The Pandervils

by Gerald Bullet

  ‘Won’t you sit down on this?’ From his kneeling position he looked up at her; her lips were forming a polite refusal as she glanced down. He was aware of disappointment, a hunger un-assuaged, and then, as she smiled acquiescence, of instant and heavenly relief. She had added wonder to wonder by consenting to make use of his jacket. His eyes shone gratefully upon her downsitting. For a while he thought his happiness complete.

  The next time he glanced at her she was shewing unmistakable signs of distress. He turned quickly round to find Potty Oaks, with his mouth half open, staring at her hungrily and without disguise. Egg jumped to his feet, snatched up a huge piece of bread and butter, and accosted the half-wit brusquely. ‘Here, put this in your mouth. And be off with you!’ Potty received the food and the admonition without a word. He continued to stare at Monica, his expression unchanged. ‘Be off, I tell you!’ said Egg angrily, and seizing him by both arms swung him violently round. Reluctantly, with a sidelong glance, Potty shambled towards the gate; and Egg red with confusion, turned back in time to see a meaning leer pass from Higlett to Dan the cowman. ‘What’s tickling you, Higlett?’ he demanded in a fierce undertone. It was a mistake. He felt that he was making an exhibition of himself, and when he rejoined his own party he was met with curious stares by Algernon and Flisher. Monica herself was bent low over the picnic basket, contriving to hide her face in a pretended search for something. Her attitude was eloquent of shame. ‘That lad’s getting out of hand,’ muttered Egg, in self-extenuation. ‘He’ll be breaking out one of these days. Not safe it isn’t. Why don’t they put him away?’

  Algernon shrugged his shoulders. ‘What makes you say that, all of a sudden? Wasn’t doing any harm as I could see. Mighty touchy, aren’t you?’

  Flisher’s smile was more pointed than Algernon’s speech. Egg, to escape from it, turned covertly, sadly, towards Monica. Her back was towards him, but at that moment, as if in response to his silent appeal, she flashed at him, over her shoulder, one quick radiant glance. And at once he was a new man, a man enthroned above the stars, caring nothing for Higlett’s leering innuendoes and Algernon’s stupidity, and raised far beyond reach of Flisher’s barbed smiles. Gratitude gushed in his heart, and he yearned with sudden passion to spend himself utterly for the author of this new life, that he might prove himself hers. His imagination became grandiose, his demands extravagant. He caught himself almost wishing that these men, these two labourers and his brother, were visibly menacing Monica instead of merely failing in due reverence to her, so that he might have fought them all and slaughtered them and thrown their silly carcases into the sea. He forgot that the sea was some hundreds of miles away—a man in love cannot think of everything. The next moment he felt a little ashamed of this braggart fancy, and he began saying to himself: If only I could tell her. If only … if only … There seemed, alas, so little chance of that.

  Labouring to create a diversion he said: ‘So Sarah didn’t come to-day?’

  Flisher’s stare was uncompromising. ‘Whadjou mean Sarah didn’t come?’

  ‘Down here with the tea,’ said Egg. ‘She came yesterday, but not to-day,’ he added lamely.

  ‘No, indeed!’ cried Flisher importantly. ‘Because why? Because her Reverend Twigg came to see her, if you please!’

  ‘What, the curate!’ exclaimed Algernon. ‘You never told us. Mighty secret all of a sudden!’

  ‘Why?’ asked Egg. His surprise was sincere enough. ‘There’s nothing very important in Mr Twigg, is there?’ He flushed, remembering when it was too late that Mr Twigg was the Vicar’s new curate, and that Monica was the Vicar’s niece.

  ‘Oh, isn’t there!’ said Flisher. ‘That’s all you know, my dear. Nothing very important, eh? Better tell our Sarah that, and see what happens.’

