The Country Gentleman (33 page)

The door opened. The waiter came in. He was a big man, a fair trencherman himself, and he had quite enjoyed taking Mr. Mallinger’s generous order. Now, regarding the scarcely touched board with real dismay, “Nothing wrong, sir?” he anxiously inquired of that gentleman. “Ham not too salt, I hope? Nor the beef tough? I had a slice of it myself this morning, sir, and it seemed tender enough to me. But if it don’t suit you”—the man’s rough countenance gleamed with good will and earnestness—“say so, sir, and I’ll be off with it. I’m not one to—”

Mr. Mallinger, in agony, was rude probably for the first time since childhood. Without preamble, in a voice thick with emotion, “Get out,” he said, casting a desperate glance at Mrs. Insel, whose expression he could not read. Then, “Please, get out.”

“But sir…” Puzzled, the man waved an imploring
hand at the laden table and asked, “With the beef, sir, or without it?”

“Out, out!” was all poor Mallinger could say. “I’ll give you a shilling! I’ll give you a guinea, by God. Only get out now!”

His terms were still ambiguous, but at least his meaning was clear. The waiter took the hint, bowed, and scurried from the room without another word, closing the door discreetly behind him.

Then Mrs. Insel said yes.

It was the custom of the inmates of Fevermere, and most of the county gentry, to dine on the last day of each year with Lord and Lady Crombie. His lordship, a hospitable man, traditionally set forth upon his table four or five removes, consisting usually of boiled turkeys in celery sauce, roast woodcocks, fricandeau, saddle of mutton, tongue, Hunter’s Pudding, carrot pudding, stewed cabbage, fricassee of parsnips, and a great many dishes besides. Burgundy flowed, and champagne both white and rosy. The dessert, naturally, included plum-pudding (of which the party from Fevermere, at least, were beginning to tire a little) as well as all manner of fruits, among them hot buttered oranges and baked pears. It was at this festive repast, just before the ladies withdrew, that Mr. Mallinger
(whom the Crombies in their generosity included annually in their invitation to the Highets) and Mrs. Insel announced their betrothal. Only Mrs. Samuels was sorry to hear it—and she but briefly, because she had had a private scheme going to marry the schoolmaster to a protegée of her own. For the rest, cries of genuine pleasure went up all round, and it was thought rather a shame that the two had to separate afterwards—though they would be reunited in an hour, when the gentlemen had had their Port.

Anne, as may be imagined, fairly attacked Maria the moment they gained the drawing-room, kissing her and demanding to be told how it had happened and when. Maria obligingly recounted the story, though omitting many details till they could speak alone—for here quite half a dozen other ladies naturally listened also. It was agreed by all to have been a quite dashing and romantic proposal (inasmuch as it was made in a coffee-room), and further agreed that only a very remarkable coincidence, which many of the ladies thought looked more like Destiny, could account for the pair having both journeyed to Northwich on the same day. Anne, remembering suddenly Maria’s recalcitrance when she offered to go with her, caught her alone some few minutes later and demanded to be told whether by any chance she had actually known Mr. Mallinger would be in the coach. But the idea only made Maria blush, and she stammered,

“My dear, no—it was only…The coach left so very early!”

Unconvinced (though equally unpersuaded by the idea of the demure Maria deliberately meeting Mr. Mallinger under such circumstances), Anne let the subject drop and
returned to the more interesting question of when and where exactly the wedding was to take place.

The party broke up about ten-thirty amid a hail of good wishes for the coming year. The Highets and Maria, driving home through a cold, clear night, heard the muffled churchbell strike eleven as they passed. All stayed awake by a bright fire (in the back sitting-room where Henry had led the ladies on their first night in Cheshire) till the mad peal of bells at midnight rang the new year in. Kisses were exchanged; then Maria announced she was for bed, and quitted the room. Mrs. Archibald Highet, though yawning furiously, disliked—Anne thought—to leave before her daughter-in-law. But presently Henry rose, took his mother by the arm, and led her to the door. Anne, who had thought a little further about Maria’s story in the carriage home, and had since then been waiting impatiently to be private with her husband, hesitated only till he had resumed his arm-chair before demanding,

“Sir, did you send Maria and Mr. Mallinger to Northwich on purpose?”

Mr. Highet regarded her speculatively, as if wondering whether he might trust her with a secret. “I did,” he finally said.

