“I am glad you are to be at Holdings,” said Mr. Choyce. “You see I don’t know Pomfret Towers so I cannot visualize you there,” to which Miss Merriman replied that she thought she was much the same at the Towers as she was anywhere else.
“Yes, I expect you are,” said Mr. Choyce. “Varium et mutabile was not written for you,” but as Miss Merriman was not acquainted with the works of P. Virgilius Maro, she merely smiled kindly, taking it for granted that Mr. Choyce’s comment was meant to be agreeable, as indeed it was.
“Who’s your parson fellow, Lady Graham?” said Lord Stoke to Lady Graham, in his usual loud voice. “Our man at High Rising doesn’t do the service as well as your man. He’s got three girls. Eldest one’s getting a bit long in the tooth.”
“You know quite well who the Vicar is, Lord Stoke,” said Lady Graham. “Mr. Choyce. He has been here for a long time and we all like him very much. He used to be a clergyman at Liverpool.”
“Liverpool, eh?” said Lord Stoke. “Never was at Liverpool in my life, but he took the service very well. Made you feel it was all right. Not like our man. He mumbles.”
“Old Uncle Giles had a clergyman who mumbled,” said Lady Graham. “They used to have a private service for the family and staff at the Towers in his time and Uncle Giles used to tell him to speak up.”
“Good man, Pomfret,” said Lord Stoke. “One was always sure of a fox when he had the hounds—in my young days that was. And he swore better than any man I’ve ever known. Whole field could hear him if anything went wrong. IVe heard him curse old Lord Norton up hill and down dale. Norton always managed to get mixed up with the hounds. Don’t think much of his son, he’s a stick. So’s his wife—shockin’ style. No children and the title dies with him.”
“What happens to your title, Lord Stoke?” said Lady Graham, who had the complete freedom from social inhibitions that often goes with good blood; though never used consciously in an unkind way.
“Ought to go to my sister’s boy, young Bond,” said Lord Stoke, “but it doesn’t. You know Lucasta, Lady Graham. Only my half-sister though. Why my old governor married a second time if that was all he could do, I don’t know. But Bond’s a good lad, even if his father’s people were in trade, and he’s got a good wife. Bit of county blood in her too. Blood tells. Your Edith has it. Ought to. Good stock on both sides. Where’s your husband, eh?”
“I did hope he would be here,” said Lady Graham, “but he had to go over to Gatherum about a heifer.”
“Io, eh?” said Lord Stoke, with what we can only call a lascivious chuckle, but Lady Graham was not listening, which was perhaps just as well, as if she had asked for an explanation Lord Stoke might have regretted his outburst. The reason she was not listening was that Mrs. Morland was involved in a discussion about the way one was always losing things because you put them in a safe place and then you don’t know where it is. The younger members of the party with sad want of manners were beginning to shout, young Mr. Crosse being active among them though not so very young.
“I say, Mrs. Morland,” said Captain James Graham, “how long do you give a thing if you lose it? I mean when do you give up?”
“Well, I used to look for things till I ran them to earth,” said Mrs. Morland, “but I found that was waste of time. So now I just ignore them. Then they come back. But what I do hate is the people that make one lose the things,” and she looked vengefully in the direction of the ceiling.
“You allude to supernatural powers, Mrs. Morland?” said young Mr. Crosse who was fascinated by her.
“THEY,” said Mrs. Morland. “I don’t mean Kipling,” she added hastily, “because I’d have to pay royalties if I did. I mean Whoever They Are.”
“ ‘To The Unknown God,’ ” said Mr. Choyce, but no one noticed him owing to the noise except Miss Merriman, who caught his eye and smiled. An intelligent woman he felt, and then listened courteously to Mrs. Morland’s disquisition on losing things and the peculiar malevolence of inanimate objects in getting themselves lost for no reason at all.
While all this noise was going on Edith Graham had been talking to her cousin Lord Pomfret, who with his usual kind, tired consideration for others, thought she was rather less lively than usual and asked what she was doing now.
“I really don’t know,” said Edith. “I think what I need is a job.”
