Daphne

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Please tell Miss Armitage I would be delighted to enjoy the pleasure of her company until her father returns,’ said Mr Garfield.

  A predatory gleam appeared in Lady Godolphin’s eyes. That Cyril Archer Daphne wished to wed was nothing more than a man-milliner. But this Mr Garfield, this rich Mr Garfield, had legs on him like an Adonis.

  Lady Godolphin nodded. ‘Sit down, Daphne,’ she ordered, and Daphne, hearing the note of steel in her voice, miserably sat down.

  ‘To say I am surprised and shocked would be to understate the matter,’ said Squire Radford.

  The Reverend Charles Armitage burrowed deeper into the depths of the comfortable armchair on one side of the squire’s library fireplace, and mumbled, ‘I’m leaving if you’re going to jaw on and on.’ It had been a relief to unburden himself to his old friend and he did not want to have to endure the subsequent lecture.

  ‘Well, I’ve told you it all,’ went on the vicar, reaching out an arm and helping himself to another glass of port from the decanter on the table at his elbow. ‘What stabs me is that this great pile o’ moneybags is sittin’ in my house. As sweet a windfall from the Marriage Mart as ever I did see. And there’s my Daphne, the most beautiful girl in England. And this Garfield starts jawin’ and sayin’ he’ll take me to court and instead of getting Daphne to soothe him down I called him a coxcomb. He probably didn’t mean he would take me to court. Probably got a nasty knock on his cockloft that addled his wits.’

  Squire Radford sighed. ‘Charles,’ he said in his high precise voice, ‘you will need to face facts and the facts are as follows. Firstly, you cannot stop the bishop from visiting you by trying to murder him. Secondly, this Garfield is at outs with you. You must apologize most sincerely to him and tell him the truth. If you put your mind above mercenary motives, Charles, then things will come about.’

  The vicar eyed his friend somewhat sourly. The squire was sitting in a high-backed chair facing him. He was a slight, elderly man, so small in stature that his old-fashioned buckled shoes barely touched the floor. He wore a bag wig, a black coat and black knee breeches. The vicar was very fond of Squire Jimmy Radford but at times found him too unworldly.

  ‘You’re right,’ said the vicar at last. ‘Tell you what … we’ll both go back and apologize to him.’

  ‘But, my very dear Charles, I have nothing for which to apologize.’

  ‘Just to help me, I meant. Sort of stand there with me while I say I’m sorry.’

  The squire reluctantly agreed.

  ‘That’s noble of you, Jimmy,’ said the vicar struggling out of the armchair. ‘If we look penitent enough, mayhap he might decide to stay on and then he can marry Daphne.’

  ‘Oh, Charles, you must make your apology sincere.’

  ‘I will,’ said the vicar. ‘I sincerely want the Garfield money in the family so my ’pology will be the sincerest you’ve ever heard.’

  The two friends decided to walk. The squire’s pretty thatched cottage ornée stood on the far side of the village pond.

  ‘Perhaps he will have left,’ suggested the squire gently. ‘I do not wish to admonish you, Charles, but …’

  ‘Then don’t,’ said the vicar rudely.

  The squire glanced at him sideways. The vicar’s face was crumpled up in deep thought. Unlike Charles to be so mercenary when he was in funds, thought the squire. But the by-now famous marriages of his three eldest daughters had turned his head and he obviously thirsted to add another prize to that illustrious list he kept in the front of the family Bible.

  Yellowhammers were calling from the hedgerows, ‘A-little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheese.’ Starlings sent down their mocking, piping calls, and up on a chimney pot on the roof of The Six Jolly Beggarmen a blackbird launched into a rich melody. A slight breeze ruffled the water of the pond and farm labourers were beginning to come home from the fields.

  The little squire felt uneasily that he should not have said he would accompany his friend. There was something so beautiful and tranquil and spiritual about the peace of the evening, it seemed a pity to spoil it by becoming embroiled in the machinations of the earthy vicar.

  The churchyard cross stood sharply up against the pale sky, a reminder of the good old days before gravestones when one memorial covered all the dead and a belief in eternal life with God was rather more important than the desire to be remembered in the sight of men.