Anne stared. “And did you do so, then, because you knew they were—” She faltered. Knew they were what? “Because you divined—” Again she failed to frame her question, and relapsed into silence.

“Because I guessed they had a particular attachment for each other?” Mr. Highet asked, his heavy-lidded brown eyes gleaming a little. “Yes. Or at least, I felt if I had guessed wrong, no ill would come of it. Whereas, having
guessed right…” This time it was he who let his words trail off. He smiled his sleepy smile.

“By heaven, that was ’cute of you!” she exclaimed admiringly. For besides not having been privileged, as she was, to hear the story of Mr. Mallinger’s first proposal poured out by Maria, Mr. Highet had not been present at Mallinger’s early visits to Linfield. He could scarcely have seen them together half a dozen times. Yet he had seen the truth. And having seen it, taken action. Her admiration swelled.

He gave a modest shrug. His sleepy smile faded slowly.

“You seem unhappy,” she suggested tentatively, watching him.

“No. Not precisely unhappy. Only— I have been thinking all night of Herbert Guilfoyle. Every year at this hour for the last dozen years, he and I sat in this room together and drank a bottle of claret. I miss him,” he concluded simply; for the first time, Anne understood that her great uncle and Mr. Highet, despite the disparity in their ages, had really been friends. Also for the first time, she regretted not having known the old gentleman herself.

Rather timidly, “If you think I would be an adequate substitute—” she began. “That is, I am sure I am nothing like Mr. Guilfoyle, but if you cared to open a bottle of claret, I should be very happy to share it.”

Mr. Highet brightened at once, rang for the bottle, told Trigg (after it came) to go to bed, and said, pouring the first two glasses, “Actually, you are rather like Herbert Guilfoyle.” He handed her a glass, raised his to it, and toasted the new year. Sitting down across from her, “You are extremely intelligent, as he was,” he went on, “extremely sure you are right—rather stubborn in all things,
in fact—and very good at heart. You are both proud, both reclusive—yes, for all your apparent sociability, I would say you are reclusive, in the ways that signify the most,” he continued before she could protest. “And, though it may surprise you to hear it of your great uncle, he, like you, had a keen sense of humour. And,” he added, smiling, still before she could interrupt, “I like you both very much.”

Anne had been going to object to being characterised as stubborn and proud, but she felt tears spring to her eyes when he said this and was silenced. Now, why should this mixed (at best) assessment of her make her cry? Because he knew her! Those drowsy eyes had seen her, that slow mind turned her over and over till it knew her thoroughly. Even Ensley had never understood what Mr. Highet called her reclusiveness; yet how much a part of her it was, how very near the core—and how lonely did she feel this very moment! Only the fact that she had promised to sit up in her great uncle’s place prevented her from fleeing upstairs, where at least she could feel alone by herself.

Instead, rallying all her spirit, she tilted her golden head and replied, “I am sure Mr. Guilfoyle returned the sentiment; as do I.” She smiled, and drank rather deep. Could she have rendered so precise an account of Mr. Highet’s character? She thought not.

The next day, catching Anne alone at her desk, Mr. Highet rather carelessly handed her a small box. “A token of friendship,” he explained, while she opened it. “I hope you will accept them.”

Anne stared at the ear-drops, intricate twists of gold in which two opals nestled. Quite forgetting the year-end
entry she had been making in her diary, “Lovely!” she breathed, glancing up. “Perfectly lovely.”

Mr. Highet looked embarrassed. “Oh, a trifle,” he muttered. Anne did not recall her having seen him embarrassed before. It seemed unlike him. “Anyhow, if you admire them,” he went on, “thank Mrs. Insel. She selected them. That was the little errand I sent her on to Northwich.”

“Was it indeed? How clever of you! Naturally, with such a commission, she would not allow me to come.” Anne removed the little turquois ear-drops she had on and deftly fastened the new ones in their place. “I might have ruined everything. What do you think?” she asked, shaking her head to make the drops move. She glanced into a long mirror hung above a sofa, smiled, and turned again to face him. “I think they look beautiful. Do not you?”

More and more abashed, “Very nice,” he agreed, fidgeting like a boy who wishes to be excused. She noticed his discomfort but could not understand it.

