So quiet was the room that the sound of the door being opened almost made Lydia jump. A rustling, crackling noise told her that it was Matron, so she turned her head and saw Matron in a clean, starched uniform, with Winston walking between her feet, arching his back and trying to rub his head against her shoes.
“Down, Winston, down!” said Matron, “bad pussy. Good evening, Lady Waring; good evening, Mrs. Merton. I must ask to be excused for coming over without ceremony, but I was so interested by the news I felt I really must share the excitement.”
Lady Waring begged Matron to sit down and asked what news.
“Why, the great news,” said Matron sitting down and taking the kitten on her lap, where it washed its hands, stretched them out to admire them and went to sleep. “I was saying only yesterday, or perhaps the day before, but time does so fly when one is busy, to Nurse Poulter that it really hardly seemed feasible to have a church without a Vicar and all the time Sir Harry had Mr. Needham up his sleeve. Such a nice young man, Lady Waring, and so much liked by the men. He has been up twice to play draughts with them and you will excuse my smiling but it struck me as so humorous, he insisted on the man that was playing with him having his left arm tied to his side, saying it made him feel the game would be more even. Now that I do call a really Christian spirit, so rare nowadays. So Winston and I felt we must come and pay you a little visit. Pussy wanted go walkies with auntie, didn’t ’um?”
“But where did you hear this piece of news, Matron?” said Lady Waring. “I hardly know if it is true or not.”
“Well, we all like our little mysteries and if I am premature of course I am sorry,” said Matron, “but from the way Private Jenks spoke, I understood it was quite a settled thing.”
“Private Jenks?” said Lady Waring.
“He had of course no business to be out, Lady Waring,” said Matron. “He is supposed to go to bed after his tea for the next few days, but he met your nice maid near the back door and she told him Sir Harry had just told her. All the men were delighted and they are getting up a little subscription for a wedding present.”
“But he isn’t going to be married yet,” cried Lydia, “only to get made the Vicar.” Then she looked at Lady Waring and Lady Waring looked at her, and each lady realized that Sir Harry had told the other, but neither dared to laugh, for Matron kept in reserve a very powerful gift for taking umbrage, and would probably have construed their laughter as against herself.
“If Private Jenks says he is to be the Vicar, he probably is,” said Lady Waring, so gravely that Matron was quite taken in. “It was very nice of you to come, Matron, and I am pleased to see how well the kitten is.”
“He’s auntie’s own boy,” said Matron, “but I must say, Lady Waring, that Private Jenks did not say it in at all a joking way. Indeed he looked quite depressed for him, for he is always quite the life and soul of the ward. Still, the first days of convalescence are always the most difficult and we must make every allowance for him, poor fellow. I suppose you have heard that Sergeant Hopkins is to have his board to-morrow at Winter Overcotes. I much fear he will be discharged altogether. I don’t think he’ll lose the sight of his eye, but in my opinion he will be better out of the Army than in. Say good night, Winston, there’s auntie’s good boy.”
Winston, proving quite indifferent to this appeal, was presented to Lady Waring and Lydia in turn to be tickled behind the ear and Matron took him away.
Lady Waring looked at Lydia.
“I suppose Sir Harry told you at teatime,” said Lady Waring.
“Yes, he did, but he must have told you first,” said Lydia, not wishing to appear the earlier recipient of Sir Harry’s confidence.
“And apparently Selina third,” said Lady Waring, laughing, a thing she so rarely did, in spite of herself. “I must find out about this.”
She rang the bell. As a rule Selina was very prompt to answer, but this evening she delayed so long that Lady Waring rang again. Selina then appeared, on the verge of tears.
“Was it for the papers, my lady?” she said in a choked voice. “They haven’t come yet.”
“What is the matter, Selina?” said her mistress.
“It’s Private Jenks, my lady. Oh, I am so upset,” cried Selina, looking wildly from side to side with mournful eyes.
“I’ll hear about that in a moment,” said Lady Waring. “Selina, did Sir Harry tell you about Mr. Needham?”
“Oh, yes, my lady, and we were all so pleased,” said Selina, her expression of pleasure marred by a fresh outburst of grief. “And he said not to tell anyone, so I only just mentioned it to Cook and Baker, like I told Mrs. Merton, and then Private Jenks came into the yard, my lady, and it didn’t seem kind not to ask him in, just out of the hospital again.”