Her cousin asked what kind of job.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Edith. “You see, Cousin Gillie,” she went on in a quiet voice, “I don’t know where I am.”
“Explain,” said Lord Pomfret.
“Well, I love being at home and the farm,” said Edith, “but there’s really nothing to do. Clarissa went to college because she wanted to but I’d loathe it and anyway she’s married now. Emmy adores cows and married Tom Grantly, but I don’t adore cows and can’t marry Tom,” at which they both laughed and Edith began to feel better and went on: “All the boys are soldiers and aren’t here much. I do love Holdings, frightfully, but there’s nothing to do and I don’t think mother understands. I don’t mean that nastily,” she added.
“Of course you don’t,” said Lord Pomfret quietly. “I know rather what you feel like, because when I was a very young man I was really quite at a loose end—that was before Uncle Giles died and I turned into a lord. And I hadn’t even got parents to consult. Mother died when I was young and father and I never got on. But it all came out all right—thanks to Sally” and he looked at his wife with the affection that had never changed since the day that the heir to the earldom had proposed to the agent’s sister after tea in the estate office.
“If only I had a Sally,” said Edith. “But I suppose for me it would have to be a husband and really that is impossible.”
“I don’t see why,” said her cousin.
“Oh, I don’t mean that I’ll never get married,” said Edith. “Of course I shall some day, but not at present. I must look about a bit. What I’d like to do would be to learn estate work properly and help father. He will be much more at home now. I know a fair amount, but only things I’ve picked up. There’s a place Mr. Carter told me about in Barchester where you can do a good course of estate management, but I don’t know if they would like it,” and Lord Pomfret guessed that they meant her parents.
Lord Pomfret was silent for a moment, interested in his young cousin in whom all the landed proprietor strain was coming out so strongly: even more strongly than in her sister Emmy Grantly who was almost purely a cow specialist.
“Look here, Edith,” said Lord Pomfret. “Keep your head and don’t panic. I have a kind of nebulous idea that Sally and I might help. How would you like to come to the Towers for a bit in the autumn and help us? Miss Merriman could teach you a lot and so could Roddy. I often think how lucky I was to marry the agent’s sister. And you could easily go to your Agrarian Economy School or whatever it is in Bar-chester, but I warn you that you have to be pretty good at arithmetic. Farming isn’t all cows and cabbages now. It’s high and complicated finance as well, and a bit of law work. Are you game?”
The rather spoilt youngest daughter of the Grahams thought for a minute.
“I’m game, Cousin Gillie,” she said, “if you can square mother.”
“Done” said Lord Pomfret and raised his glass. Edith also raised her glass of orangeade and they drank ceremoniously, which, being observed by some of the younger members, healths were drunk with bows across the table till nearly everyone had the giggles or choked.
“Now that’s what I like to see,” said Lord Stoke, who naturally did not know what the disturbance was about. “Good old custom to remember the dead. Lot of fellows dead now. More than there used to be. Well, when a man’s dead he’s dead. Stone dead has no fellow as Shakespeare says somewhere—clever fellow he was, knew his world. He’s dead too. And here’s to you as well, Mrs. Morland,” and he raised his glass. Mrs. Morland responded suitably, suppressing a wish to laugh at her old friend.
“Wonderful what a lot of people die,�
� said Lord Stoke to the table in general. “There’s hardly a man of my age alive now. The women are tougher. My half-sister Lucasta will see all of us into our graves. There’s old Pomfret gone and the Warings and—oh well. My old governor used to talk about people joining the majority when I was a shaver and I thought he meant they had got a commission,” at which Captain James Graham let out a large guffaw and then felt ashamed of himself. “I’m about the oldest left now except Pridham.”
“Sir Edmund is eighty-five, Lord Stoke,” said Mrs. Morland. “I know he is, because he showed me his name in the Family Bible last time I went to see him.”
“Can’t get away with that,” said Lord Stoke. “Might easily have put it in himself. Now I’ve got my old father’s Bible and there’s my name in the beginning, Algernon Courcy Stoke, born 1876, in my father’s writing. Old Lord de Courcy—none of you would remember him—was my godfather. He gave me a silver gilt mug, but not a penny more except bad tips for races. Never let your godfather give you tips for races—can’t trust em.”
