I looked at my watch as I got into
my trap and found that it was eleven o’clock,
not more than two hours since my uncle’s letter
had been handed to me at the breakfast table.
Yet I felt thoroughly tired. No one who has only
just recovered from influenza ought to be called upon
to face a crisis. At the best of times a crisis
of any magnitude is too much for me. When I am
weak anything of the sort exhausts me rapidly.
It is most unfair that I should be beset with crises
as I am. Other men, men who like excitement and
unexpected calls for exertion, are condemned to years
of unbroken monotony. I, who desire nothing so
much as peace, have tumult and turmoil thrust upon
me. I drove down the long avenue of Thormanby
Park and determined to get home as quickly as possible.
There is a greenhouse at the bottom of our garden
which at that time was quite unfrequented because
something had gone wrong with the heating apparatus
and the more delicate plants had been removed from
it. I intended to retire to it as soon as I got
home with a hammock chair and a novel. I had
every hope of being left in peace for an hour or so.
That was my plan. It proved,
as all my plans do, unworkable; but, as is always
the case, through no fault of my own. At the gate
lodge of Thormanby Park I met Lalage. She was
riding a bicycle and jumped down as soon as she saw
me. I pulled up my pony, of course. Even
if Lalage had not jumped down I should have pulled
up the pony. Lalage is a sure harbinger of trouble.
Crises attend her course through life. Yet I
cannot help stopping to talk to her when I get the
chance. I suppose I am moved by some obscure
instinct which makes me wish to know the worst in
store for me as soon as possible.
“I’m darting on,”
said Lalage, “to secure Pussy Battersby, but
I stopped for a moment to tell you to go straight
to the rectory.”
“You can’t get Miss Battersby
now. She’s settling flowers.”
“I must. She’s of
the utmost importance. I must bring her back with
me.”
“Has the Archdeacon arrived unexpectedly?”
“No. What on earth put that into your head?
Good-bye.”
“Wait a minute, Lalage.
Take my advice and don’t go on. It’s
not safe. My uncle is threatening you with all
sorts of violence. You can guess the sort of
temper he’s in.”
“Gout?”
“No. Your letter.”
“My letter? Oh, yes.
I’d forgotten that letter for the moment.
You mean the one I wrote to him about the Archdeacon’s
marriage.”
“Now you know why you’d better not go
near him for a day or two.”
“Silly old ass, isn’t
he, to lose his temper about that? But I can’t
stop to argue. I must get Pussy Battersby at once.
There isn’t a moment to spare.”
“If the Archdeacon hasn’t turned up, what
on earth do you want her for?”
“The fact is,” said Lalage, “that
Hilda’s mother is at the rectory.”
“I thought she’d arrive
some day. You couldn’t expect to keep her
at bay forever. The wonder is that she didn’t
come long ago.”
“She travelled by the night
mail and was rather dishevelled when she arrived,
hair a bit tousled, a smut on the end of her nose and
a general look of crinklyness about her clothes.
Hilda has been in floods of tears and sobbing like
a steam engine all morning.”
“I don’t wonder at all.
Any nice-minded girl would. It can’t be
pleasant for her to see her mother in such a state.”
“Don’t drivel,”
said Lalage. “Hilda isn’t crying for
that. She’s not a perfect idiot, whatever
you may say.”
“I didn’t say anything
of the sort. I said she was a nice-minded girl.”
“Same thing,” said Lalage,
“and she’s not either the one or the other.”
“Then why is she crying?”
“Because her mother is taking
her home. That’s the reason I’m going
for Pussy Battersby.”
“She’ll be a poor substitute
for Hilda,” I said. “She’ll
boggle at simony every time.”
“What are you talking about now?”
“Miss Battersby. I’m
trying to explain that she’ll hardly be able
to take Hilda’s place as the companion of your
revels.”
“What I’m getting her
for,” said Lalage severely, “is to restore
the confidence of Hilda’s mother. She doesn’t
trust me one bit, silly of her, isn’t it?
And she’s ragged poor father into a condition
of incoherence.”
“Will Miss Battersby be any
use? I should hardly have thought her the sort
of person who would deal successfully with a frantic
mother.”
“She’s tremendously respectable,”
said Lalage, “and Hilda’s mother will
have absolute confidence in her the moment she sees
her. Remember how she agreed to that Portugal
trip once she knew Pussy was to be with us, and she
hadn’t even seen her then. When I trot her
out there’ll be absolutely no further trouble.
Good-bye, I must be darting on.”
