The Bachelor

by Stella Gibbons

  “Kenneth,” said Mr. Fielding in his faint hoarse voice as the car passed Victoria Station, “can he stop a minute?”

  “Yes, of course, Father.” Kenneth picked up the speaking-tube. “Do you——?”

  “Want a copy of Men Only,” said the invalid. “Haven’t seen it since I was ill. Damned dull stuff Aubrey and Cliff have got up there; nothing but de luxe editions of French books, all old writers and very dirty. Ask him to get Post and the Daily Mirror too, will you?”

  Delighted, Kenneth gave the chauffeur half a crown to fulfil the commission, and presently the car was on its way again. Mr. Fielding contentedly studied his papers and Kenneth looked over some documents sent to him that morning by Mr. Gaunt. He felt happier. It was unlikely that his father would ever again have the energy to promote night clubs or shuttle between England and America financing leg shows, but it also seemed unlikely that he would be a delicate, discontented, depressing old man. By Jove, I’ll turn him into a gardener yet, thought Kenneth, smiling at the thought as he put up his papers and glanced out of the window, to see that the car was within a few moments of reaching its destination.

  Miss Fielding had put on a cheerful rose-coloured dress, one of her new purchases, in which to greet her chastened father. Rose-pink was a good colour, with peaceful and harmonious properties appropriate for the welcoming of a young soul which was beginning at last to grow old. She did not feel as cheerful as the colour of her gown, for the day which was to take Dr. Stocke from her drew steadily nearer, and, despite her rationalizings, she still very much disliked the prospect of informing Kenneth that Vartouhi had gone; while the prospect of having her father living under the same roof with her until the day he died filled her with apprehensions. However, Dr. Stocke’s lectures had had a bracing effect, and she hurried across the hall as the car turned in at the drive prepared to do her duty.

  The car stopped, and the chauffeur hastened to unload the luggage while Kenneth unwrapped his father from the enveloping rugs. Mr. Fielding was still clutching Men Only, and it was the magazine’s bright cover against his grey coat that first caught his daughter’s eye. It gave her a distinct shock. What! that worldly paper again! Had she not burnt all the copies she had found in his room after he had left? What reading for a convalescent! Was Gustav wrong, after all, and her father unchastened?

  “Hallo, Constance, my dear,” said Mr. Fielding in his new hoarse and faint but cheerful voice, “what a charming dress; years and years since I’ve seen you in pink.”

  “Father!” said Miss Fielding, taking his arm and with Kenneth’s help assisting him towards the house, “I am so very grieved that you have been so ill. Now you must have a good long rest and get really well again.”

  It was the kindest speech she had made to him for twenty years. Something moved her to make it as she felt his thin old arm within his coat sleeve, and remembered the far-off days when she had looked up at him from the height of his knee, and thought of him as her kind father from whom the sweets on Sundays and the weekly penny came. The copy of Men Only fell to the ground and she stooped to pick it up.

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. Fielding, and glanced about him with a look of pleasure at the rosy hyacinths growing between the pavements of the stone garden, and inhaled the spring air, sweet despite the cold wind blowing gustily over the lawns. “It’s good to be here again. Ah, hullo, Frances! haven’t got rid of me yet, you see!”

  “So glad to see you, dear Uncle Eustace.” Miss Burton could not help one quick glance at Kenneth: but it was instantly obvious to her that he had not yet been told. “Ken, dear, it is so nice to have you home again! We have missed you.”

  “I’m very glad to be back,” said Kenneth, who was taking a first eager survey of the garden as he helped the chauffeur with the cases. “Vartouhi out shopping?” he went on, “and Stocke—is he still here?”

  “Gustav leaves on Friday, unfortunately,” said his sister, with a tremor of her stomach nerves. “He is out at present but will be in to tea.” She shepherded them all into the house, and went into the kitchen (it was almost twelve o’clock) to heat some soup for the convalescent, while Kenneth paid the chauffeur, and Miss Burton established Mr. Fielding before the drawing-room fire. Mrs. Archer was dusting in there, and withdrew after a respectful “good morning.” It struck Mr. Fielding, as he sat alone waiting for his soup, that the drawing-room was not quite so well kept as it used to be. The carpet looked dusty, and although there were the customary lovely seasonal flowers in the Chinese vases (white tulips and parrot tulips this morning) there were newspapers scattered about and the fire-irons needed polishing. Mr. Fielding made a puzzled little face. It was most unlike Constance to permit slackness. What could have been happening?

