But as no opening in Mngangaland had occurred, George Halliday was still adscriptus glebae as Mr. Choyce had neatly put it, and probably would remain so. He loved the place and put his whole strength and interest into it, but whether he was happy even his mother could not guess. Sometimes she blamed herself for what was not her fault; but if George did go away into the world, how would the place go on? All of which made him increasingly silent and but for Lady Graham who treated him almost as a son, he might have lost touch altogether with his neighbours. But all of those present were pleased to see him and the Babel of talk from ten quiet county gentlefolk might have been heard as far up as the hatches.
The door was opened and Peters appeared. All were now silent and held their countenances intently, the while from the drawing-room door Peters the majordomo thus spoke: “Dinner is served, madam.”
“Thank you, Peters,” said Mrs. Carter. “I did try to get us into couples,” she went on, addressing her guests, “because I thought it would be fun to go in properly because one is hardly ever even numbers now, but I couldn’t remember who came where in order of precedence except father being a baron, only he doesn’t count,” by which apologia we think she meant that her father, being under her roof, had somehow abrogated his undoubted right to his title. What her guests thought, we do not know, but very probably nothing, and they all went into the dining-room where Mrs. Carter had taken the precaution of putting their names in their places, owing to which foresight on her part one or two shortsighted people, Mrs. Morland among them, had made at least one and a half tours of the table before being rescued by Peters and put into their proper seats.
To the great satisfaction of Everard Carter and Mrs. Morland they were side by side and at once plunged into reminiscences of the war and how helpful that nice Margot Phelps who kept goats had been and how nice it was that she had married the rich Mr. Macfadyen, and the changes in Wiple Terrace, and how Eileen at the Red Lion became more golden-haired every year in spite of matrimony, and how splendid Matron had been and still was and too dreadful to think that she might be retiring and there would never be anyone in his, Everard’s, time who knew so much about the School, almost more than he did, so that it was with difficulty that they were separated when it was time for Everard to turn to Lady Graham and Mrs. Morland to Lord Crosse.
“I wish I could have had the pleasure of fetching you,” said Lord Crosse. “My daughter tells me that the road is up over your way. I did ring up twice but couldn’t get an answer.”
“Oh, Stoker—you know my fat tyrant Stoker—was away” said Mrs. Morland, “and so when I was out the telephone wasn’t answered. She goes to Plaistow where she was born every two years or so. I don’t mean she was born every two years or so.”
“I quite understand,” said Lord Crosse. “She goes, every two years, to Plaistow, where she was born,” but he said this very kindly.
“That is the worst of words,” said Mrs. Morland. “Sometimes I wish there weren’t any. They will not do what you want.”
“I am sure they do what you want,” said Lord Crosse. “My wife used to say that part of the pleasure she had from your books was the way you used your words. She said you made them do everything you wanted with no apparent effort.”
“Blood, tears and sweat,” said Mrs. Morland in her most Mrs. Siddons tones. “I don’t believe in taking a year to write one page or loading every rift with ore—or whatever it was that whoever said it said—but there are times when words are like a road-block. You can’t move it and you can’t pass and you can’t go back.”
Lord Crosse said he had occasionally experienced that feeling when trying to write business letters, because the business world had a quite dreadful style of its own, calculated to obscure the simplest issue and he had never mastered it. Luckily, he added, his secretary at the office could write most of them for him. “But of course,” he added, “your secretary couldn’t write your books.”
“My good man,” said Mrs. Morland, quite forgetting that she addressed a peer of the realm and a baron to boot, the oldest rank in our aristocracy, “I have never had a secretary in my life. Mrs. George Knox used to type for me before she married and looked up things for me sometimes when I couldn’t remember what I meant, but that is all.”
“Do you mean you write everything yourself, by hand?” said Lord Crosse.
“Well, how else?” said Mrs. Morland. “I mean if you have thoughts you have to be very careful. If you dictate them you are apt to become verbose, like—” and she mentioned several distinguished names among writers of fiction. “Or else you can’t think of anything to dictate and your secretary sits and looks patient till you could kill her.”
“But what about your fan-mail?” said Lord Crosse. “You must have a great many letters.”
“A fair lot,” said Mrs. Morland judicially. “But they all get answered. It’s part of the job. And if people take the trouble to write to you, you like to show your gratitude. It’s all in the day’s work, if only one’s hand didn’t get tired. I am expecting Writer’s Cramp at any moment,” at which Lord Crosse, though slightly concerned, could not help laughing.
“I shall not try to arrange your life for you,” he said kindly. “Only do go on writing for us. And if ever you do want a secretary, let me know. I can lend you a woman who actually understands what one is saying and puts in the commas,” which Mrs. Morland thought excellent qualifications.