Lalage put her foot on the pedal and
balanced the bicycle.
I stopped her again.
“You said something about my
going to the rectory,” I said. “What
am I to do when I get there?”
“Attend to Hilda’s mother of course.”
“Do you mean that I’m
to take a basin of hot water and a sponge and wash
her nose? I couldn’t possibly. I don’t
know her nearly well enough. I’d hardly
venture to do such a thing to Hilda herself.”
“I wasn’t thinking of
the smut on her nose,” said Lalage. “What
I want you to do is to keep her in play till I get
back. I sha’n’t be long, but it’s
not possible to start Pussy Battersby off on the first
hop. She’ll want to titivate a little.”
“If you think I’ll be any use ”
“Of course you will. You’re
very nearly as respectable to look at as Pussy Battersby.”
“I shall hate to see Hilda crying.”
“Then cheer her up. Good-bye for the present.”
This time Lalage really did mount
the bicycle. I drove on in the direction of the
rectory, turning over in my mind various plans for
keeping Hilda’s mother in play. Some of
them were very good plans which I think would have
been successful, but I shall never be certain about
that because I did not have the chance of putting them
to the test.
A mile from the rectory gate I met
a car. There was a good deal of luggage piled
on the well, and two ladies sat together on one side.
I recognized Hilda at once. The other lady I
supposed, quite rightly, to be her mother. I
ought, I saw afterward, to have made some effort, even
at that eleventh hour, to keep her in play. I
do not think I could have succeeded, but it was certainly
my duty to try. My nerve unfortunately failed
and I simply drove past, raising my hat and bowing
sorrowfully to Hilda.
When the car was out of sight I stopped
to consider my position. There was nothing to
prevent my returning home at once and settling down,
as I had originally planned, in the corner of the
deserted greenhouse. My inclination was, of course,
to do this, but it occurred to me that it would be
a charitable and kindly action to comfort Canon Beresford.
He had, so Lalage told me, been reduced to a condition
of incoherence by the ragging of Hilda’s mother.
He was also likely to have been a good deal distressed
by the sight of Hilda’s tears and the sound of
her sobs. He would probably be sorry to lose
Hilda. In spite of anything Lalage might say
I still believed Hilda to be a nice-minded girl, the
sort of girl that any man would like to have staying
in his house. For all three reasons the Canon
would require sympathy and comfort. I drove on
to the rectory.
There I had, once more, to reconsider
my position. The Canon was comforting himself.
He had, so the maid informed me, gone out fishing.
My first impulse was to start for home with a sigh
of relief.. Then I remembered that some one would
have to explain to Lalage and Miss Battersby that
Hilda and her mother had really gone. The Canon
would not be able to do this because he had gone out
fishing before they left. The maid was obviously
a stupid girl. It seemed to be my duty to wait
for Lalage and tell her, soothingly, what had happened.
I went into the Canon’s study and made myself
comfortable with a pipe.
At about one o’clock Lalage
arrived without Miss Battersby. She made no comment
at first on the absence of Hilda’s mother.
Her mind had evidently been turned away from that
subject. She flung herself into a chair, and
dragged furiously at the pins which fastened on her
hat. When she had worked them loose she threw
the hat itself on the floor.
“Great Scott!” she said. “I’ve
had a time of it!”
“I rather thought you would.”
“Curious, isn’t it?
For he can be a perfect pet when he likes. Glad
I don’t get gout.”
“You know perfectly well that
it wasn’t gout which was the matter with him
this time.”
“It can’t have been all my letter, can
it?”
“It was,” I said.
“Of course I wasn’t going to stand that
sort of thing,” said Lalage.
“What sort of thing?”
“The way he talked, or, rather,
tried to talk. I soon stopped him. That’s
what makes me so hot. I wish you’d seen
poor Pussy’s face. I was afraid every minute
he’d mention her name and then she would have
died of shame. That’s just the kind of
thing which would make Pussy really ill.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I told him that it was his
plain duty to put the matter before the Archdeacon
and that if he didn’t do it I should simply get
some one else and then he’d jolly well feel
ashamed of himself and be afraid to look any one in
the face for weeks and weeks. I didn’t mention
that Pussy was the future wife, of course. I’m
much too fond of her to hurt her feelings.”
I should have liked to hear a description
of the expression on Miss Battersby’s face.
I should also have liked to hear what my uncle said
in reply to Lalage’s remarks, but I felt an
anxiety so acute as greatly to dull my curiosity.
“Had you any one particular
in your mind,” I asked, “when you said
that you’d get somebody else to go to the Archdeacon?”