  The squire shivered. Sometimes death felt very close. He would like his name writ large on his tombstone. It was only human to dread disappearing from the world without having left even one little mark on it. Perhaps, mused the squire, the attraction that Charles Armitage held for him was because the vicar was so ebullient, so attached to the earth and fields, so very much part of the living.

  But unknown to the squire, the peace of the evening had touched the vicar. He, Charles Armitage, was about to do a very noble thing. All at once he decided he did not care one way or the other for the rich Mr Garfield. As they turned into the lane leading to the vicarage, Mr Armitage promised his God that he would no longer think of money where his daughters were concerned. If this Cyril Archer were at all possible as a husband then Daphne could have him.

  The vicar turned his calm face up to the sky and for him the angels sang.

  Then he lowered his eyes and saw a strange carriage standing outside the vicarage and he knew in his bones that while he had been talking to Jimmy Radford, the bishop had arrived. The bishop had tricked him with tales of gout and was now waiting to demand that the vicar’s hunting days be over.

  ‘Rot him!’ said the vicar passionately.

  ‘Who!’ exclaimed the squire.

  ‘Dr Philpotts, that’s who. Can’t be anyone else.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said the squire soothingly. ‘Perhaps one of your daughters has travelled to …’

  ‘Not in any antiquated old carriage like that,’ grumbled the vicar. ‘Only a cheese-paring, clutch-fisted, port-hoarding curmudgeon like Philpotts would own a carriage like that.’

  With a groan, the vicar led the way into the vicarage. It was as he feared.

  Dr Philpotts was sitting in the parlour, sipping wine and eating biscuits. Mrs Armitage had recovered from her latest Spasm and looked well on the way to having another. She was drooping on the sofa with a vinaigrette in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. Lady Godolphin was rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. Daphne was bent over her sewing, and Mr Garfield was leaning back in his chair, his hands thrust in his breeches pockets, and looking thoughtfully at Daphne’s bent head.

  In all his worry, the vicar found time to wonder why the usually impeccable Daphne had silk threads twisted through her hair.

  ‘Ah, Armitage,’ said Dr Philpotts in a pompous fussy manner. ‘I am persuaded I have caught you out. I deliberately threw you off your guard by sending word that I was not coming.’

  The vicar looked at him with dislike. Dr Philpotts was a small round man with a fat white face, large pale grey eyes and a large red mouth.

  ‘But now I am here and you are here,’ went on Dr Philpotts, ‘I will come to the point of my visit.’

  ‘Then perhaps we may all be excused,’ said Mr Garfield. ‘You will wish to be private with Mr Armitage.’

  ‘Not at all. Not at all,’ beamed Dr Philpotts. ‘Mr Armitage must be chastised, must be made to understand the meaning of true humility. When I beat my children, I always call in the servants to be witness to their humiliation. Painful but salutary.’

  ‘Disgusting, I call it,’ said Lady Godolphin.

  ‘Exactly,’ beamed Dr Philpotts, ‘although I am persuaded you are too hard on Mr Armitage.’

  ‘Weren’t talking about him,’ sniffed Lady Godolphin. ‘You. Hippochrist!’

  The bishop flinched nervously under Lady Godolphin’s baleful stare. ‘Ha, ha, my lady, we will have our little joke.’

  ‘I ain’t joking,’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘I wish you had broke your neck.’

  The bishop decided to ignore her
. ‘Mr Armitage,’ he said sternly. ‘I have written to you asking you, nay demanding that you cease hunting, that you give up your pack of hounds.’

  ‘Steady, Charles,’ murmured the squire, for veins were beginning to swell on the vicar’s forehead and he had turned an alarming colour.

  There was something in the vicar’s appearance that roused Daphne’s maternal instincts. She was heart-sorry for her father. She thought he looked like a large sulky baby about to hold its breath and turn blue with rage.

  Without knowing why she did it, she turned her eyes to Mr Simon Garfield for help.

  Those strange, hooded, yellowish eyes met and held her own trapped. They studied intently the appeal in her own – and the intelligence.

  The vicar opened his mouth to begin but Mr Garfield forestalled him.

  ‘What a very great pity, my lord bishop,’ he said languidly. ‘I had no idea Mr Armitage was being forced to surrender his truly national reputation as a fine huntsman. But I fear if that is the case I can no longer bring myself to donate the thousand guineas to the church that I brought with me for the purpose.’