“And then I suppose you told him about Mr. Needham,” said Lady Waring unsympathetically. “You do talk too much, Selina. Sir Harry will not be pleased.”
“No, my lady, of course he won’t,” said Selina, “and that’s what I told Private Jenks, and then Cook passed the remark that Mr. Needham was going to marry Miss Crawley and Private Jenks was most impertinent, my lady.”
Lady Waring, a little bored by the whole affair, and wishing, though with the greatest fondness, that her darling husband had a little more discretion, was not particularly interested in the impertinence of a convalescent soldier to a woman who was quite old enough to look after herself and was being rather a nuisance. But Lydia, impelled not so much by curiosity as by a wish to help Selina and a feeling that she wanted to unburden herself, asked what he said.
“He was most impertinent, madam,” said Selina, her eyes flashing the mildest fire. “He had the impertinence to say that he would like to give Mr. Needham his first job when he was Vicar, and that would be to marry Mr. Tom Jenks and Mrs. Selina Crockett.”
Selina’s fiery indignation had now checked her tears and Lydia thought she had never seen her look prettier. Her tears had but made her cheeks the more blooming and caused her hair to curl more wildly. Seeing her audience deprived for the moment of speech, she continued:
“Of course, my lady, I said, Never had I been spoken to like that and I’m old enough to be your mother, Tom Jenks, I said, and joking or no joking I shall ever remain faithful to a very good husband. Cook said I was quite right and so I was, my lady, but poor Private Jenks looked so upset and Baker said, No wonder.”
“So what happened then?” said Lydia, as Lady Waring appeared to have given up all attempt to control the situation.
“Sergeant Hopkins came along, madam, and said Matron was quite upset because of Private Jenks being out without leave, and he was to go back at once. So one of the boys was going down to the station with the lorry and he said he would give me a lift, my lady. So I went in and told mother, but she said she knew it all the time and she was going to give Mr. Needham the chop for his supper that she was keeping for his lunch to-morrow, just to mark the occasion. So I came back on the lorry, and there was your bell ringing, my lady, and I never heard it till Baker told me and I am so sorry, my lady.”
Lady Waring, with a detachment that Lydia greatly admired, said that was very sad and now Selina had better forget about it and that was all. But as soon as Selina had left the room Lady Waring looked at Lydia, and Lydia knew that her hostess was longing to discuss the whole story, from Sir Harry’s first breaking of the news to her over Jorrocks, to Selina’s rejection of the ill-advised Private Jenks, who would not, she felt sure, break his heart permanently. Lady Waring then permitted herself, a thing she very rarely did, a little gentle criticism of her husband’s methods of keeping a secret, and Lydia liked her more and more, as indeed she had done ever since she and Noel came to the Priory. They also allowed themselves to wonder how soon the news would be broken to Noel. Lady Waring thought Sir Harry would buttonhole him before dinner, Lydia thought Selina would hang about to be near the front door when he came back and so get in first. So busy were they in their talk that Noel, who was rather early tha
t week, came upon them unawares.
“I hope I’m not ruining a conversation about mantua-makers and milliners,” he said. “I came in by the back way as my boots were so dirty. What delightful news about Tommy. Is it true, Lydia?”
“Who told you?” said the ladies in chorus.
“It comes of living in a hush-hush camp,” said Noel, sitting down. “Sergeant Hopkins at the hospital rang up Corporal Jackson at the Dower House about the football pool. This conversation always goes on for ten minutes or so and I suppose Hopkins didn’t know what to say next, so he told Corporal Jackson that Mr. Needham was going to be the new Vicar. And when Jackson brought the last lot of papers in to me, he passed the news on.”
So then Lady Waring, feeling that having once betrayed her husband she might as well do so again, told Noel, with Lydia’s help, the whole story of the afternoon. They all laughed a good deal, and when Sir Harry came back, bursting with his news, Noel was quite ready to be surprised, and so well did he do it that Sir Harry plumed himself on his secrecy and diplomacy more than ever.
