by E. F. Benson
Printed menu cards. There were a dozen packets of them, each packet advertising a different dinner: an astounding device, requiring enlargement of explanation. She discovered them by chance in the Military Stores in London, selected a dozen packets containing fifty copies each, and kept the secret to herself. The parlour maids had orders to tweak them away as soon as the last course was served, so that no menu collector, if there was such retrospective glutton in Riseborough, could appropriate them, and thus, perhaps, ultimately get a clue which might lead him to the solution. For by a portent of ill luck, it might then conceivably happen that a certain guest would find himself bidden for the third or fourth time to eat precisely the same dinner as his odious collection told him that he had eaten six months before. But the tweaking parlourmaids obviated that risk, and if the menu cards were still absolutely ‘unsoiled’, Mrs Ames used them again. There was one very sumptuous dinner among the twelve, there were nine dinners good enough for anybody, there were two dinners that might be described as ‘poor’. It was one of these, probably, which Mrs Altham had in her mind when she was so ruthless in respect to Mrs Ames’ food. But, poor or sumptuous, it appeared to the innocent Riseborough world that Mrs Ames had her menu cards printed as required; that, having constructed her dinner, she sent round a copy of it to the printer’s to be set up in type. Probably she corrected the proofs also. She never called attention to these menus, and seemed to take them as a matter of course. Mrs Altham had once directly questioned her about them, asking if they were not a great expense. But Mrs Ames had only shifted a bracelet on her wrist and said, ‘I am accustomed to use them.’
Mrs Ames took four copies of one of these dinners which were good enough for anybody, and propped them up, two on each of the long sides of the table. Naturally, she did not want one herself, and her husband, also naturally, sometimes said, ‘What are you going to give us tonight, Amy?’ In which case one of them was passed to him. But he had a good retentive memory with regard to food, and with a little effort he could remember what the rest of the dinner was going to be, when the nature of the soup had given him his cue. Occasionally he criticized, saying in his hearty voice (this would be in the autumn or winter), ‘What, what? Partridge again? Perdrix repetita, isn’t it, General, if you haven’t forgotten your Latin.’ And Amy from the other end of the table replied, ‘Well, Lyndhurst, we must eat the game our friends are so kind as to send us.’ And yet Mrs Altham declared that she had seen partridges from the poulterers delivered at Mrs Ames’ house! ‘But they are getting cheap now,’ she added to her husband, ‘particularly the old birds. I got a leg, Henry, and the bird must have roosted on it for years before Mrs Ames’ friends were so kind as to send it her.’
So Mrs Ames propped up the printed menu cards, and spoke a humorous word to her first parlourmaid.
‘I have often told you, Parker, to wear gloves when you are putting out the silver. I am not a detective: I am not wanting to trace you by your fingerprints.’
Parker giggled discreetly. Somehow, Mrs Ames’ servants adored their rather exacting mistress, and stopped with her for years. They did not get very high wages, and a great deal was required of them, but Mrs Ames treated them like human beings and not like machines. It may have been only because they were so far removed from her socially; but it may have been that there was some essential and innate kindliness in her that shut up like a parasol when she had to deal with such foolish and trying folk as Mrs Altham. Mrs Altham, indeed, had tried to entice Parker away with a substantial rise in wages, and the prospect of less arduous service. But that admirable servingmaid had declined to be tempted. Also, she had reported the occurrence to her mistress. It only confirmed what Mrs Ames already thought of the temptress. She did not add any further black mark.
