Bewildering Cares

by Peck,Winifred

  This Bible Class, I need hardly say, consists also almost wholly of grandmothers. It is a relic of the days when the Sunday School was one of the great forces of religion north of the Trent, and some of my old ladies have attended a Sunday afternoon Bible Class of some kind for fifty years. I often wish that I could have a class in our very good and up-to-date Sunday School—and I don’t think the critics of the Church realize how well these are managed nowadays—as I never expect any new young member to join my class and face the Gorgon-stare of the old habituées who are quite as exclusive as members of the Grid: or of Boodles’. Long, long ago I feel, they have heard everything that any clergy-wife has to say about the Christian faith, and any such innovation as a suggestion that I should read them some scenes from Pilgrim’s Progress is met with hearty disapprobation. It really makes very little difference what I do and say, and I no longer feel any nervousness, for the proceedings never vary. One elected mother, Mrs. Bebb for this month, clocks in on all the others severely in a large manuscript book, hoary with age, and extracts from each member the sum of one penny towards the Christmas, or—just now—the summer treat. This ceremony is nearly always followed by a rather acrimonious discussion as to whose turn it is to choose the hymn. A great deal of reminiscence goes on round this point. (“Ah, no, excuse me, Mrs. Dodds, it was Quinquy as you chose ‘Peace, Perfect Peace’, the day after your Bob got that clout on his jaw at the football.” … “Well, I may be wrong, dear, but I know I’m not; it was Quinquy Mrs. Sime asked for ‘Blessed are the pure in heart’. I could tell you why, but better not.”)

  In any case it doesn’t matter much, as we nearly always have “Peace, Perfect Peace”, a hymn which rarely appears in church services now, and then most of the old ladies settle down to enjoy their quest of peace by taking a good nap. Meanwhile, surveying their quiet, tired old faces, I make some disjointed remarks on the Epistle and the Gospel of the day. Today we had the miracle of the feeding of the five thousand, and I always think it seems rather poignantly beautiful to people whose one idea of real enchantment is a long day out with a good picnic, and aren’t in the least daunted by the idea of being one among so many. I cannot say that I provided, however, any such novel thought on this occasion as Mrs. Higgs, who said briskly in conclusion, “Those basketfuls! How they’d please the Food Control nowadays!” This was at the start of the discussion which follows my address, and I need not say that we all went rather far from the original story in an interesting discussion on waste, principally, I fear, the waste of our neighbours. The gossip meandered on so happily that my thoughts wandered, and it was only when I discovered suddenly that something like a battle was raging over the suggestion of Mrs. Bebb (whose sense of drama is doubtless fostered by her favourite literature) that we should all use our savings for a day at Buxton at Easter, instead of waiting till summer, on the grounds that by Whitsuntide we may all be blown sky-high.

  “There’s a want of faith for you!” said our verger’s wife, reprovingly. “If Heaven can keep us till Easter, why not till Whitsun and make it Scarborough?”

  “There may be no cheap tickets by Whitsun,” suggested Mrs. Leaf, who hands over every penny grudgingly all the year, and annoys everyone at the treat by her parsimoniousness over ice-cream carts and the swings.

  “The Lord will provide,” pronounced Mrs. Sime, feeling no doubt that Heaven, having provided Lil with a husband, would certainly see to her life in an air-raid.

  As we seemed in for a long discussion, I suggested that we should think things over this week, and after Sun of my Soul, sung loudly and very slowly, the old ladies rambled off at last, stopping at the gate for long cracks, for all the world like the Rectory ladies after their Quiet Day.

  Arthur did not come in to tea—a bad practice of his on Sundays, as he usually gets a cup of strong, dark poison from some parishioner. There were two christenings to-day, and the parents do love to ask him back to their houses on these occasions and he loves to go. When I wonder whether all his patient work in the parish is appreciated, I remind myself of the stock of little Arthurs and Camillas who are growing up in Stampfield, and I know that his people really love him after all. I could wish, indeed, that our names did not figure so prominently in the future Mrs. Byng’s family, but perhaps they will have a steadying effect on the Lil Miscellany in time to come.