Next day, being Saturday, Sir Harry and Leslie were to come down together on the 6.25. Lady Waring, as on the day when this story began, had a number of Red Cross engagements, winding up at Winter Overcotes, and was going to use her official petrol ration. Having heard from Matron on the previous day that Sergeant Hopkins was having a board at Winter Overcotes, she offered to drive him back if he cared to wait. It was a cold day with driving sleet, so the sergeant was glad to accept the offer. He was to go in by train after lunch and when the board had done with him was to wait at the station where Lady Waring would pick him up together with the passengers from the 6.25.
The day got nastier and nastier. Sometimes it sleeted, sometimes it rained, sometimes it snowed. The wind blew from every point of the compass, weathercocks went nearly mad in their efforts to keep up with the changes, in Boon’s Benefit a chimney-pot was blown down from River Woolram and crashed into the garden of River Rising, knocking the other wing off the cherub on Mr. Beedle’s rockery.
“I don’t like it, Beedle,” said Mrs. Beedle. “Last time the rockery was hit was the day Henry got the order to go back to the camp; the day the tile fell off the roof. I hope nothing bad’s coming.”
“Don’t you worry, Mother,” said Mr. Beedle. “Our Henry’s safe enough where he is.”
With which cold comfort Mrs. Beedle had to content herself.
Whether it was the ill-omened chimney-pot’s fault or not, nothing seemed to go right at the station that day. The petty thefts from the office lay heavily on Mr. Beedle’s mind. Everything pointed to Bill Morple as the culprit, yet there was no proof, and Mr. Beedle was very loath to trouble the police, for he did not wish them to suspect any blemish on the character of the Best Line in England. Bill Morple was over-excited or moody in turns, though that again proved nothing, and Mr. Beedle tried to attribute it to his imminent departure for the Army. But the atmosphere was far from comfortable and even Doris Phipps and Lily-Annie Pollett, as a rule so cheerful and willing, were feeling the bitter cold and wet and inclined to grumble. Passenger traffic had to be altered to make way for some munition and troop trains, people asked more and sillier questions than usual. The telephone to Skeynes Junction was broken by a fall of earth at the other side of the Worsted tunnel, and was not repaired till five in the afternoon. Six boxes of zoned fish arrived long after Cockle the fishmonger had given up any hope of them, in a stinking condition, and as it was early closing he had gone with his wife to Barchester and could not be summoned, so the fish were left at the far end of the platform and stank more than ever, and several people, including Lord Bond, complained, blaming the Government however rather than Mr. Beedle.
By the time the 6.25 was due the whole of the depleted staff was seething with temper, with the exception of Mr. Beedle, who though deeply distressed and sorely worried managed to behave as if the chairman of directors were present. He was a little comforted by Sergeant Hopkins, who got loose from his board by five o’clock and came up to the station to wait for Lady Waring. Mr. Beedle and he were old acquaintances, so the stationmaster invited him into his office to sit before a fire and have a cup of tea. The 5.10 had gone out and there was time for a talk. Sergeant Hopkins inquired after Henry Beedle. Mr. Beedle inquired after Sergeant Hopkins’s eye. Sergeant Hopkins said it wasn’t any better and wasn’t any worse; but the board had turned him down good and proper and he would be back in the greengrocery business before long. And not alone he hoped, said Sergeant Hopkins. Mr. Beedle inquired who the lady was, and hearing that it was Lady Waring’s old nurse’s daughter, Mrs. Crockett, was much interested, for when courting Mrs. Beedle he had seen Selina and admired her.
“But there’s one thing I don’t like,” said Sergeant Hopkins. “Jasper Margett’s after Mrs. Crockett. All that gipsy lot have got a way with them and Mrs. Crockett’s like the rest, a slippery tongue goes a long way with her.”
Mr. Beedle did his best to comfort the sergeant. His wife, he said, had no opinion of Jasper and he always went by her opinion, besides which, Sergeant Hopkins and the late Mr. Crockett having both been in the greengrocery line, it seemed as if it was to be.
