The Bachelor

by Stella Gibbons

  A moment later they were upon him.

  “Well, Richard, here is the author of Little Frimdl in person!” cried Miss Fielding merrily, “Gustav, this is Richard Marten.”

  The gentlemen exchanged smiles and how do-you-do’s, and then Dr. Stocke observed in grammatically perfect English with a slight accent:

  “May we sit here with you, Mr. Marten? I have looked forward to meeting you, and I am glad to do so now; I do not know much about the European Reconstruction Council, although I have been invited to lecture for it, and should be grateful if you can enlighten me a little. Constance, you have no spoon for your pudding. I will go and get you one, if you will both excuse me.”

  “It’s rice. I don’t think I will have any; I don’t like it,” said Miss Fielding, with a schoolgirlish giggle.

  “You had better have some, Constance. It is a mistake not to eat whenever, and whatever, you can, and take advantage of the admirable, the truly admirable,” turning to Richard, “organization and distribution of food in this country. To me it is a never-failing source of amazement, for I have recently been staying in countries where there is very little food and what there is is badly distributed. I will go and fetch you a spoon for your pudding, Constance. Excuse me.” He smiled at them both from his clear blue eyes and marched away.

  “Well, Richard! It was very naughty of you to say that you couldn’t be in Little Frimdl,” said Miss Fielding, settling herself opposite to him and loosening her coat. “What have you to say for yourself?”

  “What I said in my letter, Miss Fielding.”

  “But it’s nonsense! You must have some spare time!”

  “Oh yes, I have. I use it for my personal recreation.”

  “Very selfish of you.”

  “Yes. Will you forgive me if I go on eating; I have a lecture to give at two o’clock and my cabinet pudding is getting cold.”

  “Is there cabinet pudding? I thought there was only rice.”

  “I had the last portion, I think.”

  Miss Fielding had nothing to say to this, and Richard went on with his luncheon, reflecting that her manner was more animated and youthful than heretofore. He did not think the change an improvement.

  “Here is your pudding spoon, Constance.” Dr. Stocke loomed above them once more.

  “Thank you, Gustav. Now do sit down and eat your lunch; it will be cold.”

  “I do not mind. In the last three years, during my itinerary, I have learned to eat and enjoy anything that is not actually putrid.”

  Miss Fielding glanced at Richard as if to say, Isn’t my friend magnificent? and went on, “I have just been telling Richard, Gustav, that he has no excuse for not acting in Little Frimdl.”

  “Indeed? Why has he no excuse?” inquired Dr. Stocke, eating steadily away and indulgently turning the searchlights full upon Richard. Richard was not embarrassed. His cause, he considered, was just; and he intended to make a stand.

  “I am too busy, Dr. Stocke. I give four lectures a week here, which need considerable preparation, and I am also doing part-time work in a rivet-sorting factory.”

  “Making instruments to destroy his fellow-men,” put in Miss Fielding, with a little shudder.

  “I should hardly describe a rivet as an instrument of destruction, Miss Fielding,” said Richard. “Rivets hold things together—or so I hope. They do not blow them apart.”

  “They hold things together which are used for blowing things apart,” said Miss Fielding gravely.

  “And what do you do in your leisure time?” asked Dr. Stocke. His tone was politely interested rather than inquisitorial.

  “I play the gramophone and read astronomy and walk.”

  “Excellent,” nodded Dr. Stocke, demolishing the last of his savoury vegetable pie. “Your time is fully occupied. Even your recreations require application and intelligence. I agree that you have no time to act in my play.”

  “But Gustav!” protested Miss Fielding, “it’s almost impossible to get another man for the part! And he has rehearsed so often.”

  “You are not eating your rice pudding, Constance. You should do so. It is excellent.”

  “I don’t fink I like wice-puddie!” said Miss Fielding, naughtily pushing her plate away.

  “Ha! ha! It is very amusing to hear a grown-up woman talking like a little girl!” laughed Dr. Stocke (but Richard could see that he was going to have his way). “Do you know what I do to naughty little girls who will not eat their pudding? I smack them!” said Dr. Stocke, nodding his head meaningly at Miss Fielding, “I smack them on their naughty little hands!”