“Like the tip you gave me for the Derby, Lord Stoke,” said Mrs. Morland at which there was a laugh and the talk became general and then Lady Graham got up and the party began to disperse.
“What are you doing, dear boy?” she said to George Hal-liday who had been very quiet during lunch. But, as his watchful hostess observed that he had made a very good meal, she did not feel disturbed about him.
“I really don’t know,” said George. “There’s plenty to do on the farm. I told them they could have the morning off, but I’d better go back and see that they are working. If it weren’t for the farm, Lady Graham, I don’t know what I’d do. Things do get one down a bit, but once you get on the land it’s not so bad. Will you say good-bye to everyone for me and thank them for coming and I’ll slip away.”
So he went into the hall and there met Edith.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Edith. “I thought it was Ludo. He rang up just now and said he had a spot of leave and would be here soon.”
“And my leave is up and I must go back to the farm,” said George. “I left my car by the church so I’ll walk up.”
“I thought we might have gone on the river,” said Edith. “Of course, if you must go you must, I suppose. I say, George, don’t forget us. Come again soon. And I’m really awfully sorry about your father,” and she reached up, kissed him in a friendly way before he was aware, and with a wave of her hand went back to the party.
Suddenly quite desperately lonely, George stood for a moment, wondering if he could face an empty Hatch House. Mr. Choyce was talking to Miss Merriman in the drive and stopped him.
“I don’t want to gate-crash, Halliday,” he said, “but if you are going home may I walk up with you? I have to go back to the Vicarage in any case. I promised to show Miss Merriman my drawing-room. I had that dreadful monkey-puzzle taken away and everything looks quite different. Miss Merriman will come on later.”
George was grateful for anything that would put off the moment of finding himself alone at Hatch House and the two men walked back to the village. At the churchyard gate George slackened his pace and then turned to the Vicar.
“Do you mind if I just go in for a moment?” he said. “I think father would like it.”
Mr. Choyce cordially agreed in petto, though he did not speak, and they turned into the churchyard where the newly tenanted grave was heaped with flowers. He paused, waiting for George.
“Oh, not that,” said George, speaking as much to himself as to Mr. Choyce. “Father isn’t there. I mean inside,” and he went into the church, followed by the Vicar, and straight to the Squire’s pew where he knelt. Mr. Choyce went into the chancel where stones underfoot commemorated past Halli-days and waited there, thinking of many things, among them how extremely difficult it was to concentrate when one’s thoughts were flying in different directions. And as he did not feel very able to consider himself, he considered George Halliday and asked that George might be helped both to remember and to forget. Then George got up and both men went out again.
“And now,” said Mr. Choyce, as if this were a treat he had been waiting for all day, “may I come back to Hatch House with you? Only if you would like it.”
George’s expression passed from stupefaction to a rather touching gratitude, or so Mr. Choyce felt.
“Thanks awfully, padre,” he said, using the familiar army name. “I’m not really afraid, but I’m jibbing a bit. Still, I suppose I must take my fences.”
Mr. Choyce said he could not at the moment think of any proper comment unless it were Trust in God and keep your powder dry, at which George laughed so loudly and flatteringly that the Vicar was pleasingly surprised.
“But first I must go and see the Vicarage without the monkey-puzzle,” said George, with a consideration for the Vicar which touched him. “And you are expecting Miss Merriman, aren’t you? I do like Miss Merriman.”
“So do I,” said Mr. Choyce, who in his kind zeal to comfort George had temporarily forgotten Miss Merriman. “I saw a great deal of her when she was at Holdings with Lady Emily Leslie during the war. A very unusual woman.”
By this time they had reached the Vicarage garden. For the first time in a great many years the whole of the small but handsome red brick building, some hundred and fifty years old, could be seen. In front of one wing there was a raw, untidy place where the monkey-puzzle had been—but far better any kind of ground than one of those trees, if trees one could call them.
“What a jolly front” said George.
