Mr Peabody thereupon catalogued the lesser beneficiaries, who included servants, a few friends, the Officers’ Mess of the Major’s old regiment, the Boy Scouts, the Girl Guides, the Brackenshire Territorials, the Children’s Hospital, and the two Orphanages. Obvious anxiety accompanied his relation of these preliminary bequests, for though none of them was large, the list of them was long, and relief was audible when he declared, ‘That is the sum total of what I may describe as external legacies. The majority of them, as you have observed, are token gifts only, for the Major had already given large sums to these organizations during his lifetime. The last of the unconditional bequests is Rumneys itself. This, with its land, the furniture, and other appurtenances, becomes the property of Miss Hlilary Gander.’
There was a murmur of congratulation. ‘Oh, how nice for you, Hilary,’ cried Katherine impatiently, and Jane said ‘That’s decent,’ in a gruff hearty way as though she had seen a ten-foot putt slide into its hole.
Mr Peabody spoke again: ‘And now we approach the more interesting and, I must admit, the more unexpected part of the will. I should like to say, in the first place, that I myself was entirely ignorant of its contents until four days ago. The Major did not ask my advice in this matter: he devised the will himself, wrote it in his own hand, and kept it in his own possession until his death. It is, however, a valid testament, and with one possible exception, which I will mention later, its meaning is clear beyond doubt or cavil.’
The potential legatees grew apprehensive. This was no way in which to introduce an equitable division of the Major’s property. This talk of clarity and conditions might be the prelude to some hideous freak of fancy, some deathbed mockery. Stephen Sorley swallowed another bismuth tablet – anxiety had reinforced the heartburn to which he was subject – and Arthur nervously wondered if a romantic trial of virtue were to be announced: his spirit flickered with excitement, and his heart quailed at the thought of hardships which might have to be encountered in the quest for fortune.
‘The preamble to the second part of the will is rather long,’ said Mr Peabody, ‘but I do not think you will find it uninteresting, and it is necessary that you should be aware of the preliminary reasoning in order to appreciate the logic of what I may call the executive clause. I shall therefore read it to you in full.’
Mr Peabody cleared his throat and turned a page. ‘These are the Major’s own words,’ he explained.
‘“The name of Gander is a name to be proud of. It cannot claim the historical prestige of such names as Howard, Sackville, Cavendish, and so forth, but for hundreds of years the Brackenshire Ganders were loyal, honest, and Godfearing people of the type that can justly be called the backbone of the nation. Early in the Nineteenth Century, however, they fell upon evil days, and when my grandfather died his widow was left in comparative poverty. The re-establishment of the family in circumstances of dignity and affluence is wholly due to the genius and energy of my father, the late Jonathan Gander. Not only did he restore our fortunes – which were, I believe, of considerable extent in the early part of the Sixteenth Century – but having achieved a social eminence unknown to any Gander since the time of the Commonwealth – and I say this without a trace of snobbery – he did his best to ensure the perpetuation of the name by becoming the father of four sons and three daughters. Such a family, though not large by former standards, might well be thought large enough to guarantee the survival of their name. But facts have proved otherwise.
‘“My father had seven children. None of those children has shown a like capacity or inclination for parenthood, and of Jonathan Gander’s eight grandchildren only five are now living: I wish to record here the name of my nephew John who died on active service while serving with the Brackenshire Yeomanry in 1917.
‘“It is with a grave sense of my own deficiencies in this direction that I note here a regrettable tendency of the times, viz. to avoid the responsibilities of parenthood, and I am filled with dismay to think that this evil practice …”’
‘Or lack of practice,’ observed Jane.
‘“… this evil practice,”’ Mr Peabody repeated, ‘“which indeed is tantamount to race-suicide, may be prevalent among my own nephews and nieces. Their matrimonial record has so far done very little to dispel my fears, and even those who have had the opportunity to become parents do not yet seem to be aware that the chief ornament of marriage is a full quiver. I, in my advancing years, daily grow more convinced of the truth of Sir Francis Bacon’s observation: that children sweeten labours and mitigate the remembrance of death. They are the crown of married happiness. They are the ripeness of the fruit of the Tree of Life. And, as Shakespeare says, Ripeness is All.
