“There is nothing more at present, thank you,” he said, going out; then Mrs. Jebb went to the window and looked after him with an easy tear in her eye.
“Impetuous,” she murmured, “impetuous, but sweet.”
Could Andy but have heard her!
However, by this time he was already entering the little garden before Mrs. Simpson’s cottage at the lane end, and all his thoughts were engrossed by the unexpected sight of the famous sideboard standings in sections around the creeper-covered doorway. The widow sat weeping on an empty box near that part containing the cellaret, while a dark, anxious-looking little girl of about six stood pulling her mother’s sleeve, and a big boy of three hammered the little girl with broad, fat fists.
“Stop that,” said Andy, seizing the boy from behind; but the culprit turned on him such a jolly, good-natured smile that he was disarmed, and only said lamely —
“You shouldn’t hit your little sister.”
“I haven’t got nobody elth to hit,” lisped the cherub, looking up at Andy with blue-eyed surprise.
“You mustn’t mind what he says,” interposed Sally anxiously. “Boys are born naughty. They can’t help it.”
Andy glanced at Mrs. Simpson, who still sat with her face hidden, evidently overcome by her feelings, and he braced himself for a scene of tearful gratitude. It was unpleasant, but no doubt inevitable, so the best thing to do was to get it over as soon as possible.
“H-hem! I see you got the sideboard all right, Mrs. Simpson. I am afraid it would be rather late last night before you received it, but the carrier – ”
“I’ve been sitting on this box since six, waiting to see you,” interposed Mrs. Simpson.
“Please don’t! Don’t say a word more. I’m only too delighted,” began Andy.
“There’s nothing,” wept Mrs. Simpson, “to be delighted about. It won’t go into the house. And you can’t keep a sideboard in a garden. Oh, I know you meant well, but this makes me realise my comedown more than anything else that has happened. After thinking I’d got it, it still has to go all the same. I dreamt last night that rows of great girls came up one after the other and banged hot-water cans down on the polished top, and when I wasn’t dreaming I was looking out of the window to see if it rained. And Mrs. Werrit will get my sideboard after all. And the Thorpe family will say they were in the right not to buy it in for me. And I shall look like a fool. I hate people that always turn out to be right in the end.”
It was a very long speech for Mrs. Simpson, who was usually neither tearful nor garrulous, and Andy saw that the woman had been stirred to the foundations of her being.
“What can I do? If I could do anything?” he said helplessly.
Mrs. Simpson dabbed her eyes with a black-bordered handkerchief and tried to pull herself together.
“I never gave way like this before – not even when my husband died. And you mustn’t think me ungrateful. It was very kind indeed of you to buy the sideboard for me. Only, you see how it all is.”
“Well, suppose we get the thing moved away from here at once,” said Andy, ruefully surveying the scene.
Mrs. Simpson looked at him.
“There’s one thing – but I don’t suppose you would – one couldn’t expect – ”
“What is it?” demanded Andy. “I’d do anything I could, but I don’t see – ”
“Well, I was wondering if you could possibly take care of it for me at the Vicarage until I did get a house where there was room for it.”
“Why, splendid!” said Andy. “The very thing. Of course I will.”
“Splendid!” said Jimmy, butting at Andy’s legs like a young goat.
“And mother can go across and shine it, can’t she?” said Sally gravely. “She doesn’t never let anybody shine it but herself.”
“Of course she can,” said Andy, “and you too. I have heaps of empty rooms.”
“But it must be in a room with a fire,” said Mrs. Simpson, beginning to weep again. “It would soon look different if it was put away in an unoccupied room.”
“It’s not a piano,” smiled Andy. “Oh, it’ll be all right in the drawing-room. That isn’t furnished yet you know.”
“It ought to be in a room with a fire,” persisted Mrs. Simpson, setting her lips.
“But my study is not large enough, and the dining-room is fully furnished. I really could not – ”
“Of course. I said not from very first. I couldn’t expect it,” said Mrs. Simpson, rising with resigned sadness. “Shall I let Mrs. Will Werrit know, or will you?”
“But, Mrs. Simpson, I assure you it’ll be perfectly all right,” urged Andy.
“I’m sure you think so, Mr. Deane, and I’m most grateful to you for what you’ve done. I’ll drop a line to Mrs. Will Werrit at once.”
She turned to go into the cottage and Jimmy set up a piercing yell, the tired little girl whimpered; there were loose straw and paper blowing desolately about the garden. It seemed most melancholy to Andy, this everyday trouble of a broken-up home. The dreariness of it pierced through the young hope and glamour that surrounded him, and for one dull moment he heard the hopeless chant which underlies all life: “Is it worth while? Is it worth while?”
As Andy stood there, staring blankly at the dust and straw, the tasteful appearance of his dining-room seemed quite suddenly to be a very small thing – and he had thought it so tremendously important.
“We will put your sideboard into the dining-room, then, until we find a better place for it,” he said.
“Well, that is good of you – though it’s an ornament to any room,” said Mrs. Simpson, brightening at once. “We must make some arrangement by which it becomes your property altogether if I die first,” she added, in a burst of real gratitude.
“No,” said Andy, driven to asserting himself at last by the idea of being saddled with the sideboard for life. “No. To that I will never agree.” He paused. “But there’s no need to talk about dying at present.”
Mrs. Simpson dried her eyes, folded her hands, and spoke with almost her wonted tranquillity.
“You never know. Anybody would have taken a lease of Mr. Simpson’s life.”
“I am sorry I never knew your husband,” said Andy, resuming his professional manner.
“Well,” said Mrs. Simpson, “I don’t suppose you’d have seen much of him if he’d been here. He didn’t like the clergy. Not that he had anything against them, but he didn’t like them.” She paused, then, wishful to avoid offence, she added: “It was just a matter of taste. He never could eat oysters either, and they’re a delicacy, as everybody knows.”
“Of course,” said Andy solemnly, his face grave but his heart light with laughter, and the dolorous chanting of the underworld forgotten.
Life was a splendid thing – like the spring morning – and something glorious must be round the corner.
CHAPTER IV
Mrs. Stamford, the wife of the Squire of the parish, stood before the mantelpiece awaiting the arrival of the new Vicar. She was a tall, spare woman, and her garments always seemed to cling to her, not because they couldn’t come off, but because they dared not. Even in repose, Mrs. Stamford always looked as if she had that moment finished doing something energetic, or were just about to start again.
“Pleased to see you, Mr. Deane,” she said, when Andy, very flat and shining about the head, was ushered in. “Only got back a day or two since, or we should have looked you up before. Have you got settled down? How d’you like Gaythorpe?”
She