“Thank you so very much,” she said, beginning to catch his awkwardness, as one might a fit of yawning. “I feel quite dreadful to have nothing to offer you.”

He shook his head vigorously. “Not at all, not at all. Only a friendly token,” he repeated. “I am glad you like them. That is enough.” He fumbled at his watch pocket, drew out his watch, looked at the back of it, and exclaimed, “Oh, the devil! I must— I quite forgot— Will you excuse me?”

And without waiting to find out whether she would, he was gone.

The next day Parliament resumed. Anne thought of Ensley. He had written to her at Fevermere twice, but she’d
returned the letters unopened and no more arrived. Till today she’d feared he would come after her in person; but with Parliament in session this anxiety was at an end.

Indeed, for the moment, she had neither plans nor cares. The days went by, bringing with them their small, quiet satisfactions: a long walk over snowy fields under an unexpectedly warm sun, the discovery on Mr. Highet’s shelves of the works of a Russian philosopher she had never heard of, among whose pages she wandered delightedly during several long evenings, the appearance in a kitchen cupboard of one of the dairy cats and seven tiny, mewing kittens. Maria, receiving her first payment from the Army a few days after the New Year, one evening hesitantly asked the rest of the house party if she might keep a room at Fevermere and live there—as a paying lodger, she insisted upon that!—until she married. This plan being accepted (gladly by Mr. Highet, resignedly by his wife, and rather against her will by his mother, who feared Encroachments), Maria had only to set the date of that happy occasion to have her future settled.

“And what date will that be?” asked Mrs. Archibald at the conclusion of these deliberations, with a smile not entirely convincing. “Soon, I think?” Slyly, she wagged a long finger and ducked her large head in a gesture intended to be arch. “I know what love is, though you might not think it of an old lady. You’ll never sleep a peaceful night till those vows are said. Never delay a wedding, my dear! Ask Anne! She knows. It only gives them time to change their minds.”

But Maria merely looked uncomfortable and said that indeed, she and Mr. Mallinger had not yet fixed a day. Her discomfiture was so obvious that (Mrs. Archibald being suddenly taken with the head-ache, and for once
climbing up to bed ahead of the others) Anne reverted to the topic the moment the three of them were alone.

Her small face clouding over again at once, “I am afraid that is the subject of some little controversy,” Maria answered. “Mr. Mallinger—” In spite of her troubled look, she could not help but smile a little on saying his name—“Mr. Mallinger presses me to set an early date. But I do not feel…I simply cannot marry so soon after John’s actual death. I have told him I wish to wait till November, which will make a proper year. But he does not understand why. I am afraid he is rather hurt. He thinks I am uncertain of my attachment to him.” She made a helpless gesture with her hands. “I cannot blame him. After all, what else should he think?”

“Good gracious,” Anne exclaimed, “must you really wait a whole year? You’ve been in virtual mourning for that scoundrel more than three already. Does that count for nothing with you? What a high stickler she is!” And she looked for confirmation to Mr. Highet.

But Mr. Highet raised one heavy eyebrow and remarked, “No, to be truthful, I understand Mrs. Insel’s scruples. They are a little excessive perhaps, but—for better or for worse—there are no rules dictating a long mourning for a kindly spouse, a short one for a rascal. No, I understand her. But Mrs. Insel—” He sat forward a little in his deep arm-chair, in order to face Maria roundly. “Mrs. Insel, do not you consider you owe Mr. Mallinger the full story of your first marriage? Would not you wish him to tell you if he had endured such a painful episode?”

Maria looked at the floor. “Or perpetrated such a shameful deception?” she suggested in a low tone.

“Oh, Maria—!” Anne began, bursting out on a note of
exasperation; but Mr. Highet signalled to her to let him go on, and she reluctantly subsided.

“I see nothing shameful to you in your story,” he went on, carefully watching the widow’s face in the leaping firelight. “Whereas not to tell it does seem to me a real lapse of—well, candour, if nothing else.”

Maria continued to inspect the floor, but both her companions could see this appeal to conscience had hit home. Mr. Highet added gently,

“Lawrence Mallinger will never blame you for it, that I know.”

“If anything, he will be relieved to learn his first offer to you was refused through no fault of his own,” Anne put in, then immediately realized Mr. Highet had never heard of this proposal. Covering her mouth with her hand, “Oh, my pet! I am sorry! I should not have—”