‘“These few remarks will, I hope, adequately explain and justify my choice of a residuary legatee, for it will now be apparent that my intention, or at least my hope, is to promote the happiness of all concerned and to perpetuate the name of Gander. I therefore will and bequeath that part of my estate which shall remain after payment in full of the aforementioned legacies to whichever of the late Jonathan Gander’s progeny shall, five years from now, have become the parent, whether father or mother, of the greatest number of children born in holy wedlock, the said residuum to remain in the interim in trust under the trusteeship of William Peabody, Esquire, and Miss Hilary Gander.”’
Having read this disconcerting document, Mr Peabody rose from his chair, and walking to a wall where hung a series of fine engravings, ostentatiously devoted his attention to the problems of Marriage à la Mode as depicted by Hogarth. Meanwhile a silence of stupefaction lay on the potential legatees. But in a moment or two the silence was broken, splintered rather, by incoherent protests, by indignation that could not, for a little while, find its feet in words, and by dismay that impotently gaggled and beat the air.
Hilary, who had gone very red, was the first to regain composure. ‘That finishes my interest in the will,’ she announced, and looked benevolently at Arthur. ‘You’re well placed, Arthur,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a daughter, which is more than any of us can say.’
‘Yes, but she’s got mumps,’ said Arthur unhappily, ‘and – well, the fact is that one’s not very many.’
Stephen cried shrilly, ‘It’s outrageous! Uncle John must have been in a disgusting state of mind before he could make a will like that. It’s barbaric, it’s insane!’
‘And it’s so unfair,’ said Katherine. ‘Mr Peabody! Do you think Uncle John was mad, just a little mad perhaps?’
‘Major Gander’s sanity cannot be questioned,’ answered Mr Peabody without turning round. His words echoed coldly off the glass of Marriage à la Mode.
‘You’ve got nothing to grumble at,’ said Jane to Katherine. ‘Your husband’s on his way home: you can start at once.’
‘But I don’t want to!’ cried Katherine. ‘I hate children, and they might all be wasted, anyhow. You might have lots more than me, a great big creature like you.’
‘I’m certainly not going to spoil my golf by having babies,’ said Jane decidedly, and Arthur looked at her with gratitude.
‘Before you make your plans for the future,’ said Hilary, ‘it might be as well to hear how much money John has left. Mr Peabody hasn’t told us yet.’
Mr Peabody returned to his chair and consulted the calculations he had made. ‘I cannot as yet tell you the exact amount,’ he answered, ‘but I have made an approximate valuation of the estate, and after deducting the minor legacies and an approximate sum for death duties, the reversion will, I think, be in the neighbourhood of £70,000.’
‘Seventy thousand!’ Katherine whimpered. ‘Oh, I shan’t know what to say to Oliver! It’s such a lot of money.’
‘But we’re not going to submit to this,’ cried Stephen. ‘I refuse to be bullied into marriage by anybody, and if we all stand together, and come to a decent arrangement, we can upset this wretched will, or ignore it, and simply divide the seventy thousand between us.’
Katherine looked at him with calc
ulation in her eyes. If Stephen declined to marry, and Jane refused to let babies interfere with her golf, and Hilary – well, Hilary was thirty-nine – then the contest lay between her and Arthur: and Arthur’s wife was a lean spectacled vegetarian who had produced a daughter nine years ago, and nothing since. Katherine began to think more favourably of the will. She was certainly not prepared to sacrifice her chance of seventy thousand pounds for Stephen’s sake.
‘Oh really!’ she said. ‘And why should we ignore Uncle John’s wishes just for your benefit? It was Uncle John’s money, and he had the right to do what he pleased with it. If you don’t want to get married, that’s your business. But some of us are married, and if we have children, which is the natural thing to do, then I don’t see why we shouldn’t benefit by them. As a matter of fact, Oliver is very, very keen on having a family, and I expect we’ll have quite a large one in time.’