  Egg, glancing at Monica, was ashamed of this conversation, ashamed of his brother and his sister. That they should expose their silly matchmaking fancies to the gaze of Miss Wrenn was a burden hardly to be borne. He himself had noticed nothing of what they hinted; but now, looking back, he had to admit that Mr Twigg’s visits to the Ridge Farm had been surprisingly frequent and regular. A large fair man, this Mr Twigg, with prominent ears, and hands a size too big for him; good at games and popular with the village lads; a little too hearty, a little too jolly, a little too solemn, every quality slightly in excess; a Muscular Christian born out of due time. Mr Twigg did not talk much about religion, but one gathered that he felt it the more for that. He sometimes, rather disconcertingly, interpolated a pregnant comment on wordly affairs when it was least expected. ‘Faith without Works is Dead, Miss Minnow,’ he remarked, when his organization of the village cricket was under discussion. ‘Not everyone that saith unto me, Lord, Lord …’ And indeed if anyone was disposed to say unto Mr Twigg ‘Lord, Lord!’, it was Miss Minnow, a gentle fast-fading spinster of thirty-five who obviously adored him. More than once she happened to be taking tea with Mrs Pandervil when the curate called. ‘You make everything so clear, Mr Twigg,’ she would say, with a sigh. ‘And you have such original thoughts.’ These compliments Mr Twigg would turn aside with a mildly reproving smile. ‘Ah no, Miss Minnow! It’s all in the Book, and he who Runs may Read.’ Mr Twigg was ‘broad’ to the point of daring; he thought that even Dissenters might escape damnation if only they ‘did good’, if only they ‘led good lives’; for, as he once declared from the pulpit itself, he did not presume to set limits to the mercy of God. One gathered that, within reason, Mr Twigg gave God a free hand, always provided that there was no weakening on the great Roman question, for it was an open secret that Mr Twigg was very angry with the Pope. All things considered, the curate was a splendid fellow. He had a rich baritone voice and he sometimes sang hearty secular songs in the Pandervils’ drawing room, to Sarah’s stammering pianoforte accompaniment. Small wonder that Sarah loved him—the wonder (thought Egg, with brotherly blindness) was that he should have seen anything exciting in Sarah.

  Monica remarked shyly: ‘I think I ought to be going home if you’ll excuse me. Auntie will wonder——’

  ‘Oh, don’t hurry!’ cried Flisher. ‘I’m coming too in a minute and Mr Twigg will take you back, won’t he? They know you’re safe with him.’ Flisher turned to Egg, eagerly explanatory. ‘You see, Egg, it was Mr Twigg brought Miss Wrenn to see us—brought Monica, I mean.’

  Egg, with a superhuman effort, said as casually as he could: ‘If Miss Wrenn really wants to go——’ He turned in confusion to Monica: ‘Let me see you home.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ His heart leaped. ‘But there’s no need for anyone to come with me. It’s only a few yards.’ His heart sank again. ‘And,’ added Monica, ‘Mr Twigg will be waiting for me at your house. I’d forgotten about Mr Twigg.’

  She had forgotten about Mr Twigg: that was as it should be. But the more Egg thought of Mr Twigg, the less he liked the situation. The fellow had brought Monica to see them, had he! The two were living under the same roof, the Vicar’s roof … Egg hoped with all his heart that Mr Twigg would make haste to marry Sarah.

  3

  When at the first intimation of dusk Egg and Algernon came in from the fields, they found the kitchen, where supper was laid, all but deserted, Martha alone being in attendance there and waiting for them. She, as gawky now as Flisher had been two years before, looked more attractive than usual, being greatly uplifted by her sense of office, and flushed with the excitement of being in the midst of unusual events. For the visitors, it seemed, were not yet gone; they were at this very moment in the drawing room with the seniors of the family. Sarah had been playing, with great acceptation, List to the Convent Bells and Handel’s Harmonious Blacksmith; Mr Twigg had sung Bid me Discourse and a song about a storm at sea of which Sarah had been for weeks secretly practising the accompaniment; and Miss Wrenn, too, in a sweet husky voice, ever so deep and strange, like a man’s almost (said Martha), had sung such a nice song, you never did! And, to crown the wonder, sandwiches and cakes had been provided at a moment’s noti
ce as you might say, and Mr Pandervil (in person) had broached a bottle of port wine. There never had been such an evening before, and it could have but one meaning.

  ‘You’d never guess,’ declared Martha ‘Never.’

  Egg declined to guess; but he was conscious of immense relief, and he longed to hear that Sarah and Mr Twigg were definitely and irrevocably betrothed. The man was clearly a fool, since, having seen Monica, he still desired Sarah; but so long as he remained free he might, by some mischance, lapse into sanity.

  ‘We know all about it,’ said Algernon. ‘Don’t we, Egg?’

