The Bachelor

  “Yes, isn’t it a wonderful thing? She’s a real artist. I told her she could sell it in London for pounds and pounds but she only laughed.”

  “I thought Mohammedans weren’t allowed to reproduce flowers and fruit and human beings on any work of art; they aren’t allowed to on their mosques, I know,” said Betty, curiously examining the little warriors.

  “Well, officially Vartouhi is an atheist, like the rest of her country, only she happens to live in a remote part of Bairamia where some of the old customs linger on. (And they aren’t exactly Mohammedans, either.) They still have the prayer at sunset and sunrise there, she told me. So I suppose she didn’t feel that the ban on representing living things mattered.”

  “I can’t imagine her taking much notice of a ban, anyway,” said Betty, whose feelings were a mingling of dismay because the house would now be domestically uncomfortable and relief because the source of Richard’s unhappiness had been removed.

  “I do hope that she will write to us!” Miss Burton was saying unhappily while she put the bedspread back into the cupboard. “She was in such a rage! and she went off without once looking back, although she must have known I was looking out of the window. But it’s Ken I’m really worried about.”

  “Oh yes, of course, he’s fond of—her.” Betty just stopped herself from saying the tiresome little thing. A very attractive woman herself, and on the whole a soother of life rather than a disturber of it, she had small liking for temperamental, if alluring, young women.

  “He loves her,” said Miss Burton dramatically.

  “My dear Frances! Isn’t that putting it rather strongly?”

  “I tell you he loves her!” Miss Burton had been much upset by the events of the day, and she now actually thumped her fist upon her knee. “Things were going beautifully, and in another month he would have proposed to her.”

  “Then I’m very glad she’s gone,” said Betty, more decisively than was common with her. “I’d no idea he felt as strongly as that and I must say I think it would be disastrous if they did marry. Ken—and Vartouhi—oh, it’s absurd, Frances! You’re romancing!”

  Miss Burton said angrily that she was not, and in support of her theory produced so much impressive evidence about secret presents, chats in the old greenhouse, and other details that Betty was all but convinced.

  “Yes—well, you may be right,” she said at last, getting up, “but I still think it would be a disaster. Ken’s nearly fifty and thoroughly set in his habits and she can’t be much over twenty and she’s barely a European at all, and with that temper of hers—no, Frances, it wouldn’t work.”

  “Well, I’m sure it would,” said Miss Burton stubbornly. “He would be just the steadying influence she needs and she would liven him up. You know, Betty, the fact is—” she hesitated, then came out with—“you’ve had Ken hanging round you for so many years that it’s natural you should resent his turning to someone else. But he hasn’t had what I should call a happy life, you know, and if the last twenty or thirty years of it could be happy—really happy—I should be so glad. He is such a dear old boy, and we none of us appreciate him.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Betty, thoughtfully, looking down at her, with a very kind light in her eyes, “and I don’t resent anything, truly, Frankie. I quite see what you mean about their being good for each other. It sounds all right—but I still wonder whether it would work out in practice.”

  “It won’t get the chance,” said Miss Burton with a sigh. “I’ve got a feeling we shall never hear from her again. Of course, I don’t blame you for not liking her, and not minding very much that she’s gone. She was so unkind to Richard.”

  “Yes, she was,” said Betty quietly.

  “I used to talk to her about it but I’m afraid I didn’t make much impression.”

  “Nothing makes much impression on that young woman, because she isn’t civilized,” pronounced Betty. “And, Frankie, what I think I do resent a little is her having collected Kenneth’s scalp as well as my poor Richard’s. It’s just a bit too much. Why should she?”

  “Well, she has that attraction,” said Miss Burton feebly.

  “Apparently. Oh well, I suppose I just don’t see it because I’m a woman.”

  “But I see it, and I’m a woman.”

  “You’re a goose,” said Betty affectionately, and added “Bo!” which feeble joke made them both laugh and sent them downstairs to prepare supper and face Miss Fielding in a more cheerful mood.