“Well, I’ve got my work to attend to,” he said at length. “You make yourself comfortable till the 6.25 comes in. Pull your chair round the other side of the fire, then you won’t get the draught. There’s the evening paper in my jacket behind the door if you want to look at the pools. That’s where young Morple’s money is going I’m afraid. He’s in with that lot that came down from London, the ones that took the Cup, though the inspector says I mustn’t say so. Seems if a man does a dirty trick on you he’s all right, but if you say he’s done it you’re all wrong. Sometimes I lie awake at night and feel I’ll never get over the disgrace to the Line. And Henry was so proud of it too. It’s a bad story about Bill Morple, though mind you I’ve nothing definite to go on. I shall be glad when he’s in the Army.”
Sergeant Hopkins, who had heard with much sympathy and in great confidence Mr. Beedle’s suspicions of Bill Morple, said the pools had done a lot of young fellows a lot of harm, and settled down happily to work out his favourites for the following week.
Presently the 6.25, only a few minutes late, came puffing majestically in. Sir Harry and Leslie got out. The evenings were by now beginning to lengthen and though the cloudy sky gave little light, Mr. Beedle at once saw the arrivals.
“Good evening, Sir Harry; good evening, Miss Leslie,” he said, touching his gold-laced cap. “Dreadful weather. Have you any luggage, miss?”
Leslie said only a small suitcase.
Mr. Beedle looked round. In the distance Doris Phipps and Lily-Annie were exchanging badinage with Guard Crackman and hauling cases out of the van. His porter was not to be seen.
“Allow me, miss,” said Mr. Beedle, willing to demean himself to act as porter for Sir Harry’s niece.
“Give me your suitcase, Leslie,” said a voice.
Leslie looked round, with a beat of her heart, to see Philip, and even as her heart beat forgot how angry, how justifiably angry, she was with him.
“Are you going by the local, Sir Harry?” said Mr. Beedle.
Sir Harry said Lady Waring was meeting them with the car and picking up Sergeant Hopkins.
“Her ladyship has not yet arrived, Sir Harry,” said Mr. Beedle. “Sergeant Hopkins is in my office. The board have turned him down, poor fellow. It’s a dreadful state of things, Sir Harry, everywhere. I don’t complain for myself, but it is very hard for some. There’s only one thing really troubles me, Sir Harry, and that’s the engines. Now, there was the Rising Castle, the latest of Our Line’s Castle class. She was a picture, all her brass as shining as if a ship’s company had been at work, her paint so new and glossy. Tomkins that drove her, and Tom Potter the stoker, a cousin of my wife’s he was, were like mothers with a baby, Sir Harry, the way they looked after the Rising Castle, fair petted her you might say. First Tom was taken, and he’s b
een missing since Singapore, Sir Harry. Then they had to cut down on the paint. And now Tomkins has a boy to help, but the youngster’s heart isn’t in the job, and he’ll have to go soon. And as for the Rising Castle, she breaks Tomkins’s heart. He’d buy the paint for her out of his own wages if he could. I was looking at her the other day, all so dirty and shabby I really could have cried, Sir Harry, and Tomkins was in the cab, rubbing her down with a handful of waste the way he always does if he has a minute to spare, and he said to me, ‘Beedle,’ he said, ‘I can’t look her in the face. It’s not my fault and I hope she knows it, but every time we pull out of the station I feel like a murderer.’ ‘Well, Tomkins,’ I said to him, ‘there are some that’s worse off. Think of old Ted Mitton that used to drive the Gatherum Castle. She’s abroad somewhere and Ted can’t get any news of her at all.’ ‘You’re right, mate,’ said Tomkins to me, ‘and I’ll never forgive Hitler for that. We all know what those foreign locomotives are and their dirty coal. If Hitler had seen the English railways it might have made all the difference.’ But I beg pardon, Sir Harry, keeping you like this. Will you come into the office till her ladyship arrives?”
Sir Harry looked round for his niece, but seeing her occupied with Philip Winter, he followed the station-master.
If Sir Harry had been nearer his niece he would not have thought her occupied, for she and Colonel Winter were walking up and down the platform saying nothing. It is true that their coat sleeves occasionally brushed against each other and a flame leapt between them, but apart from this beautiful and romantic incident, no sign was made on either side.
“You aren’t too tired by your night in town?” said Philip in a low passionate tone which conveyed the impression of stifled croup.
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