The table at present was devoid of any floral decoration, but that was no part of Mrs Ames’ province. Her husband, that premature gardener, was responsible for flowers and wine when Mrs Ames gave a party, and always returned home half an hour earlier, to pick such of his treasures as looked as if they would begin to go off tomorrow, and make a subterranean excursion with a taper and the wine book to his cellar. In the domestic economy of the house he paid the rent, the rates and taxes, the upkeep of the garden, the wine bills, and the cost of their annual summer holiday, while Mrs Ames’ budget was responsible for coal, electric light, servants’ wages, and catering bills. Arising out of this arrangement there occasionally arose clouds (though no bigger than Mrs Ames’ own hand) that flecked the brightness of their domestic serenity. Occasionally - not often - Mrs Ames would be pungent about the possibility of putting out the electric light on leaving a room, occasionally her husband had sent for his coat at lunch time, to supplement the heat given out on a too parsimonious hearth. But such clouds were never seen by other eyes than theirs: the presence of guests led Major Ames to speak of the excellence of his wife’s cook and say, ‘ ’Pon my word, I never taste better cooking than what I get at home,’ and suggested to his wife to say to Mrs Fortescue, ‘My husband so much enjoys having the General to dinner, for he knows a glass of good wine.’ She might with truth have said that he knew a good many glasses.
Finally, the two shared in equal proportions the upkeep of a rather weird youth who was the only offspring of their marriage, and was mistakenly called Harry, for the name was singularly ill-suited to him. He had lank hair, protuberant eyes, and a tendency to write poetry. Just now he was at home from Cambridge, and had rather agitated his mother that afternoon by approaching her dreamily at the garden party and saying, ‘Mother, Mrs Evans is the most wonderful creature I ever saw!’ That seemed to her so wild an exaggeration as to be quite senseless, and to portend poetry. Harry made his father uncomfortable, too, by walking about with some quite common rose in his hand, and pretending that the scent of it was meat and drink to him. Also he had queer notions about vegetarianism, and said that a hunch of brown bread, a plate of beans, and a lump of cheese, contained more nourishment than quantities of mutton chops. But though not much of a hand at victuals, he found inspiration in what he called ‘yellow wine’, and he and a few similarly minded friends belonged to a secret Omar Khayyam Club at Cambridge, the proceedings of which were carried on behind locked doors, not for fear of the Jews, but of the Philistines. A large glass salad bowl filled with yellow wine and sprinkled with rose leaves was the inspirer of these mild orgies, and each Omarite had to write and read a short poem during the course of the evening. It was a point of honour among members always to be madly in love with some usually unconscious lady, and paroxysms of passion were punctuated by Byronic cynicism. Just now it seemed likely that Mrs Evans would soon be the fount of aspiration and despair. That would create quite a sensation at the next meeting of the Omar Club: nobody before had been quite so daring as to fall in love with a married woman. But no doubt that phenomenon has occurred in the history of human passion, so why should it not occur to an Omarite?
The wine at Mrs Ames’ parties was arranged by her husband on a scale that corresponded with the food. At either of the two ‘poor’ dinners, for instance, a glass of Marsala was accorded with the soup, a light (though wholesome) claret moistened the rest of the meal, and a single glass of port was offered at dessert. The course of the nine dinners good enough for anybody was enlivened by the substitution of sherry for Marsala, champagne for claret, and liqueurs presented with coffee, while on the much rarer occasions of the one sumptuous dinner (which always included an ice) liqueur made its first appearance with the ice, and a glass of hock partnered the fish. Tonight, therefore, sherry was on offer, and when, the dinner being fairly launched, Mrs Ames took her first disengaged look round, she observed with some little annoyance, justifiable, even laudable, in a hostess, that Harry was talking in the wrong direction. In fact, he was devoting his attention to Mrs Evans, who sat between him and his father, instead of entertaining Elsie, her daughter, whom he had taken in, and who now sat isolated and silent, since General Fortescue, who was on her other side, was nat
urally conversing with his hostess. Certainly it was rubbish to call Mrs Evans a most wonderful creature; there was nothing wonderful about her. She was fair, with pretty yellow hair (an enthusiast might have called it golden), she had small regular features, and that look of distinction which Mrs Ames (drawing herself up a little as she thought of it) considered to be inseparable from any in whose veins ran the renowned Westbourne blood. She had also that slim, tall figure which, though characteristic of the same race, was unfortunately not quite inseparable from its members, for no amount of drawing herself up would have conferred it on Mrs Ames, and Harry took after her in this respect.