Mr Peabody, who had paid no attention to this change and exchange of views, now said: ‘There is, as I warned you, one small uncertainty in the will. The executive sentence reads, as doubtless you remember, “whichever of the late Jonathan Gander’s progeny shall within the space of five years from now become the parent of the greatest number of children” – and so forth. But the will was made three years ago: it is dated 1930. The Major’s intention was probably to allow you five full years in which to decide the issue, or perhaps even more, for there is, as you can see, a faintly pencilled question-mark above the word “five”. But as the will stands the meaning is five years from 1930, and I do not think we can let supposition, however plausible, interfere with that reading. The result of this unfortunate error – if it is an error – is that instead of five you have only two years and three months in which to – ah! – compete for this very substantial legacy.’
‘That puts a premium on twins,’ said Jane.
‘Oliver’s mother was a twin,’ exclaimed Katherine.
‘I’m going home,’ said Stephen angrily. He was looking white and ill, and he had finished his bismuth tablets. Til come back tomorrow, and if you’ve recovered from this lunacy by then, perhaps we can think of some sensible arrangement.’
‘I think I had better go home too,’ said Arthur. ‘Daisy will be anxious to hear all about this, though I don’t think she’ll be pleased when I tell her.’
‘I’m coming to see Ruth tomorrow,’ said Hilary. ‘I do hope she’s feeling better, poor little soul.’
‘Mumps are so infectious,’ said Arthur unhappily. ‘I hope Daisy doesn’t take them. I’ve had them myself, of course, so I’m all right.’
Stephen moved impatiently to the door, but before he reached it it was opened by a parlour-maid, who came in with a telegram. ‘For Mrs Clements,’ she said.
Katherine tore the envelope. ‘From Oliver,’ she exclaimed, and read aloud: ‘“Arrived Marseille today coming overland may stop two days in Paris love Oliver”. – Two days in Paris,’ she repeated. ‘Oh, my God, not Paris I Give me a piece of paper: tell the boy to wait: I’m going to wire at once. Two days in Paris indeed!’
Chapter 3
The Vicar’s barograph rose a little towards night, drew a straight line during the darkness, and in the morning began to engrave a melancholy declination. No rain fell before lunch, however, and Lady Caroline, after lifting an eye at the weather, grew more and more cheerful. She was a little plump woman, brown faced, and the eye she cocked at heaven was bright and lively as a robin’s: few creatures save robins and Lady Caroline, indeed, could have looked at such a sky so livelily, for it hung like an old tarpaulin over the earth, heavy with unshed rain. But Lady Caroline’s optimism was a product of her enthusiasm, a kind of bow-wave, and as her enthusiasms were always intense, so was her optimism large and high and independent of everything save the progress of her current enterprise. She was a woman of many hobbies, all benevolent. She did good deeds with ruthless excitement, and in successive years she had stirred Lammiter to work for the League of Nations Union, the protection of wild birds, the provision of window-boxes for the poor, a new reredos for her husband’s church, the revival of maypole dancing, and now for the introduction of more kindly methods to local slaughter-houses. She had been active in this last campaign for several months, and the prospective garden-party was but one of many engagements: but as more than seven hundred tickets, at half a crown a piece, had already been sold for it, it was not without importance.
The Vicarage garden, uncommonly large and very prettily laid out, was well worth seeing. It contained a parterre of formal beds, a rose garden, a pergola most gaily flowering with yellow Banksias and crimson Ramblers, a lily-flanked pond, and a rhododendron dell: the rhododendrons had unfortunately flowered too early to abet the roses, but as Lady Caroline said, ‘You can’t expect nature to make special arrangements for half a crown.’ The previous day’s inclement weather had also diminished the glory of the pergola and the multi-coloured gaiety of the parterre. The Vicar shook his head to see turf and soil pied with a myriad fallen petals, but Lady Caroline cheerfully remarked, ‘I think they look very pretty lying there, like confetti.’ And she so vigorously agitated the adjacent Duchess of Athol that a shower of lingering rain-drops leapt from its leaves like the quicksilver scuts of invisible rabbits.
The earliest visitors came at half past three, and by half past four there were nearly two hundred people in the garden. They went walking under the pergola with quick uneasy steps, their shoulders humped as a protection against the dismal leaf-drip, the cold stillicide that contrasted so unhappily with the would-be gaiety of the crimson and the yellow roses; they trod mincingly between the puddles on the paths and told each other, with an effort to enjoy themselves, how sweet the stocks smelt after rain; they looked with perfunctory interest at the muddied waters of the pond and the adjacent bank of wet white lilies; and with a shiver they peeped into the sodden jungle of the dell, where a few syringas and late azaleas did a little to break the drenched and flowerless monotony of the rhododendron bushes.