On the opposite side of the table George Halliday (rather tired after one of the days when everything goes wrong from a defect in the pumping engine or ram to a sow overlaying her two best piglets and a hen who was a good layer entangling herself fatally in a piece of loose wire and having to be killed, not to speak of Mr. Halliday being in a low state and convinced that George ought to dig up the garden and put it under vegetables because of the war) was gratefully eating Mrs. Carter’s good dinner and drinking Mr. Carter’s excellent wine, safely between his hostess and Kate, whose conversation in particular he found most soothing as it was almost entirely about her children whom he did not know. So he sat and let her gentle tide of talk flow over him and listened to her placid and, if we must say it, complacent account of her three children, including the surpassing cleverness of Bobbie who was soaring through his education on scholarships, the charm and good looks of Angela who was top of her form at school and thank goodness her second teeth which were a little crooked had been quite beautifully straightened, and the gifts of Philip, aged thirteen, who was fairly good at his books and first class at all games.
“Why don’t you come over to Southbridge, Mr. Halliday?” she said. “We should love to see you and it would be a change for you.”
George, who was completely captivated by her soft manner, said there was nothing he would like better, but he didn’t like to leave the place much.
“You see,” he said, “father is really pretty ill now and mother is with him most of the time and she does get tired, so I try to take him on in the evenings. He likes to play backgammon only he doesn’t remember the moves very well and I simply loathe the game. I loathe all games and I never could play cards because I’m so stupid at remembering what I have and can never guess what the other people have.”
“But couldn’t you have someone to be with your father?” said Kate Carter. “I don’t mean so as to make him feel he was ill, but just to help your mother?”
George said he had often thought of it, but he didn’t think his father would like it.
“Now, you will not mind this question,” said Kate, “but could you afford a suitable person if you could find her?”
The question did seem to George a little sudden, but there was something so kind and motherly about Mrs. Everard Carter that he could not be annoyed and even blamed himself for thinking he might be annoyed when she was obviously trying to help him.
“Oh, that’s fairly all right,” he said. “I’ve been into it with father’s bank and they say we can manage. I have a power of attorney or whateve
r it is because of the farm, so the money part is all right. But I can’t spare time from the farm to take him on and mother is killing herself. If one could find the right person—but I don’t think anyone could stand father for long.”
“I am so very sorry,” said Kate with such sincerity that George would have liked to shake hands with her. “If I could hear of someone, might I let you know?”
George said it was very kind of her, though not in a hopeful voice.
“But, good gracious, what am I thinking of?” said Kate, and then paused.
“I give it up,” said George.
“But of course I know exactly the person you want,” said Kate. “Did you ever know old Miss Pemberton at North-bridge who knew all about Provençal poetry?”
George said Not in his line of country, but what about her.
“Oh only that she is dead,” said Kate. “I heard all about it from my sister Lydia who lives over there. She was ill for some time before she died and practically bed-ridden but quite sensible,” to which George’s unspoken comment was that he wished his father were like that instead of being pretty dotty and all about the place. “And,” Kate went on, “a very nice Sister Heath looked after her for the last months, a retired nurse who lives in Northbridge but takes cases for the right people. She is free at present and would like another job. She got on very well with Miss Pemberton and anyone who did that can get on with anyone. She is a great friend of that nice Sister Chifnnch who was with Dr. Dale at Hallbury when he died and several other people.”
George thought this sounded full of hope and first blamed himself for his thought and then laughed at himself for blaming himself. Kate Carter looked a little surprised.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Carter. I was just remembering how rude father was to the district nurse some years ago when he had lumbago” said George, not very truthfully.
“But he wouldn’t be rude to Sister Heath,” said Kate, in such a headmaster’s wife’s tone of calm assurance that George at once believed her. “Would you like to have her address; or shall I ask her to write to you?”
“I would be most grateful for the address,” said George, “and so would mother, though she won’t admit it. Father will kill her soon if I can’t help her. Thank you so very much, Mrs. Carter.”
Kate said she would ring up Sister Heath next morning and ask her to ring George up and what would be the best time. So George told her the hours between which Sister Heath could safely talk to Mrs. Halliday by herself and felt such relief as he had not known he could ever feel; for not till the burden begins to lift do we feel what the weight has been. With a very kind motherly smile for George, Kate turned to Mr. Crosse and of course won his heart immediately by her calm pleasant voice and ways, so that he asked if he could put all his children down for Southbridge as soon as he had any.
“Oh dear, haven’t you any?” said Kate.
“Not so far as I know,” said Mr. Crosse, “but you see I’m not married. I only meant that when I am married I would like my boys to be with you,” but Kate, who was nothing if not practical, said that though her husband liked it when Old Boys put down their sons’ names very early, she was sure he wouldn’t think it quite fair to put down sons who had not yet got a mother.
“Besides,” she said, “you ought to send your sons when you have any to your own old school—unless you were very unhappy there. Where were you?”
Mr. Crosse said Winchester, because his people always did, and he certainly wasn’t unhappy, but he liked New College much better.
“But of course you would,” said Kate earnestly. “I mean it is so much nicer for a young man to be with other young men” at which point Mr. Crosse nearly had the giggles, but not quite, and asked Kate if she and her husband would come to Crosse Hall one day in the holidays and see the house and garden, which she said would be very nice and then they talked about various county matters.