  He reclined against the cushions, gazing languidly at the flames. He was exceedingly tired; so tired that he felt no distress at the idea of meeting Betty again. His feelings for her seemed to belong to another life. Had he really asked her to marry him—a girl, a youngster in her middle forties? It did not seem possible. The tulips gave out a faint unfamiliar scent in the heat and the cushion behind his head was delightfully comfortable. He shut his eyes.

  In the kitchen Miss Fielding stood face to face with her brother, but the news had not yet been broken. She had just told him of Richard and Alicia’s engagement and he was expressing his pleasure.

  “It’s the best thing that could have happened to her!” he exclaimed. “Of course, Con, I don’t think he’s good enough for her. He’s a weak sort of chap with odd ideas. But she’ll make a man of him; grand girl. Gad, I expect old Arkwright’s pleased. He’s been gloomy about her for years now: she’s the apple of his eye and he’s always wanted to see her settled down. How’s Betty taking it? Pleased, eh?”

  “She seems delighted.” Miss Fielding was pouring the soup into a basin with her heart sinking lower and lower. This news had put him into a thoroughly good humour, and when the other news came the shock would be all the greater. “She has always liked Alicia.”

  “She won’t be the typical mother-in-law!” he chuckled.

  “No, indeed,” said Miss Fielding, and could not help a repressive little smile.

  “Vartouhi’s late,” he said, glancing at the kitchen clock, and sat down on a kitchen chair and ate a biscuit. Miss Fielding went out of the room as quickly as the steaming bowl of soup would permit. The moment was almost at hand. In the hall she met Miss Burton, who gave her an agonized interrogative glance. Miss Fielding shook her head. “I simply cannot,” she whispered. “He’s so pleased about Alicia’s engagement—oh dear—Frankie, I suppose you couldn’t tell him?”

  “Not for worlds,” said Miss Burton with expressive gestures and followed her into the drawing-room and proceeded to administer the soup to old Mr. Fielding with cheerful talk and little jokes. Constance has made her bed; now she can lie on it, she thought. I will give him the bedspread after lunch, before he has had time to feel really miserable. But I do wish it were over.

  Miss Fielding gave herself a mental shake, invoked the Good Principle and her own indubitably righteous position, and returned to the kitchen.

  Kenneth was still there.

  “I must see about lunch,” said his sister, tying an apron over the pink dress without noticeable enthusiasm.

  He stared at her.

  “Won’t Vartouhi do that when she comes in? Is this a new arrangement?” His tone was faintly disturbed: he disliked even the smallest variation in the daily routine.

  His sister turned and faced him.

  “Kenneth,” she began in a voice made louder than usual by nervousness, “I’m afraid this will come as an unpleasant piece of news to you, but Vartouhi has gone.”

  “Gone?” he exclaimed, staring at her, while his face slowly began to turn a deeper red, “How do you mean, gone? Left here?”

  She nodded.

  “A week ago to-day. I caught her prying about in—in one of the bedrooms and when I spoke to her she was very insolent. She s
pat at me. On the landing. So of course I had no choice but to get rid of her.”

  “You mean you sacked her?”

  She nodded. Their two red, agitated, handsome faces looked very alike at this moment.

  “Sacked her for spitting at you? Good heavens, Connie,” he burst out, “what a rotten thing to do—you know she’s only a child and got the devil’s own temper. What on earth possessed you to do that? Where’s she gone?”

  “I had no choice. She behaved insufferably. I don’t know where she’s gone; she left no address and she hasn’t written,” said Miss Fielding, beginning to feel her righteous indignation mounting. He had no thought for the insult offered to his sister! All his concern was for that little savage of a girl!