Dr Evans had not long been settled in Riseborough - indeed, it was only last winter that he had bought his practice here, and taken the delightful house in which his wife had given so populous a garden party that afternoon. Their coming, as advertised by Mrs Ames, had been looked forward to with a high degree of expectancy, since a fresh tenant for the Red House, especially when he was known to be a man of wealth (though only a doctor), was naturally supposed to connote a new and exclusive entertainer, while his wife’s relationship to Sir James Westbourne made a fresh link between the ‘town’ and the ‘county’. Hitherto, Mrs Ames had been the chief link, and though without doubt she was a genuine one (her mother being a Westbourne), she had been a little disappointing in this regard, as she barely knew the present head of the family, and was apt to talk about old days rather than glorify the present ones by exhibitions of the family to which she belonged. But it was hoped that with the advent of Mrs Evans a more living intimacy would be established.
Mrs Evans was the fortunate possessor of that type of looks which wears well, and it was difficult to believe that Elsie, with her eighteen years and elderly manner, was her daughter. She was possessed also of that unemotional temperament which causes the years to leave only the faintest traces of their passage, and they had graven on her face but little record of joys and sorrows. Her mouth still possessed the softness of a girl’s, and her eyes, large and blue, had something of the shy, unconscious wonder of childhood in their azure. To judge by appearances (which we shall all continue to do until the end of time, though we have made proverbs to warn us against the fallibility of such conclusions), she must have had the tender and innocent nature of a child, and though Mrs Ames saw nothing wonderful about her, it was really remarkable that a woman could look so much and mean so little. She did not talk herself with either depth or volume, but she had, so to speak, a deep and voluminous way of listening which was immensely attractive. She made the man who was talking to her feel himself to be interesting (a thing always pleasant to the vainer sex), and in consequence he generally became interested. To fire the word ‘flirt’ at her, point–blank, would have been a brutality that would have astounded her - nor, indeed, was she accustomed to use the somewhat obvious arts which we associate with those practitioners, but it is true that without effort she often established relations of intimacy with other people without any giving of herself in return. Both men and women were accustomed to take her into their confidence; it was so easy to tell her of private affairs, and her eyes, so wide and eager and sympathetic, gave an extraordinary tenderness to her commonplace replies, which accurately, by themselves, reflected her dull and unemotional mind. She possessed, in fact, as unemotional but comely people do, the potentiality of making a great deal of mischief without exactly meaning it, and it would be safe to predict that, the mischief being made, she would quite certainly acquit herself of any intention of having made it. It would be rash, of course, to assert that no breeze would ever stir the pearly sleeping sea of her temperament: all that can be said is that it had not been stirred yet.
Mrs Ames could not permit Elsie’s isolation to continue, and she said firmly to Harry, ‘Tell Miss Evans all about Cambridge,’ which straightened conversation out again, and allowed Mrs Evans to direct all her glances and little sentences to Major Ames. As was usual with men who had the privilege of talking to her, he soon felt himself a vivid conversationalist.
‘Yes, gardening was always a hobby of mine,’ he was saying, ‘and in the regiment they used to call me Adam. The grand old gardener, you know, as Tennyson says. Not that there was ever anything grand about me.’
Mrs Evans’ mouth quivered into a little smile.
‘Nor old, either, Major Ames,’ she said.
Major Ames put down the glass of champagne he had just sipped, in order to give his loud, hearty laugh.
‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘I’m pretty vigorous yet, and can pull the heavy garden roller as well as a couple of gardeners could. I never have a gardener more than a couple of days a week. I do all the work myself. Capital exercise, rolling the lawn, and then I take a rest with a bit of weeding, or picking a bunch of flowers for Amy’s table. Weeding, too -
‘An hour’s weeding a day
Keeps the doctor away.’
I defy you to get lumbago if you do a bit of weeding every morning.’
Again a little shy smile quivered on Millie Evans’ mouth.
‘I shall tell my husband,’ she said. ‘I shall say you told me you spend an hour a day in weeding, so that you shouldn’t ever set eyes on him. And then you make poetry about it afterwards.’