  ‘A thousand guineas!’ The bishop goggled at Mr Garfield.

  Mr Garfield raised his quizzing glass and slowly studied the bishop from gaiters to sparse grey hair. ‘Unfortunately, I now fear I must keep my money,’ he drawled.

  ‘But why?’ asked the bishop.

  ‘Because, my dear man, Mr Armitage has inspired many Corinthians like myself with the divine spark. He has led us to glory over the … er … hunting grounds of the soul. We are simple men who must have our religion brought to us in simple ways.’

  ‘Nicely put,’ approved the squire. ‘Quite my own sentiments.’

  ‘Oh, but I had no idea,’ exclaimed the bishop with a deprecating wave of his plump, white hands. ‘If Mr Armitage can bring such ri– I mean such notable members of the ton as yourself, Mr Garfield, to an appreciation of the finer shades of the spirit then I most certainly must withdraw my demand.’

  The vicar’s face had gone from rage to disbelief to outright joy.

  Mrs Armitage, who had been paying absolutely no attention to the conversation, languidly roused herself to summon the maid with the tea tray.

  Daphne wondered hysterically whether her mother was ever alive to any situation.

  ‘That is most generous and most magnanimous of you,’ said the vicar, trying to seize Mr Garfield’s hand. But Mr Garfield appeared not to see the vicar’s hand.

  Mrs Armitage retained some remnants of correct social behaviour and so she roused herself to talk at length to the bishop about the business of the parish. Mrs Armitage never knew very much about what was going on in the village, but what she did not know, she made up. The bishop was obviously disappointed that he was not going to be allowed to make the Reverend Armitage’s life a misery, but warring with that was the joy of bearing off with him one thousand guineas.

  The light was failing rapidly and although there was to be a full moon, the bishop at last announced his intention of taking his leave. Mr Garfield, also, said he must be leaving as he meant to return to his friends at Hopeminster. Relief lightened the spirits of the party. Lady Godolphin was delighted because she had taken the bishop in dislike, the vicar because he was to keep his pack, and Daphne, because she found Mr Garfield’s presence disturbing and threatening.

  ‘Well,’ said Dr Philpotts, getting to his feet, ‘I will be most grateful to take that sum of money you promised, Mr Garfield. It will be most welcome and …’

  ‘I’m not giving it to you,’ said Mr Garfield, raising one thin eyebrow. ‘I thought I had made myself plain. The money is to go to Mr Armitage for repairs to his church.’

  For one brief moment a most unchristian look flitted across the fat, white features of the bishop, and then he forced his large red mouth into a smile, and only Daphne heard him mutter something about the wicked flourishing as the green bay tree.

  ‘A word with you in private,’ said Mr Garfield when the bishop had taken his leave.

  The vicar felt uncomfortable. He had a feeling that Mr Garfield in private was not going to be so pleasant as Mr Garfield in public.

  ‘Mr Radford will join us,’ he said hurriedly. ‘He knows all my business.’

  ‘Alone, if you please,’ said Mr Garfield gently.

  I never could abide men with red hair, thought the vicar sulkily, although Mr Garfield’s hair was brown with copper lights.

  He gloomily led the way into his study and thrust aside the clutter of objects on his desk, and looked up somewhat mutinously at the tall figure of his guest whose broad shoulders seemed to fill the small room.

  The vicar remembered his apology and straightened his fat back.

  ‘Sit down, sit ’ee down,’ he said, waving a chubby hand towards a chair. ‘The fact is, I owe you a heartfelt apology and if you still want to take me to court over the matter, then I’ll need to face that when it comes. I heard old Philpotts was coming for to tell me to get rid of my pack. Me! There ain’t a pack in England to match mine outside the Quorn. It was a mortal hard blow to take and so I had that there pit dug in the road. Not to harm the old man in any way but just to give him a jolt. It was a stupid thing to do. I ask your forgiveness.’

  ‘Very well. You have it,’ said Mr Garfield. The vicar mopped his brow with a large belcher handkerchief and felt a spiritual glow of righteousness spreading through his body. Squire Radford’s advice had been correct.

  He had told the truth. He was not to be punished; in fact he was to be rewarded, since Mr Garfield meant to give him a thousand guineas. The vicar’s small eyes filled with tears of gratitude.