Moving briskly among the guests, Lady Caroline fortified their failing pleasure with mysterious references to the entertainment, unusual in kind and specially planned, which they might expect in a little while; and refuted the impending sky. ‘No, no, no,’ she said, ‘there’ll be no rain this afternoon. And even if there are a few drops you won’t notice them, you’ll be so engrossed by the demonstration. Oh, I’m not going to tell you what it is: you’ll see for yourselves in half an hour. Look at these geums, poor things: they were in perfect bloom two days ago. But we couldn’t have enjoyed them till poor Major Gander was comfortably buried, so perhaps everything was for the best after all. And the rain quite spoiled his funeral, of course. The Vicar said that everybody was looking miserable, and I’d have felt just a little bit unfair if my geums hadn’t suffered too. Is that Mrs Ramboise? I must go and speak to her. What a great big girl her daughter is!’
The Vicar, whose spirit was hardly so dynamic as Lady Caroline’s, preferred a more stationary form of hospitality. He stood by the buffet that had been erected in the dining-room, and his conversation was like a melancholy countermure for the defensive optimism of his wife. ‘We’ve been very unfortunate,’ he said, ‘and my only hope is that we shall be spared further mischances. The rain may hold off for another hour or two: I hope so, I certainly hope so. This performance that my wife has arranged is going to be a demonstration of the case for reform in our slaughter-houses, and under the circumstances I think we might have expected better weather. No, I don’t know what the demonstration’s going to be, but my wife assures me that it’s quite remarkable and very dramatic. Have you had any tea yet, Mrs Bulmer? There’s Mr Follison, he’ll look after you.’
Wilfrid Follison had already procured a cup of tea for Mrs Blumer, and now, with patience for a hook and charm for a bait, he was fishing for a plate of cucumber sandwiches in a chattering eddy by the urn: Mrs Fowler, Mrs Sabby, Miss Foster, Mrs Corcoran, and Miss Montgomery had lived in the aggregate three hundred years, and
their fund of small talk was proportional to such experience of life, their tea-time appetite commensurate with so long practice. But presently, without offending any of them, Wilfrid secured the remaining sandwich for Mrs Bulmer, and turning to the Vicar said impulsively, ‘It is a nice party! I wish Stephen could have come.’
‘None of them suffered from the wetting they got?’ asked the Vicar.
‘Stephen was shivering when he came home, and I made him stay in bed today,’ said Wilfrid, ‘but it wasn’t the weather that upset him, it was the will.’
‘He was disappointed, was he? Who were the lucky ones?’
‘Everybody was disappointed,’ said Wilfrid earnestly, ‘and more than disappointed. They were shocked. Major Gander must have been mad. There was nothing but a lot of immoral suggestions in the will, and even if we hadn’t all decided to keep it a secret, as long as we can, I couldn’t possibly tell you about it, because it’s too disgusting.’
‘Good heavens!’ said the Vicar. ‘You don’t mean to say that Gander was insane?’
‘He must have been,’ Wilfrid assured him.
‘Then the will’s invalid?’
‘No, it isn’t, and that’s why we’re all so upset. Mr Peabody says there’s nothing wrong with it in the legal sense, and Stephen’s making himself perfectly ill with worry.’
Controlling his curiosity with praiseworthy strength of mind, the Vicar said stiffly, ‘As I don’t know the contents of the will I can’t make any useful comment upon it. But I always had a great respect for Gander, and I think you’re probably exaggerating some small eccentricity he has been guilty of. You mean, I suppose, that he didn’t make provision for the family?’
‘That’s just the trouble,’ said Wilfrid. ‘He did.’
Before he could be tempted to further indiscretion Mrs Corcoran pulled his sleeve and asked him to get her another cup of tea. The Vicar, whose curiosity now easily exceeded his self-control, caught sight of Mr Peabody in a far corner of the room, and made towards him through the crowd. Wilfrid continued to serve the needs of elderly and middle-aged ladies with deft and charming alacrity. He was a great favourite with the old ladies of Lammiter, and always remembered who among them took sugar in their tea, and who objected to having the cream put in first.
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