  “Oh—well—in that case I must be good,” said Miss Fielding hastily, colouring and beginning upon the despised pudding. “But,” she went on, straightening her face and assuming a plaintive air, “it is a great disappointment to us, Richard, that you will not change your mind.”

  “Is it?” smiled Richard, taking out his cigarette case.

  “It is not a disappointment to me, Constance,” interrupted Dr. Stocke authoritatively and rapidly, finishing the last mouthfuls of his rice pudding. “I am sorry if you are disappointed. I had not realized that the performance of the play meant so much to you. In fact, I had almost forgotten it. Although I was deeply moved at the time that I wrote it, for I never create a work of art without experiencing the true creative urge, for the last two years I have been engaged upon work that is so much more important and satisfying that I recalled the play almost with surprise when you mentioned it to me.”

  “Oh, it has meant so much to us——” murmured Miss Fielding.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Richard, offering Dr. Stocke a cigarette.

  “Thank you. You said that with irony,” observed Dr. Stocke, accepting a cigarette.

  “Well, yes,” Richard adjusted himself quickly to the impact of what he now realized was a most unusual personality. “I did. The truth is, we were rehearsing your play at a time when I was overworked and very run down and I didn’t enjoy the rehearsals at all.”

  “It is understandable.”

  “Thank God you see it like that,” said Richard cheerfully, getting up to go. “Are you going to be here this afternoon?”

  Dr. Stocke nodded. “I have an appointment with Sir Lawrence Barwood at half-past three, to discuss the form and subject of my talks. I shall probably be free at a quarter-past four.”

  “Then would you care to have tea with me? We haven’t had a chance to talk about the Council, and I can probably tell you anything you want to know.”

  “Thank you. That would be very pleasant.”

  “Till four-fifteen, then. Good-bye, Miss Fielding,” and Richard, with another slight bow and smile, walked away.

  “A clever and attractive young man,” pronounced Dr. Stocke.

  “Oh, do you think so, Gustav? I’ve always found him so difficile and rude.”

  “That is natural, Constance, for he dislikes you,” said Dr. Stocke calmly. “May I smoke now, if you have eaten all of your pudding that you intend to eat?”

  “Oh, please do. Does he dislike me, do you think? I always get on so well with young people—I thought——”

  “Yes, he dislikes you very much. It is because you wish to arrange his activities for him. He resents that. Men,” said Dr. Stocke, turning the searchlights full upon Miss Fielding, “men of mature age who are experienced in the conduct of life are not angered by such attempts on the part of women, as a young man is. Mature men find such attempts amusing, even attractive. For they know well how to deal with them,” concluded Dr. Stocke. “Will you smoke a cigarette, Constance?”

  “Thank you,” said Miss Fielding meekly. “I don’t often smoke——”

  “I have observed that. It is as well. In one respect, and in one only, concerning the activities of your sex, I am old-fashioned. I do not much like to see women smoking, especially in the street. Let them organize, govern, teach, do what they will——”

  “Oh, I do so agree!”

  “—towards the ma
king of the new world which shall emerge from the senseless ruins of the old, but do not let them blow tobacco smoke all over me, because I do not like it.”

  “I must be careful!” laughed Miss Fielding, waving her cigarette smoke away from him.

  Dr. Stocke looked at her indulgently. “Have no fears, Constance. You do not smoke often enough for me to find the habit offensive in you.”

  They spoke no more for a little while, but sat watching the hall gradually emptying of people. At length Dr. Stocke said, glancing at the old gilt and painted clock high up on one of the walls, “Now, if you have finished your cigarette, you had better go home, Constance. The bus passes the end of the beech avenue in twenty minutes and I do not want you to miss it. Adjust your scarf closely about your neck, for the wind is very cold to-day.”

  She did so, and he stood up and waited courteously with his cigarette between his fingers.

  “Good-bye, Gustav. Shall you be in to dinner?”

  “Indeed I shall, with much news for you, no doubt, and I shall not be late. Good-bye.”

  He bowed, smiling down upon her from his impressive height, and stood until she had gone out through the tall doors.