Meanwhile Edith, who was after all the only unmarried lady present and felt people ought to value her as such, was making rather heavy weather with her host, while Mr. Carter was wishing his wife had let him arrange the table so that he could talk to Mrs. Morland and not to this pretty chit. But a host must be agreeable and he did his best.
“And what are you going to do now?” he said and then felt he was behaving like an uncle, but one couldn’t sit and say nothing.
“I don’t know,” said Edith, which she said quite truthfully, because it had never before occurred to her to ask herself that question. “I like being at home.”
“Which is most unusual in people of your age,” said her host kindly.
“Well, I’ve never really been anywhere else,” said Edith.
“At least I did go to New York in the winter to my uncle and aunt and it was great fun but I liked coming home. Now father has retired I would like to help him with the place. I know a lot about pigs. Of course my sister Emmy Grantly over at Rushwater is the cow one. But what I’d really like would be to learn about estate management—I mean what father’s man Goble does. It would be splendid to run a place and see that the accounts are right.”
“And what do you know about accounts?” said Mr. Carter, amused.
“Not much, but I’d easily learn,” said Edith. “Then I could really help father, or go to the Towers and help Cousin Giles and Cousin Sally. They really have more than they can do and father has Goble and he will be here himself much more now.”
“That’s a very good idea,” said Mr. Carter. “I believe the Barchester City Council have a first-rate School of Agricultural Economy. It’s a two-year course I think for people who want to take it up professionally, but you can take a one-year course and get quite a fair knowledge of how a place should be run. I expect you know something about it already.”
“Of course I’d have to ask father and mother,” said Edith, adding in a lower voice, “but if they said no I could do it just the same.”
Mr. Carter asked how.
“Oh, just do it,” said Edith. “I like figures and arithmetic. Father is very good at them too—that’s why he’s on so many boards, besides common-sense. I’m not quite sure how much common-sense I’ve got.”
Mr. Carter thought that a young woman who saw her own limitations so clearly—though he also thought that she under-estimated her abilities—would be an extremely useful person in the county, though of course she was bound to marry and throw it all away. But at this moment the talk became rather a general uproar because of a dreadful rumour, started by George Halliday, that Lord Aberfordbury, he who had been Sir Ogilvy Hibberd and so signally defeated by old Lord Pomfret about the matter of Pooker’s Piece, was going to re-open the Bishop’s suggestion of erecting a chapel to the memory of the Reverend Thomas Bohun, M.A., who was a Canon of Barchester from 1657 to 1665 and the author of a number of highly erotic poems, some of which had been rescued, edited, and republished by Oliver Marling, Mrs. Samuel Adams’s brother.
As several of the company did not know about Bohun the others were able to explain him to them and there was a good deal of noise. Mrs. Morland said that Oliver Marling must wish he hadn’t written that book, but everyone wrote something they were ashamed of at one time or another.
“Not you, Mrs. Morland,” said Edith.
“Yes, indeed, my dear,” said Mrs. Morland. “I once wrote a story which was so bad that I can’t think why Adrian Coates ever published it. It had excessively bad reviews which, I must say, were perfectly justified, and a black cover which was also rather depressing. For a long time I didn’t like to think of it, but now I don’t care.”
“How many books have you written, Mrs. Morland?” said Lord Crosse.
“About thirty, counting the ones that aren’t books,” said the gifted author.
“What do you mean, Mrs. Morland?” said George Halliday.
“Well, some that aren’t novels,” said Mrs. Morland. “But they are quite good. And a book for children with the most divine stories. I cry whenever I read them because they are
so beautiful. But I couldn’t do it again. You do things when you are younger that you can’t do when you are older.”
“Gone, alas, like our youth, too soon,” said Lord Crosse, quoting a lovely romantic song that still makes us cry if we hear it.
“Still, one can do things when one is older that one couldn’t do when one was younger, so it all works out,” said Mrs. Morland. “But one must be practical” she added. “If anybody is doing anything about stopping Lord Aberfordbury getting a chapel erected for Bohun, we must join them. I’m sorry about all the present participles” she added apologetically.
“Who has a better right to use them than you?” said Lord Crosse, which remark was gravely received by all the company (who had at once given up their own talk when the name of Aberfordbury reached their ears) except the recipient of the compliment who laughed so whole-heartedly that the rest had to follow her.
“But I don’t think we need worry,” said Mrs. Morland, “because the Dean simply loathes Lord Aberfordbury and luckily the Bishop can’t meddle with the cathedral.”
“It’s Lord Aberfordbury’s horrible son, Mr. Hibberd, who is ruining Mr. Scatcherd,” said Edith.
Mr. Carter said he was a new-comer and would Edith explain.
“Oh, Mr. Scatcherd is an artist here,” said Edith “and he paints very bad views of the river and the cathedral and sells them to tourists, but Mr. Hibberd is a director of the National Rotochrome Polychrome Universal Picture Post Card Company and makes picture postcards of the views and Mr. Scatcherd says he is ruining Art,” at which everyone laughed but quickly became serious again when Mr. Carter said he was new to Hatch End and had never heard the Horrid Truth, but he would from now onwards hate Lord Aberfordbury and his son more than ever and subscribe to anyone and anything against him.
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