  Martha’s face fell. ‘Oh, well—’ She tossed her head. ‘If you know, you’ll not need telling.’

  ‘We don’t really know, Martha,’ said Egg. He shot out a hand as she was passing, caught her by the shoulder and spun her playfully round. ‘Come along, out with it.’

  She eyed him dubiously a moment; then decided to struggle a little; but he was too strong for her, she couldn’t escape. ‘I’ll tell you, Eggie,’ she said, ‘but not him!’ To Algernon she showed the tip of her tongue. ‘I’ll whisper,’ said Martha, and, like the child she still was, put her arms round Egg’s neck as he bent down towards her. ‘Somebody’s engaged to be married!’

  ‘Who?’ asked Egg.

  ‘Aren’t you surprised?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’m surprised. Somebody engaged! Well I never! But who is it, Martha?’

  ‘Well, it’s Mr Twigg for one. I love Mr Twigg, don’t you?’

  ‘You bet I do!’ said Egg. ‘Who’s the other?’

  ‘Well, it’s not Flisher.’

  ‘Fancy that now!’ exclaimed Egg, with irony that passed, as he intended it should, for appreciation of Martha’s dramatic effects. ‘Well?’

  ‘Egg,’ whispered Martha, still more mysteriously, ‘suppose now it was Miss Wrenn?’

  He stood rigid, held fast in an agony of fear. He heard his heart thumping, thumping, in a vast void. He heard himself exclaim in a loud unnatural tone: ‘Suppose your grandmother! It’s Sarah, of course. Of course it’s Sarah. Don’t talk nonsense, Martha!’

  Algernon intervened, his mouth full of bread and cheese. ‘Well, what if it is! Nothing to lose your wool about, is it?’ He grinned cheerfully. ‘We’ll manage without the lass, I dessay.’

  Martha said no more; Egg remained stretched upon the rack of his fear. It was absurd, this surmise, but not impossible. Everything pointed to Sarah; yet it might be … it might be … And he could not bring himself to question Martha any more; he could only pray that her tongue might be loosened without his further self-exposure. Already Flisher, and perhaps Algernon too, had divined his state. He sat down at the table and began his supper. He was in a fever. His nerves twitched. He frequently shifted his position on the chair, every movement being marked by the sound of hobnails scraping the brick floor. Seeking distraction from his anxious thoughts he allowed his glance, as he munched, to wander aim lessly about the room. It came to rest at the dresser, which was full of gleaming white crockery, Mother’s pride; and he suddenly thought how richly satisfying it would be to shy something at that stuff and hear it smash and see it fall. He became aware that Martha was eyeing him speculatively, and that all Algernon’s attention was on the food. And then the latch was lifted and Sarah herself stood in the doorway.

  ‘Aren’t you coming in, boys?’

  Sarah was radiant; her eyes sparkled and birds sang in her voice. In years verging upon thirty, she now looked twenty-five, all her ordinariness transfigured by a sudden unexpected blossoming of the spirit. Her joy, telling its own story, was communicated to Egg; and being released from his own fear he forgot his hope as well, and a brotherly affection filled him. Good old Sarah, he thought; and then he said his thought aloud and, shaken out of habitual shyness, got out of his chair and flung himself upon Sarah, boyishly, and gave her the kind of playful bear’s hug he had sometimes given her as a child and never since.

  ‘Why, Eggie!’ said Sarah, blushing with pleasure. ‘What’s come over the boy!’ Grinning, and already confused, he saluted her cheek with a loud half-comical kiss. ‘Great silly!’ she said fondly. ‘But aren’t you boys coming in? We’ve been having music and I don’t know what all. Have you finished your suppers, both?’

  Now that he was within an ace of seeing Monica again, Egg was frightened. He looked down at his clothes. ‘I’m too dirty for company.’

  ‘Oh, never mind. They’ll not notice that. You coming, Algy?’

  ‘Bed for me,’ said Algernon. ‘Give my love to Ernest, old gal.’ He winked at his sister.

  ‘Get along with you!’ said Sarah rosily.

  The men went to their shared bedroom. Egg began diligently scrubbing himself and brushing his clothes, watched silently by his brother who had lost no time in undressing and getting into bed.

  ‘What d’you want to go to bed for, Algy? It’s early yet.’