“Of course I had,” said Lalage. “You.”
“I was just afraid you might be thinking of
that.”
“You’ll do it of course.”
“No,” I said, “I
won’t. There are reasons which I gave to
my uncle this morning which made it quite impossible
for me ”
“You’re not thinking of marrying her yourself,
are you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then there can’t be any real reason ”
“Lalage,” I said, “there
is. I don’t like to mention the subject
to you; but the fact is ”
“If it’s anything disagreeable I’d
much rather not hear it.”
“It is, very; though it’s not true.”
“You appear to me to be getting
into a tangle,” said Lalage, “so you’d
better not go on. If you’re afraid of the
Archdeacon and I suppose that is what your
excuses will come to in the end I’ll
do it myself. After all, you’d most likely
have made a mess of it.”
I bore the insult meekly. I was
anxious, if possible, to persuade Lalage to drop the
idea of marrying the Archdeacon to Miss Battersby.
“Remember your promise to my mother,”
I said.
“I’ve kept it. I
submitted the matter to Lord Thormanby just as I said
I would. If he won’t act I can’t
help it.”
“The Archdeacon will be frightfully angry.”
Lalage sniffed slightly. I could
see that the thought of the Archdeacon’s wrath
did not frighten her. I should have been surprised
if it had. After facing Thormanby in the morning
the Archdeacon would seem nothing. I adopted
another line.
“Are you perfectly certain,”
I said, “about that text? Don’t you
think that if it’s really in the Bible the Archdeacon
would have seen it?”
“He might have overlooked it,”
said Lalage; “in fact, he must have overlooked
it. If he’d come across it he’d have
got married at once. Anybody can see that he
wants to be a bishop.”
This seemed unanswerable. Yet
I could not believe that the Archdeacon, who has been
a clergyman for many years, could have failed to read
the epistle in which the verse occurs. I made
another effort.
“Most likely,” I said,
“that text means something quite different.”
“It can’t. The words are as plain
as possible.”
“Have you looked at the original Greek?”
“No, I haven’t. What
would be the good of doing that? And, besides,
I don’t know Greek.”
“Then you may be sure,”
I said, “that the original Greek alters the
whole thing. I’ve noticed hundreds of times
that when a text seems to be saying anything which
doesn’t work out in practice the original Greek
sets it right.”
“I know that,” said Lalage.
“At least I’ve often heard it. But
it doesn’t apply to cases like this. What
on earth else could this mean in the original Greek
or any other language you like to translate it into?
‘A bishop is to be the husband of one wife.’
I looked it out myself to make sure that Selby-Harrison
had made no mistake.”
The text certainly seemed uncompromising.
I had talked bravely about the original Greek, but
I doubted in my own mind whether even it would offer
a loophole of escape for the Archdeacon.
“It may,” I said, desperately,
“merely mean that a bishop mayn’t have
two wives.”
“Do talk sense,” said
Lalage. “What would be the point of saying
that a bishop mayn’t have two? It’s
hard enough to get a man like the Archdeacon to have
one. Besides, if that’s what it means, then
other people, not bishops, are allowed to have two
wives, which is perfectly absurd. It would be
bigamy and that’s far worse than what the Archdeacon
said I’d done. Where’s Hilda?”
Lalage’s way of dismissing a
subject of which she is tired is abrupt but unmistakable.
I told her that Hilda and her mother had gone.
“That’s a pity,”
said Lalage. “I should have liked to take
Hilda with me this afternoon.”
“Are you going to do it so soon?”
“The election is next week,”
said Lalage, “so we haven’t a moment to
lose.”
“Well,” I said, “if
you’re really going to do it, I shall be greatly
obliged if you’ll let me know afterward exactly
what the Archdeacon says.”
“I will if you like,”
said Lalage, “but there won’t be anything
to tell you. He’ll simply thank me for
bringing the point under his notice.”
“I’m not a betting man,
but if I were I’d wager a pretty large sum that
whatever the Archdeacon does he won’t thank you.”
“Have you any reason to suppose
that he has a special objection to Pussy Battersby?”
“None in the world. I’m sure he respects
her. We all do.”
“Then I don’t see what
you mean by saying that he won’t thank me.
He’s a tiresome old thing, especially when he
tries to be polite, which he’s always doing,
but he’s not by any means a fool where his own
interests are concerned. He’ll see at once
that I’m doing him a kindness.”
I found nothing more to say, so I
left Lalage. I had at all events, done my best.
I drove home.