  It seemed rash to leave the house empty all through Evensong or so the Tempter told me, when the telephone rang and Miss Boness spoke to me, in a state of great excitement.

  “Good news from the front, Mrs. Lacely! But first I must just say have you heard about Mr. Elgin and Miss Croft? Such a surprise! You could have knocked me down with the proverbial feather! Well, well, better late than never, I say, and journeys end in lovers’ meetings, don’t they? The journey to Leeds, I mean. When did you hear about it?”

  “Oh, a little time ago,” I answered, vaguely, for Miss Boness hates to be a minute behindhand with any information. “But what’s the good news?”

  “Dear Mr. Strang! My brother has just been in and he says that things have taken the most favourable turn. Of course, he won’t say we’re out of the wood yet, but he does say that we’re really toeing the line now. So much so that when I said shouldn’t the dear Vicar let the congregation know at once, he didn’t actually forbid it. The relief and joy will be so great, won’t it? I don’t suppose any curate was ever loved better than Mr. Strang!”

  “I could slip round with a note, of course,” I said, doubtfully, “if Dr. Boness really thinks—”

  “He says it won’t do any harm,” replied Miss Boness, as if Dr. Boness regarded any church interference a little doubtfully. “And Mrs. Weekes has just rung up to say that Mrs. Strang is so relieved and happy that she insists she’d like something said about it. My brother says ‘anything to soothe her’, for she’s been in a dreadful state, you know. Adela has been marvellous with her, of course, and she is very anxious that Mrs. Strang should have her own way, too. So if you could, dear Mrs. Lacely? I’d go myself, but I was just in the midst of sorting out old paper and rags for the Government, and one almost feels national work must come first, ‘My country, right or wrong’, you know.”

  Certainly, I thought, I can manage to get a note sent up to Arthur in the chancel, by the verger, with less fuss than Miss Boness would have created. In her present frame of mind she would have been quite capable of stopping at the lectern and announcing it herself! The choir was just concluding an anthem, which seemed to me rather a curious commentary on the events of the week: “O, where shall wisdom be found?” they boomed as I found my usual nook behind a pillar.

  The church was very full; the silence as Arthur stood up to preach was intense. And then everyone looked at his neighbour as my husband gave out: “We have joined in prayer already for our friend, Herbert Strang, who is dangerously ill. I am very glad to tell you now that, though there must be anxiety for some time, the Doctor reports that our prayers are answered, that his condition has improved greatly during the day, and that we have every reason to hope he will be spared to us. I know that you all will remember him both with thanksgiving and with prayers to-night before the throne of God.”

  I am in the happy, and perhaps not unusual, position of liking my husband’s sermons. Arthur’s mother once declared cynically that the reason why clergymen’s wives had such large families, with such long gaps between them, was probably because they wished to avoid evening sermons for as long as they could, on the happy pretext of looking after their children, “to let Nurse out for church”.

  “It doesn’t matter whom you sleep under,” was Dick’s comment once, when I said I enjoyed Arthur’s sermons, and no doubt one does get drowsy when one knows one’s husband’s line of thought too well. But just now he has been giving the simplest form of addresses at Evensong, by relating briefly and entertainingly the life-stories of famous men. Ten years ago he heard this done by the headmaster of our greatest public-school, and, as Arthur said, a life-story, especially if t
he moral isn’t pressed home, really does interest everybody. I don’t know if these addresses were called Arthur’s Bed-Time Talks, as the originals were, but I always find interest in them. To-night Arthur told the story of Henry Carey and all his efforts and disappointments in India, and the opposition of the Government and the East India Company. He spent years, Arthur told us, in teaching himself the language before he made one convert, “and it is, perhaps”, he added, “because it is so difficult for any of us to grasp a new language, a different mode of thought from our own, that we are tempted to condemn and obstruct would-be missionaries to-day”. That was his only reference to the burning question of the week, and I doubt if anyone but myself noticed it. For everyone was so evidently looking forward to hearing the latest news and discussing it when church was over, that Arthur, I gathered, curtailed the closing years of Carey’s life a little drastically. (He has that knack of understanding the feeling of an audience which helps the audience, I think, to understand him.) The last hymn, which had been chosen, I like to think, by Mr. Elgin with reference to his own feelings, was “Now thank we all our God”, and the Stampfield congregation all shouted it out as if their relief and gratitude about Mr. Strang were a personal victory.