  ‘Nine o’clock nearly. Late enough for me. I’m tired. Come to that, what d’you want to doll yourself up for at this time o’ night?’

  Egg shrugged his shoulders. ‘Something to do.’

  His next operation made Algernon sit up in bed with staring eyes. ‘Good sakes alive! You’re never going to clean your teeth now!’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Egg, wishing he dared be so eccentric as to shave the golden down from his cheeks and chin.

  ‘What, at bedtime!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well I’m—’ Algernon sank back on the pillow, apparently in despair of ever understanding his queer young brother. During the next few minutes he must have indulged in unwonted mental exercises, for when finally, the toilet completed, Egg lifted the latch of the bedroom door, a loud chuckle from the bed advertised Algernon’s discovery of a new idea. It was an aggressive chuckle, not to be ignored.

  ‘Well,’ said Egg, pausing. ‘Let’s have it.’

  ‘Hullo, Egg!’ cried Algernon, shooting up in bed again. ‘Not gone yet? He grinned. ‘Well, good luck, boy!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Egg demanded.

  ‘Perhaps I’m not so blind as you think,’ remarked Algernon. ‘And you’re a gay young spark, you are, to be sure! Got a clean handkerchief?’

  Egg, putting a bold face on it, came back into the room and opened a drawer. ‘Thanks for reminding me. Have to be a bit particular with parsons about.’

  ‘Better put some scent on it,’ advised Algernon. And, intoxicated by his own wit, he burst into a roar of laughter.

  Egg, though embarrassed and confused, was glad to find Algernon in a friendly mood again, for he knew that there was now no malice in his chaff. ‘Well, look here, Algy,’ he said. ‘Don’t go talking to anyone, will you?’

  As if pleased and flattered by the appeal Algernon at once became sober. ‘Not a word. Trust me, lad… Goo’ night.’

  ‘Night!’ said Egg gratefully, from the passage. He closed the door, and made his way downstairs.

  As he passed through the kitchen a new obstacle appeared in his thoughts. ‘Martha!’ His voice was sharp with nervousness. Martha, as he could hear, was washing the supper things. Hearing no answer from her, he ran to the scullery door. ‘Martha, did anyone do the milking?’

  ‘There now!’ said Martha. ‘I wonder if our Sarah—no, she couldn’t have! Reverend Twigg’s been here for hours, he has. Ever since tea, and before.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Egg’s voice was dull with despair. ‘Just tell ’em in the drawing room that I’ve gone to do it, will you?’

  Without another word he clumped into the yard where, in the dim light, he could see the cows— fabulous sculptured beasts with the moon rising behind them—grouped near the gate in the field beyond, mutely waiting to be admitted. He opened the gate, called intimately to the cows, and watched them lurch past him, one by one, into their shed. Only five in milk, thank God! But five was enough to prevent his seeing Monica again that night.

  He lost himself in an unhappy dream, his head resting against a cow’s fl
anks, his fingers mechanically working the teats, his mind drowsed by the rhythmic resonant sound of the milk spurting into the pail. ‘Come up, Blossom! Come round, lass! Steady now!’ He lost sense of time and place, thinking only of Monica and Sarah and the Reverend Twigg and a hundred other distant things. And he went on milking cow after cow… until his attention was caught by a ray of light moving across the wall of the shed, a faint glow that with every passing moment grew more golden. He heard steps on the cobbled yard, and a voice speaking. It was Martha’s voice. The next moment Martha came to the door of the shed carrying a storm lantern.

  ‘Hullo, Egg! You haven’t finished yet, have you?’

  Egg grunted. ‘All but one.’ He did not look up.

  ‘He says he hasn’t finished yet,’ said Martha, over her shoulder. ‘He’s got one more to do.’

  At that he turned quickly on his stool. In the darkness behind Martha something moved. His breath came fast; he stood up eagerly. Monica stepped delicately into the circle of light.

  ‘Miss Wrenn,’ explained Martha, ‘hasn’t ever seen a cow milked, Egg. Fancy! Isn’t it funny!’

  ‘So I’ve come to see you now,’ said Monica. There was a ripple of laughter in her voice. ‘I hope you don’t mind being watched?’ While he was stammering an answer she interrupted him to say: ‘I mustn’t stay long. Mr Twigg will be waiting to go. It’s very late.’