with the immensity of her goodness. "We were just saying 'Now I wonder if she'll come, being so busy with everything.'"
Miss Taylor, the assistant schoolmistress moved rapidly out of Mary's way, accidentally stepping on two china ornaments in her transit. Her plump arms were almost bursting from her flannel blouse in their exuberant eagerness for work. She beamed upon Mary.
"Yes, I'm sure," she broke in. "Little Hal Stephens met me this morning with his mouth full of mince-pie and said 'Have you been to Robsons', Miss Taylor?' and I said, 'No Hal.' So he said 'Then you'd better go. Mrs. Robson's been getting married again and there's lots of good things to eat. But you know I still saw the old Mr. Robson about. What's going to happen to him now there's a new one?'"
Everyone smiled, recognizing that Miss Taylor, for very love of living, had to say something however silly on every occasion. Only the young ladies from the Glebe Farm were not quite sure that this was a proper subject for a joke.
"Oh yes," said Mary, drawing off her gloves and beginning to string thread through the oranges. "Hal came up with a note from his mother, and we had so much stuff left over from yesterday I just gave him some mince-pies. He's a good little chap and ever so useful his mother says."
"His brother works for you, doesn't he?" Mrs. Coast made a desperate effort to entertain her distinguished helper. If only Mr. Coast was not always remembering that time when Mrs. Robson persuaded her husband not to sign a testimonial of recommendation. Even if he was applying for a new post then, and Mrs. Robson had spoilt his chances, she was a very nice woman.
Mary replied serenely.
"Yes, he's third lad and John says he is going to be a very smart boy. We might put some of these oranges on now, don't you think? Lily, would you mind getting the steps? Your legs are younger than mine, my dear." Mary was mounted on the steps, an orange hanging from each hand, the boughs of the tree swaying round her in a curtain of feathery green, when the vicar entered the room.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Slater," she called. "Have you come to help us?"
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Robson—Coast—afternoon, Miss Taylor. Well, Lily, Gerty, how are you, ha? How are you? Most kind of you to come, Mrs. Robson—so busy—most kind. Cold weather for the time of the year. Yes, very, ha?"
The vicar came forward firing off little staccato sentences as he threaded his way cautiously between the boxes, baskets and kneeling girls who strewed the floor. Miss Taylor held out her hand towards him, then realizing that she was alone in her action withdrew it and giggled, the blushes chasing one another in rosy waves across her face. She had been a farmer's daughter before she became a teacher, and now her appearance was reminiscent of churns and milk-pails rather than desks and blotting paper.
Mary bent down from the steps.
"Would you mind handing me some of the stars now? Yes. Well, if you don't mind, Mr. Slater, I should be grateful. There! The red ones look pretty on the green, don't they?"
She came down and withdrew a few paces into the room to inspect her work. As she stood, with her head a little on one side and her hands full of scarlet thread and tinsel, Lily and Gerty from the Glebe Farm eagerly studied her brown coat and round cap with its soft fur hoping to gain a hint for their next fashionable experiments.
Mary made her judgment critically.
"I like that so far," she said, moving forward. "But I think there are just a few things too many on the left. Supposing we finish the actual decorations first and then see what room we have for the toys. And then——"
She broke off as a door on her right opened and the schoolmaster entered the room.
He was a harmless looking man of thirty-nine or forty, with a straggling brown moustache and stooping shoulders, but his pince-nez hid restless, hostile eyes and his thin nostrils dilated whenever he became annoyed, which was almost always, because the world seemed a contrary place for those born without a talent for success.
Directly he came in, the atmosphere of bustling cheerfulness deserted the room.
Mary turned to him with strained affability.
"Well, Mr. Coast, don't you think we're doing rather well?"
She knew he disliked her. She knew he remembered that day three years ago, when she had seen him strike Ronnie Peel in a fit of exasperation and had turned upon him with an outburst of righteous indignation. And then the testimonial. He had been told about that of course by one of those kind friends who prove their loyalty by revealing other people's nastiness.
But she was acutely troubled because somebody disliked her. Even if she was not exactly fond of Coast, that was no reason why Coast should not like her.
"I bought these blue balls in Hardrascliffe," she said, holding out a box. "Don't you think they're rather pretty, Mr. Coast? We broke such a lot last year, and this is a nice big tree."
"Very kind I'm sure, Mrs. Robson, but we had already bought some new ornaments with the Christmas Tree Fund."