  “And so it is,” said Arthur, when we both reached home at six o’clock, the day’s work over for us both at last. “Everyone rejoices everywhere in the victory of life over death. I don’t mean that this was all people felt about Strang. There was a lot of remorse for past unkindness, and a good satisfying sense of drama in such a sudden attack and recovery; but at the bottom of it all is our human triumph over our one great mutual enemy—death. It’s that”, he added sadly, “which makes wars so absurd and intolerable—they are the reversal of the human instinct. But it’s that, too, I suppose, which makes the Easter message of the limits of death’s victories come to us with fresh triumph every year.”

  The poor dear looked quite worn out, and I was just deciding to go and get supper ready very early, for my efforts at strong mutton broth are crowned with success by now, when I had a presentiment. A car swung round our corner and stopped suddenly and violently at our gate, and I felt my blood running up to my head and down to my toes as I gasped out, “Arthur, I know it’s Dick!”

  And there outside was a small open car, with Ida Weekes at the wheel. And on the pavement, holding the door open for Ida, and smiling up at the house heartily, stood Dick. The evening sunlight fell on them both; and though I suppose to the passer-by they would have seemed a very ordinary couple of young people in khaki, getting out of a small, uncomfortable and dilapidated car, to me they seemed young Greek heroes for beauty and youth incarnate, and some mysterious elixir which was filling up the horrid hole in my heart and bringing life back to me again. Because, you see, like all mothers, I never see my son leave the house now without wondering if I shall ever see him again.

  “Brace yourself, Mums!” said Dick, hugging me as I tumbled down the steps. “Hullo, Daddy, here’s Ida! Come in, everyone, because we haven’t got long, I’m afraid.”

  “I knew it was you,” I said, as I kissed dear, tall, pretty Ida.

  “I should think so, with the noise her casserole makes!” laughed Dick.

  “But where’s your bag?” I asked, disappointed, “Have you really not come to stay?”

  “Not now, I’m afraid! We started off overnight and we only got here an hour ago, and we must be back by six a.m. to-morrow. But don’t worry, Mums! I’m getting leave in three weeks, and after that I’m going on a course for three months, and I’ll probably wangle more leave after that.”

  “How good of you to bring him,” said Arthur to Ida. His very cordiality showed that he was wishing a little that we three could be together without anyone from outside. I don’t say that men are the jealous sex, but they are certainly less adaptable about new situations.

  “She jolly well had to come,” said Dick, seizing Ida’s arm. “She had to soften her parents’ hearts while her penniless wooer laid his heart, and fifty-nine pounds, seven and sixpence at her feet.”

  “Oh stop, you silly boy!” cried Ida. “Dear Mrs. Lacely, I hope you don’t mind! I hope you don’t think I’ve been enticing him! No-one to look at him would think he’d reached the age of consent!” (Like all her contemporaries, Ida has a large vocabulary of unsuitable phrases at her disposal without, I am sure, any clear idea of their meaning!)

  “He’s legally responsible for himself, anyway,” said Arthur, smiling now that he was slowly (for how slow the quickest men are!) beginning to understand the situation.

  “Yes, rather, but we’ve come to get your consent and what not,” said Dick. “We’ve got her people taped all right, and now we’ve come to see you about getting hitched up in April. You can make a good cheap thing of it for us, with special reductions, can’t you, Daddy?”