  “But——” Kenneth got up and walked about the kitchen, “you mean to say you’ve no idea at all where she is?”

  “Haven’t I just said so? They may know at Tekla House. I must confess I’m still so angry with her that I haven’t inquired.”

  “I’ll telephone them at once,” he said, starting towards the door, “she must come back. Oh——” as his sister made a dignified gesture of remonstrance. “She’ll say she’s sorry, of course. I’ll make her. Little devil!” He gave a short laugh. “It was very naughty of her. But you know what she is. And what a damfool thing to do, Con—sacking such a grand little worker! I suppose you and Frankie have been doing everything? I thought the place looked pretty grubby.”

  “We cannot perform miracles,” said Miss Fielding, with dignity but also with furious annoyance.

  “No need for you to try if you hadn’t lost your temper as usual. Never mind, we’ll have her back here tomorrow.” He opened the kitchen door.

  “Kenneth!” Miss Fielding started forward. “Remember Father! I don’t really think he ought to be upset. If I were you I wouldn’t tell him just now. And use the telephone in the little study.”

  “Oh—all right. Perhaps you’re right. But really, Connie, I can’t get over—such a damfool thing to do! What do you say she was doing? Poking about in the bedrooms? Whose bedroom?”

  “Yours,” she answered reluctantly.

  “Mine?” He went even deeper red. “Oh—er—what on earth for, I wonder?”

  “I have no idea,” returned Miss Fielding stonily.

  “Well, I’ll get to the bottom of this somehow,” he muttered, and hurried out of the kitchen. Miss Fielding opened a patent chocolate pudding and began angrily to read the instructions for making it.

  In the hall, Miss Burton was still hovering, and when she saw Kenneth come hastily out of the kitchen she gave a great start.

  “Oh—Ken!” She beckoned to him mysteriously.

  “Frankie my dear, I’m in a great hurry just now—Connie’s just told me about Vartouhi and I want to telephone Tekla House—what is it? Can’t it wait until later on?”

  “I’ve got a message for you—from her!”

  “Oh—well——” he hesitated, glancing irritably first at his cousin and then towards the door of the little study, “in that case, perhaps I’d better——”

  “Come upstairs to my room——” Miss Burton was already hurrying away, “we can talk quietly there and I’ve got something to give you, too—from her!”

  Kenneth hurried up after her, feeling more mystified and annoyed every minute. He even felt a momentary irritation with Vartouhi; silly child, leaving secret messages and poking about in people’s (he shied away from a more precise identification) bedrooms! What had got into her?

  Miss Burton opened the door of her sitting-room and went in and he followed her.

  “There!” she said, sitting down and preparing to enjoy herself. “Do sit down, Ken. Oh, please shut the door. Will you smoke?” and she invitingly held out a box of cigarettes.

  He waved them away and asked her impatiently if she would please give him the message; he wanted to get on to Tekla House without delay.

  “How much has Constance told you?” demanded Miss Burton, puffing at her own cigarette and refusing to be hustled.

  “Only that Vartouhi was very rude and spat at her and so she sacked her. Very naughty of her, I quite see Con’s point, but——”

  “Did she tell you what Vartouhi was doing in your room?” interrupted his cousin.

  Kenneth went red again and shook his head.

  “Ken,” said Miss Burton solemnly, rising (to his considerable apprehension) from her seat, “she wasn’t in there for any dishonourable purpose. I swear to that.”

  “Oh—er—good.”

  “She went into your bedroom to arrange a present that she had made for you and while she was arranging it Constance came in and caught her. She didn’t mean any harm.”

  “Poor little girl,” he muttered.

  Miss Burton went over to the cupboard. “Here is what she made for you,” she said, disdaining to spoil her effect by a longer speech, and shook out the bedspread at his feet.

  He looked down at it. The dazzling closeness and richness of the pattern first struck on his senses, rather than on his sight, and then the feeling that it was savage. No civilized hands could have wrought such a thing. Every delicate piece of women’s work he had ever seen paled into mere prettiness beside this square of cotton that was as orderly as a parade and as brilliant as a humming-bird. He was filled with admiration and so touched that he could only say simply:

  “I say, what a glorious thing. She didn’t really make that for me?”