“The Palace wanted to have it secularized and put me into a nice council house with walls one brick thick and plate glass windows,” said the Vicar, “but the Chancellor—Sir Robert Fielding—was extremely helpful and here I still am. It will take time to clear the lawn of course, but my predecessor left a large roller in the back yard and I shall borrow a pony and cut the grass and roll it. The only difficulty is boots.”
George asked the Vicar if he meant gum-boots, as he might be able to find him a pair.
“Oh dear, no,” said the Vicar. “I mean for the pony. A nice set of four leather boots.”
“Lord! I’d forgotten about that,” said George. “Oh! look here, Mr. Choyce. I believe we’ve got a pair—I mean a quartet or whatever they are called—in Caxton’s shop. Come on!” and forgetting the past and the mound in the churchyard he almost dragged Mr. Choyce to his car. The Vicar, delighted to feel that he could really be of use, got in without a word and within a very few minutes they were at Hatch House. The front looked strange and the Vicar saw that all the blinds were down.
“Hell!” said George, pulling the car up short so ardently that the Vicar feared for his uppers. “I told Hubback to have those blinds up. She’s been drinking too much tea” and he drove round to the stable yard, got out and strode towards the kitchen, the Vicar, amused and anxious at his heels.
George opened the kitchen door, disclosing Hubback, Caxton and the faithful old cook Mrs. Fothergill who felt her age and her legs and was mostly having a nice cup of tea or a quiet lay down, so that she was little use except that she never went out and so was always about the place. But for her perpetual presence Mrs. Halliday would have found it difficult to leave her husband as his health failed and everyone felt grateful to her, though as Caxton said, The Lord He knew Mrs. Fothergill wouldn’t have woken up for no one if she was having her afternoon sleep, not if it was the Day of Judgment.
The tea-party, much to their annoyance, all felt a little guilty. Not that Hubback had anything to be ashamed of in having her tea with Mrs. Fothergill, but the fact that Caxton was present rather showed that the mice were playing when the new master was away. Caxton got up, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and said he must be getting back to his shop.
“All right, Caxton,” said George. “I’m coming out to the shop. I’ve something to ask you,” and Caxton went away with his slow Wessex tread.
“Well, Mr. George, I’m sure it was a lovely service,” sai
d Hubback, seeking to avert the Wrath to Come. “If only the poor dear gentleman could have been there I’m sure he would have said the same.”
“And if father were here,” said George, “he would want to know why the blinds are still down. You know perfectly well, Hubback, that the blinds have to be pulled up as soon as the funeral is over. If mother knows she will be shocked. Please pull them all up. Now. I don’t know what the Vicar will think,” which final shot was obviously unfair, but George, suffering from repressed emotion, was in no state to mince matters. And we rather think that at the back of his mind was the feeling that now, if ever, he must show that he was the Squire and represented authority.
“Well, Mr. George, I’m sure I’m very sorry,” said Hubback, with these few words, almost unknown by any self-respecting old servant, accepting George as what he was—the new Squire.
“Then don’t do it again,” said George, which words kindly but firmly spoken had a strong effect on both Hubback and Mrs. Fothergill, though if they—or he—had stopped to reflect, they might have considered that the death of an elderly father was not likely to happen again for a very long time— if ever. Hubback went away to open the rooms and Mrs. Fothergill, whose feet were a source of great pride to her owing to being very bad, got up with an effort.
“Oh, Master George,” she said. “It’s a sad day. And one of the best bits of veal I’ve ever seen waiting to be cooked and Squire isn’t here. He fancied veal, poor gentleman,” and she began to cry.
George gave her a kind of hug with one arm, pushed her in the direction of her bedroom and went out with the Vicar. Caxton, who was in the yard, drew himself up as if he were still the soldier he once had been, awaiting a court-martial.
“I’m glad you are here, Caxton,” said George. “Mr. Choyce wants some leather shoes for his pony to mow the lawn,” which was not perhaps particularly good English, but explained itself. “Didn’t we have a set once?”
“You come into my workshop, Mr. George—leastways Squire I should say—and we’ll have a look,” said Caxton.
Never Too Late Page 26