Again he laughed.
‘Well, now, I call that downright wicked of you,’ he said, ‘twisting my words about in that way. General, I want your opinion about that glass of champagne. It’s a ’96 wine, and wants drinking.’
The General applied his fishlike mouth to his glass.
‘Wants drinking, does it?’ he said. ‘Well, it’ll get it from me. Delicious! Goo’ dry wine.’
Major Ames turned to Millie Evans again.
‘Beg your pardon, Mrs Evans,’ he said, ‘but General Fortescue likes to know what’s before him. Yes, downright wicked of you! I’m sure I wish Amy had asked Dr Evans tonight, but there - you know what Amy is. She’s got a notion that it will make a pleasanter dinner table not to ask husband and wife always together. She says it’s done a great deal in London now. But they can’t put on to their tables in London such sweet peas as I grow here in my bit of a garden. Look at those in front of you. Black Michaels, they are. Look at the size of them. Did you ever see such sweet peas? I wonder what Amy is going to give us for dinner tonight. Bit of lamb next, is it? And a quail to follow. Hope you’ll go Nap, Mrs Evans; I must say Amy has a famous cook. And what do you think of us all down at Riseborough, now you’ve had time to settle down and look about you? I daresay you and your husband say some sharp things about us, hey? Find us very stick-in-the-mud after London?’
She gave him one of those shy little deprecating glances that made him involuntarily feel that he was a most agreeable companion.
‘Ah, you are being wicked now!’ she said. ‘Everyone is delightful. So kind, so hospitable. Now, Major Ames, do tell me more about your flowers. Black Michaels, you said those were. I must go in for gardening, and will you begin to teach me a little? Why is it that your flowers are so much more beautiful than anybody’s? At least, I needn’t ask: it must be because you understand them better than anybody.’
Major Ames felt that this was an uncommonly agreeable woman, and for half a second contrasted her pleasant eagerness to hear about his garden with his wife’s complete indifference to it. She liked flowers on the table, but she scarcely knew a hollyhock from a geranium.
‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘I don’t say that my flowers, which you are so polite as to praise, don’t owe something to my care. Rain or fine, I don’t suppose I spend less than an average of four hours a day among them, year in, year out. And that’s better, isn’t it, than sitting at the club, listening to all the gossip and tittle-tattle of the place?’
‘Ah, you are like me,’ she said. ‘I hate gossip. It is so dull. Gardening is so much more interesting.’
He laughed again.
‘Well, as I tell Amy,’ he said, ‘if our friends come here expecting to hear all the tittle-tattle of the place, they will
be in for a disappointment. Amy and I like to give our friends a hearty welcome and a good dinner, and pleasant conversation about really interesting things. I know little about the gossip of the town; you would find me strangely ignorant if you wanted to talk about it. But politics now -one of those beastly Radical members of Parliament lunched with us only the week before last, and I assure you that Amy asked him some questions he found it hard to answer. In fact, he didn’t answer them: he begged the question, begged the question. There was one, I remember, which just bowled him out. She said, ‘What is to happen to the parks of the landed gentry, if you take them away from the owners?’ Well, that bowled him out, as they say in cricket. Look at Sir James’s place, for instance, your cousin’s place, Amy’s cousin’s place. Will they plant a row of villas along the garden terrace? And who is to live in them if they do? Grant that Lloyd George - she said that - grant that Lloyd George wants a villa there, that will be one villa. But the terrace there will hold a dozen villas. Who will take the rest of them? She asked him that. They take away all our property, and then expect us to build houses on other people’s! Don’t talk to me!’
The concluding sentence was not intended to put a stop on this pleasant conversation; it was only the natural ejaculation of one connected with landed proprietors. Mrs Evans understood it in that sense.
‘Do tell me all about it,’ she said. ‘Of course, I am only a woman, and we are supposed to have no brains, are we not? And to be able to understand nothing about politics. But will they really take my cousin James’s place away from him? I think Radicals must be wicked.’