  Miss Burton nodded, fully satisfied with the effect she had produced.

  “She started it before Christmas and finished it a week or so ago.” (She had forgotten that the bedspread had been originally intended as a present for herself.) “And she left this message for you; it was the last thing she said to me. Give to Mr. Fielding the pretty thing I made for him and say to him I like him, he is very good and kind; and then she just said ‘Good-bye’ and went.”

  “Poor little girl,” he said again. His feelings were very mixed. There was a little relief that the message was so innocent (although, indeed, all the words and actions that had passed between Vartouhi and himself seemed to him innocent), and a fresher grief at her loss because Miss Burton’s careful repetition of her words brought her so clearly before him, and there was honest shy pleasure at her caring for him enough to make him such a beautiful present. Though it’s more in the Fothergills’ line than mine, he thought as he looked down at it. I can just see it on “Mr. Aubrey’s” four-poster—only it would probably be the wrong period or something. Of course I can’t put it on the bed; that would never do; but I’ll keep it in my wardrobe. Bless her little heart.

  “And now,” said Miss Burton sitting very upright, “what are you going to do, Kenneth?”

  “Oh, we must try to persuade her to come back, of course,” he said, clumsily folding the bedspread. “Connie doesn’t mean half she says and I can see she’s sorry she lost her temper. Of course——” he hesitated, “it was a rum thing to do, and I can understand Con being annoyed, all this worry about Father, too; that probably made her worse. But we can’t have you and Con doing everything; things were running so well before, and I don’t think Vartouhi was overworked, do you? Did she ever complain?”

  Miss Burton shook her head. “Never to me. And I think she liked being here.”

  “Did she seem sorry to go?”

  “She was too cross to be sorry,” said Miss Burton.

  “Didn’t—er—cry or anything?”

  “Oh goodness, no. If you could have seen her! She was shaking with rage—and then she suddenly didn’t seem to care a bit: she just bundled her things together and went off into the rain without even waiting for tea.”

  He said nothing, but stared at the floor.

  “She didn’t look back once, although she must have known I was looking out of the window,” enlarged Miss Burton.

  “I’ll go and telephone Tekla House, if you’ll excuse me, Frankie,” he said, starting out of a reverie. “Thank you for taking care of this,” ho
lding up the bedspread. “You’d like her to come back, wouldn’t you?” he added, pausing at the door.

  “Oh very much, Ken,” said Miss Burton earnestly. “I miss her terribly.”

  “Good,” he exclaimed, and hurried down the stairs.

  But Tekla House, though sympathetic, was not helpful. They were surprised and sorry to learn that Miss Annamatta had left her post owing to a misunderstanding in her employer’s absence and were pleased to hear that she had been so satisfactory, and if they heard from her they would certainly get in touch with Miss Fielding at once. Meanwhile, she would of course have to report to the police in whatever district she might have settled and if all other methods failed that might be a way of tracing her. But they had no doubt that they would be hearing from her in a few days. And with mutual courtesies the conversation ended.

  Kenneth hung up the receiver. The house seemed unusually dark. A shower was dashing against the windows and there was a pervasive odour of burnt chocolate pudding. It occurred to him that there might be other reasons for missing Vartouhi than her gaiety and prettiness.

  He did miss her; more and more acutely as the day wore on. His sister was more amenable than he had anticipated, and only sighed when he announced his intention of doing everything he could, including doubling her salary, to get Vartouhi to come back. He did not mind her sighs; indeed, he did not hear them; he only thought that Con was taking it pretty well and that Stocke might have something to do with it. Or perhaps we’re all getting older and the fight’s going out of us, thought Kenneth despondently, as he tramped away in the rain to see what had been happening at the office in his absence.

  “Well, Constance, I hear you have a young man staying here,” said Mr. Fielding about half-past four as he sat snugly by the drawing-room fire watching Miss Burton toast the scones while his daughter made the tea on the spirit lamp. The firelight danced over the full-blown white tulips, which looked as if they were carved from mother-o’-pearl.