"Oh I know, but there's no harm in having a few left over. Is there, Mr. Slater?" When Mary felt opposition from one quarter, she always tried to strengthen her position by approval from another.
"Well, really they are very pretty—very nice—yes—quite. Ha, Mr. Coast, ha?"
"It was very nice I'm sure, Ernie," interposed Mrs. Coast tremulously. "They'll do beautifully. I'm sure I was wondering how we were going to get all those top branches covered. I do hate a tree to look bare."
"Yes, it's shocking, isn't it?" sniggered Miss Taylor, then sank into a depressed silence.
Mary tried again.
"Are you having a good concert this year, Mr. Coast?"
"About the same as usual, Mrs. Robson."
The schoolmaster frowned with disapproval upon the trumpets tied to the lower branches of the tree.
Again there was silence.
Miss Taylor felt that something must be done about it.
"Lucy Morrison is doing a lovely skirt dance," she ventured. "And the sixth standard sketch is fine. It is called 'The Bells of Christmas,' and the girls wear fancy costume."
"That will be nice. Did you make the dresses, Mrs. Coast? I know how clever you are at that sort of thing."
The schoolmaster's wife lifted a timid head and hastily denied the presumption of ever having been clever at anything. But she had helped with the costumes certainly, though Ernie had told her what to do.
"Mrs. Robson"—the schoolmaster passed his tongue over dry lips—"there's a little matter I should like to talk to you about, if you could spare the time."
"Certainly, Mr. Coast. What is it?"
Mary was at the top of the steps now, fixing the Christmas fairy to the highest spire of the tree.
"I should prefer to speak to you in private, if I might trespass for a few minutes on your valuable time."
Mary shrugged her shoulders with resignation.
"Are you in any hurry?" she asked airily.
Not for worlds would she have confessed that the prospect of an interview alone with Coast scared her, that the possibility of his rudeness was dreadful to her.
"Oh, no. Any time that suits you will do for me, Mrs. Robson."
"Will it do when we've finished the tree?"
"Of course, Mrs. Robson. Naturally it would be impossible to finish the decorations without your kind advice."
"Hand me up another trumpet then, Miss Taylor, will you please?"
Mary continued to decorate the tree, whistling a little tune below her breath. All the time she was conscious of the schoolmaster's brooding eyes, watching her from below.
They finished the tree.
Mary was putting on her fur and gloves when Coast again approached her.
"Ah, Mrs. Robson, you are ready I see. Perhaps if you would step into my house we could settle that little affair more comfortably."
Comfortably! As if it were possible to settle any little affair with Coast "comfortably"! And certainly his house would not add to the comfort of the settling.
Mary, following Coast across the asphalt playground, wondered for the hundredth time at the weird phantasy of the too enterprising Victorian architect, who, fired by the inspiration of the Albert Memorial, had become a devotee of Gothic ornateness. She regarded its painted gables, twisted chimneys and sunless windows gloomily and decided that she was in for an unpleasant half-hour.
Mr. Coast's sitting-room was as unfriendly as his manner. Even the cuckoo clock, swinging its one wooden leg, and crouching against the wall like a hobgoblin, proclaimed twelve o'clock with a forbidding voice. Mary sat down and prepared for the worst.
The room was no kinder to Coast than it was to Mary. He shifted his weight from one foot to the order and sought for inspiration.
He was acutely miserable. Mrs. Robson, quietly sitting with folded hands inspecting the woolwork mats, the wax flowers under their glass cover, and the "Everlastings" in the mantelpiece vase, seemed completely mistress of the situation.
Coast hated his room. Everything seemed to have been there a long time, but nothing was at rest. He knew it was all in execrable taste. Mrs. Robson would think he didn't know any better than that. She would not guess that the furniture was bequeathed by Coast's predecessor, and he, with his mind fixed upon rapid promotion, had not thought it worth while to alter things.
He sought for an appropriate beginning and found none. During the previous days he had rehearsed this interview, casting himself for the triumphant rôle of vanquisher of the tyrant and picturing lovingly Mrs. Robson's final confusion. Now he could think of nothing to say.
"Well?" Mary from her chair raised calm, indifferent eyes to her host, where he stood by the mantelpiece frowning and biting his moustache. "I thought you had something to tell me."
Coast passed a trembling hand across his mouth.
"Mr. Robson probably told you of my proposal about the paddock."
If only he could find something safe to look at, he was sure he would be all right. His eyes travelled along the mantelpiece and the chiffonier to the bookcase. There in a row below faded novels and school readers were his books.
"My husband did say something to me, but I forgot."