  Richard’s verdict upon Dr. Stocke after passing an hour or so alone with him was that he was an ass but a well-informed ass, and he was even disposed to like him, in a mild and amused way; besides, it was such a satisfaction to see the Fielding woman put down, really in chains, ordered about like any Fascist frau, for all her fine talk! But he must be exhausting at close quarters, thought Richard. Dr. Stocke for his part found that Richard had all the marks of the ancient European culture, and had even begun dimly to see the light about international relationships, although he was grievously pig-headed—misled and mistaken, that is to say—about the Nazi War, not scrupling to say that it was a filthy job that had to be done. Still, on the whole Dr. Stocke approved of him, and what with pleasant acquaintances and the excellent hospitality at Sunglades, he was thoroughly enjoying his visit to war-time England.

  This was more than could be said for the weaker spirits at Sunglades, who crept about their affairs oppressed by Dr. Stocke’s omnipotence and size and habit of sitting up until half-past one every night having splendid long talks with Miss Fielding about international goodwill. His voice was loud, and it carried all over the house, Miss Burton going so far as to say that it boomed in the chimney and made her think it was the guns. But no one could hint a protest, for Dr. Stocke was most considerate when he did at last come up to bed, shutting doors noiselessly and tiptoeing about and generally demonstrating that he was qualified to live in a civilized community.

  It was not what he did, it was what he was; so large, so clever, so humourless and merry, so sharp at pouncing on any little sly dig in conversation and dragging it out into the light of day; above all, so dreadfully, dreadfully interested in the way everything worked, from the points rationing to the Sunglades refrigerator on its special low war-time allowance of gas instituted by Kenneth.

  He also helped in the house, Miss Fielding seeing to it that it was she, and not Vartouhi, whom he assisted to lay the cloth. Vartouhi, not being a weak spirit, was not oppressed by Dr. Stocke. She did not take any more notice of him than was necessary for daily normal politeness. He seemed very old to her, and she had also gathered that he, like Miss Fielding, did not approve of the Nazi War and wished to make peace immediately. This was quite enough to give her a deep scorn for him, which, being a Bairamian, she had not the smallest scruple or difficulty in concealing; and, besides, Mr. Kenneth did not like him, and Mr. Kenneth was unhappy because he was in the house. Is a wicked thing, thought Vartouhi, placidly wiping up plates or sorting laundry. Mr. Kenneth sees his ancient and honoured father driven away because Mrs. Mar-ten does not love him and because Miss Fielding will not give him shelter in his old age. Now this one comes along, full of health and strength and a fool, and he is made welcome, while the poor old Mr. Fielding who said I was a kind girl and gave me the one pound note money is in London far away. Is a wicked bad thing. If only Mr. Kenneth would drive this one angrily away!

  Dr. Stocke made his own bed, and would have helped Betty and the rest of the household make theirs, if Betty (keeping a straight face with difficulty) had not assured him that this task was Vartouhi’s and that an elaborate and efficient timetable would be disrupted if he intervened. Dr. Stocke, a methodical man, could appreciate this (besides, he enjoyed making beds no more than any clever man—or clever woman—does), and so he made no more offers that would take him up to the bedrooms. But he carried coals, he washed up, he made—so far as the milk supply would permit—superb coffee, he lit fires, and he would even have dug, wearing an old national costume that he carried about with him for this very purpose, had not Kenneth made it very plain that Dr. Stocke was not wanted in the kitchen garden.

  Miss Fielding had not felt so harmonious for years. How delightful it was to have a kindred spirit under her roof! to let her fancy soar and her eloquence too! to plan the Brotherhood of Man with a man; a clever, solid, courteous, masterful man! He is a little masterful, thought Miss Fielding, not unpleasantly moved by this discovery, but I must confess that I find it rather a relief. For so many, many years I have had to be the man of this household, poor Kenneth being so weak-willed and unreliable; and it is a positive relief to me to let the oars rest, and drift downstream while Gustav steers.