  ‘What brought you to Hopeworth?’ asked the vicar.

  ‘I was sent by a friend to purchase a couple hounds.’

  ‘You shall have them,’ said the vicar emotionally, ‘and not one penny payment shall I accept.’

  ‘If they were for me,’ pointed out Mr Garfield, ‘then I should certainly accept your kind offer. But since they are not, I insist on paying a fair price for them.’

  ‘There must be some other way I can repay you,’ said the vicar anxiously.

  ‘Oh, there is,’ replied Mr Garfield equably. ‘Shall we visit the kennels first?’

  Overjoyed that the day had turned out so well, the vicar lit a lantern and led the way around the house to the kennels.

  ‘Your daughter, Daphne,’ said Mr Garfield abruptly as he cast an eye over the sleepy hounds who had just had their evening meal. ‘She is not lacking in intelligence, I trust?’

  ‘No,’ said the startled vicar. ‘She ain’t a blue-stocking, thanks be to God.’

  ‘But not lacking any of her mental faculties?’

  ‘See here,’ said the vicar acidly. ‘It’s the points o’ the hounds you’re supposed to be going over.’

  ‘Yes. But I will return to the matter of your daughter in a little while.’

  The vicar looked up at him nervously. This Garfield couldn’t be interested in Daphne? Not after that prayer that he, the Reverend Armitage, had sent up to the heavens.

  It almost seemed like a bad omen when Mr Garfield at last selected Bellsire and Thunderer.

  For unlike Diana and Frederica, the soft-hearted Daphne was apt to make a pet of the dogs. Not that she ever allowed them to spread hairs on her gown, but sometimes she would stroke them after feeding time and talk nonsense to them when she thought no one was around.

  The vicar had been rather touched by the pretty sight one evening when he had found his impeccable daughter murmuring softly to the noisy dogs.

  Bellsire and Thunderer were Daphne’s favourites.

  Biting his lip, the vicar called for John Summer and told him to put the hounds in Mr Garfield’s carriage.

  It was unfortunate that Daphne should emerge from the house just at that moment.

  ‘You are not sending Bellsire and Thunderer away, Papa!’ she cried. ‘They are little more than puppies.’

  The two foxhounds cavorted ab
out her. Their ears had not yet been rounded and their white and tan coats gleamed with health.

  Mr Garfield noticed with amusement that the beautiful Miss Daphne now had all her wits about her and was not even attempting to hide the fact.

  ‘Mr Garfield has chosen them, Daphne,’ said the vicar, ‘and it is the least we can do for him after his generosity.’

  ‘They are not for me,’ said Mr Garfield. ‘They are for a friend of mine, a Mr Edwin Apsley.’

  ‘And is Mr Apsley kind to animals?’

  ‘Miss Daphne, he wishes a couple of hounds for his pack, not for the drawing room.’

  Daphne’s long preserved calm finally broke. ‘I am persuaded he will ill-treat them if he is a Corinthian like yourself. He will whip them!’

  ‘Daphne!’ howled the vicar. ‘Go to your room!’

  Daphne, for once unmindful of her dress, was kneeling in the gravel, hugging both dogs who were licking her face.

  At her father’s words, tears started to her eyes, and she gave a gulping sob, got to her feet and ran into the house.

  ‘Come into the study, Mr Garfield,’ said the vicar gruffly. ‘Was ever a man so plagued? You wouldn’t get my other girls sentimentalizing over a pair o’ animals. I’m amazed at Daphne. I’ve never seen her this put about before. Always the quietest and most biddable of girls.’

  A price was agreed on and Mr Garfield rose to take his leave.

  Reluctantly the vicar reminded Mr Garfield that he had said there was some way in which he might be repaid for all his kindness.

  ‘Do you bring your daughter to London?’ asked Mr Garfield abruptly.

  ‘Daphne? She’s just returned. Was staying with Lady Brabington, Annabelle, her sister,’ said the vicar, walking to the window and peering out at the purple night pricked by the first twinkling stars.

  The vicar remembered his prayer. ‘Fact is,’ he said cautiously, ‘Daphne met some fellow when she was last up and talked about an engagement … to a Mr Archer.’

  ‘Cyril Archer?’

  ‘The same.’

  Mr Garfield swung around. ‘I am persuaded they would not suit. I know this Mr Archer.’