  No-one can tell how heavenly it is for a proper, sedate, elderly parson and his wife to look at youth and happiness, and hear such silly conversation and gaiety. In spite of all the Freuds and Havelock Ellises in the world, I do not believe that mothers feel anything but joy when their sons come to them on an errand like this, with a girl the mother knows she can love. They have agony enough when their sons choose what seems a false goddess, or when the right goddess looks haughtily away. But every mother for all time has always wanted her son to have the best of life, and what better can there be than a happy marriage? I suppose it’s only in war-time that we accept quite such sudden decisions without any need of adapting ourselves; but now when every moment is precious, how can we grudge them one? And to find Ida clinging to me affectionately and patting my back, while she told Dick not to be so crude in his remarks, made me slightly hysterical with happiness and pride.

  “What do your people say, Ida dear?” asked Arthur, a little doubtfully. “Isn’t all this rather a shock to them? And you know it can’t be the sort of marriage they might well expect for you.”

  “Here, Daddy, what about the gallant Defender of his Country?” protested Dick.

  “I was a bit nervous about Mummy,” said Ida with her delightful candour. “She always did seem rather to feel I was marked down for a Prime Minister.”

  “Well, I’ll take the job if it’s offered me,” interrupted Dick.

  “But on Friday I got a marvellous letter; you know how hard her writing is to read—about how she’d never known till she met some one, I imagine, called Lalicypro, or something like that …”

  “Gosh, what company you keep in Stampfield!” said Dick, pulling Ida down on the arm of his chair.

  “… who seems to have fed her up with no end of respect for your high degree, dear Mrs. Lacely. Indeed, I don’t know if I dare to marry into your family now I gather that your father or some ancestor was a boy friend of a Duke who looked like Welly Willy.”

  “Oh Ida, don’t be so absurd!” I said, laughing quite normally at last. “What has my grandfather having served under Wellington got to do with it? Why he might have been a corporal for all she knew, and he was only a Major!”

  “Well, anyhow, all that Lali-whatnot said went down so well that I pipped off a letter by return saying that I meant to marry young Prince Stampfield, and then we followed it up by coming on here to-day. And you know, seriously, darling, the real truth is that, as Daddy says, he doesn’t respect or love anyone as he does you, Mr. Lacely, and that if Dick’s like him he asks for nothing better. And you see when the War’s over he’ll want someone just like Dick in his business. None of the rest mattered really in the least, only it came in rather handily with darling Mummy who does so like a bit of varnish to the name.”

  “Why did you never tell me I was a long-lost duke, Mums?” asked Dick, who was gazing at Ida as if she were the soul of wit, so that I longed to hug them both again. “Out with the strawberry leaves!”

  “I can find you some strawberry jam,” was all I could suggest. “You have come for supper, haven’t you?” (More milk in the soup, four eggs with the finnan haddock and, thank goo
dness, most of the tart is left, my mind registered automatically.)

  “We couldn’t! We’ve been eating since five o’clock at home, and they would give us a sort of stirrup-cup of champagne and poached eggs.”

  “Besides, we must get off,” said Dick. “But only for three weeks, darling,” he added, squeezing my hand, “And then you’ll have to lead the blushing bridegroom up the aisle with sal volatile and smelling salts. Mummy, do tell Ida she must come the proper bride! If I’m to be dragged to church at all I’ve always thought I’d like to march up the aisle with a walking tent!”

  “I can show you my veil, Ida,” I said eagerly, “if you’d have it? I happened to get it down the other day to look at it.”

  “Oh, Mums!” cried Ida, and the name threatened to upset me all over again. “I bet that was the very first time Dick mentioned that he was walking out with me!”

  They were all laughing at me when to my amazement Kate marched into the room, erect and big and blooming in her new spring “costume”.

  “Hullo, you old sinner,” cried Dick, “out again as usual?”

  “Not when I heard you was back. I came straight home to congratulate you both, my hearty, I’m sure.” She put out a very tightly-gloved hand, beaming all over.

  “But, Kate, how did you hear?” I gasped, as the young couple welcomed her greetings.

  “Why, we got back by the two o’clock bus from the Pictures, and I met the kitchen girl from Weekes’s,” said Kate, scorning my surprise. “So I told Private Jenkins, you can come in or not as you like, I said, but I’m going back to see they get a good supper for once.”