  These novel sensations were not confided to Miss Burton, who shared Betty’s amusement at seeing Connie brought to heel. There was a little malicious pleasure in watching Connie having her hair waved, and buying new hats, and even abandoning the chalk-white powder which she had used for years and purchasing a pink one to dull the apple-shine on her rosy skin.

  Although Miss Burton was not made a confidante, she missed no move in the situation, and she and Betty found their sole relief from the oppressiveness of Dr. Stocke’s presence in marvelling and smiling over Miss Fielding’s subjugation. Each knew that Connie had for over ten years taken great pleasure in Dr. Stocke’s friendship and letters, but neither had been prepared for the rapidity with which she succumbed to the charm of his actual presence. And he himself never failed in courtesy and protective kindness towards her. Betty and Miss Burton murmured together over the fire in the latter’s sitting-room in the evenings when Miss Fielding and Dr. Stocke were booming away downstairs, and wondered indeed how it would all end.

  Kenneth sat alone in the little study on the nights when he was not out with the Home Guard and sulkily read detective stories. He was thoroughly out of temper nowadays and made but little effort to conceal his feelings. The beginning of his anger had been his sisters’ unkindness to his father at Christmas, but his tranquillity had been vaguely disturbed for months before that. No sooner did one domestic storm die down than another arose; and these storms were not the endurable ones inevitably arising out of a full and expanding family life; no, they were imposed by extraneous and unnecessary circumstances such as the visits of dam’ bores of foreigners. And he was worried about his father, from whom he had not heard for a month. The weather was wretched, with icy winds and sweeping rains, and he had an uneasy feeling that the old man might be ill. Presumably he had gone to stay with his friends in London but so far Kenneth had received no address.

  Well, Con would go on making a fool of herself until this fellow left, he supposed, and he prayed that it might be soon. After that, they could settle down to await the next disturbance of their peace.

  On a very wet evening towards the middle of March he was sitting as usual, reading the latest Agatha Christie with less than his usual attention. By the afternoon post there had come a letter from Mrs. Miles taking him to task for various happenings; his father’s behaviour in going off and leaving no fixed address (“so peculiar, now that he has got in touch with us again after twenty years”); Constance’s preoccupation with this man who was living in the house (“so unlike her; I have had no answer to my last two letters; what does it mean?”); and fi
nally a strong hint that Betty was setting her cap at him (“I suppose Mrs. Marten is still with you. She must feel quite like one of the family by now.”).

  This epistle had rendered poor sweet-tempered Kenneth even crosser than was usual nowadays; and as he sat alone in the little room, with the deepening blue of the March twilight making him annoyedly aware that it was within a few minutes of black-out, he looked a thoroughly disgruntled middle-aged man. Sheets of rain swept against the windows every now and then, and the trees tossed wildly in the gusts, while the budding tulips and the fading daffodils alike were being beaten down by the storm. In spite of the closed windows something of the evening’s wild rainy spring freshness entered the room and increased his restlessness.

  The telephone bell rang in the hall.

  There was an extension line in the little study, and he reached across and took off the receiver.

  After some preliminary noises and inquiries from the exchange, a man’s voice, nasal and over-refined, inquired:

  “Is that Treme 15? Mr. Kenneth Fielding’s house?”

  “Yes. This is Mr. Fielding speaking. Who is that please?”

  “Judson, sir; the Mr. Fothergills’ man. Mr. Fielding is staying with the Mr. Fothergills, and ’as asked me to ’phone up, sir. Mr. Fielding——”

  The line crackled and the next words were lost.

  “What? I can’t hear you?” said Kenneth loudly.

  “—very poorly indeed,” were the next words he heard. “A kind of a chill, it seems to be, sir.”

  “Mr. Fielding—my father—he’s ill, did you say? Do speak up; the line is appalling.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The voice rose to an outraged yet controlled shout. “Yes, sir. Mr. Fielding ’as been poorly for about a week. The Mr. Fothergills are away for a few days in Wiltshire and Mr. Fielding is alone ’ere. He asked me to ’phone you up, sir.”

  “Yes—quite right—where are you speaking from? I’ll come up at once.”

  “Very good, sir. It’s Number 11 St. Charles’s Street, round at the back of Fortnum and Mason’s.”