  It was a pity that Dr. Stocke was not at Sunglades that evening. If he had been, Betty and Miss Burton would have been treated to the interesting spectacle of Miss Fielding’s righteous indignation and ill-temper wrestling with her desire to appear harmonious, womanly and calm in front of the object of her veneration. As it was, there was no restriction placed upon her sulks; and it was a very silent party of three that gathered at the table to eat reconstituted egg in the blue light of the long March evening. It’s like a garrison that’s being gradually reduced by the enemy, thought Betty. First Richard went, and then the old boy, and then Ken, and then Stocke, and now Vartouhi. How very glad I am I don’t live here alone with Frankie and Connie, I don’t think I could bear it. I never thought I should live to be sorry that Stocke wasn’t here. Thank goodness Ken will be back soon, although when he is I suppose there will only be more trouble.

  As the evening drew to a close, Miss Fielding’s silence became more due to a dawning dismay than to the anger that had at first overwhelmed all more rational feelings. Miss Burton had made her realize how foolish she had been to dismiss Vartouhi without first obtaining other help, drawing a dismal but unexaggerated picture of the difficulty of running a large house inhabited by five people in war-time with only casual village help—as if Miss Fielding had not already experienced those difficulties, complicated by the Rigbys, before Vartouhi came—and pointing out that it would be impossible, if Dr. Stocke were to be housed as comfortably as heretofore, for his hostess to spend so much of her time in his company. Then who was to do the shopping?—growing daily more difficult—and even supposing they were fortunate enough to obtain someone to live in, there would be all the tedium of getting her used to the household’s ways.

  Miss Fielding had cut her short by angrily exclaiming that the thing was done now and it was no use crying over spilt milk, and Miss Burton, perceiving that common sense had begun to reassert its command over passion, had said no more. Indeed, there was no more to say. Nothing could be done.

  It was not wholly dismay at the prospect of domestic discomfort that kept Miss Fielding silent. She began to realize with what extraordinary violence she had acted. Reflecting upon her fury, she was amazed at herself. It was a direct invasion of my personality by the Evil Principle, she handsomely admitted to herself about ten o’clock that night, when the hour of Ovaltine drew nigh and she had to go out into the kitchen and make it for herself. Of course Vartouhi behaved badly—very strangely and impudently and I still cannot think what possessed her to put that gaudy rubbish on Kenneth’s bed, but I admit that I was hasty, reflected Miss Fielding. I should have remembered that she is a very young soul and made allowances. Still, no doubt I shall hear from her in a day or two, and even if I don’t, I can always get in touch with her through Tekla House. If she is really sorry and apologizes for that shocking display of temper I might even consider having her back again; she was certainly a splendid little worker.

  With which generous tribute, Miss Fielding carried the tray of Ovaltine into the drawing-room and thrust her real apprehension—the return of Kenneth and the breaking to him of the news—into the background of her mind.

  The house was duller without Vartouhi; even Betty admitted it. They missed her small strong voice singing the prettiest of her native songs, The Lilac-picker, over her bed-making and her cheerful rush when door bell or telephone sounded. They missed, a hundred times a day, her steady hard work in the house and her participation in all those small rituals that make up the pattern of a
well-run establishment. Miss Burton was frankly doleful and said that she did not know what Kenneth was going to say when he came home; and Dr. Stocke, returning on the following day to find no Vartouhi, said at length how valuable her work in the house had been and how much he missed one whom he regarded (in spite of a regrettable lack of interest in reconstruction) as the Archetype of Post-War European Youth. His surprise and disapproval put the final touch to Miss Fielding’s depression, and she was unusually subdued, and only comforted herself by saying that of course they would hear from Vartouhi soon.

  But the days passed, and there was silence.

  Fortunately Miss Fielding assumed that Vartouhi had taken the bedspread away with her, and Miss Burton was able to look forward to the moment when she should give it, as Vartouhi had told her to, to Kenneth. What would happen after that she did not clearly imagine. Sometimes she fancied that Kenneth would declare his love and rush off to London to look for Vartouhi, but of course, he was getting on, and had a dread of changing his habits, like all bachelors, and perhaps Vartouhi’s absence might wither the love that Miss Burton was sure had been budding in his heart. It was all too sad.

  A week after Vartouhi had gone, Miss Fielding received a letter from Kenneth, in which he informed her that he would be home on the following Friday, bringing his father by car “to make his permanent home with us, as he should have done years ago. He is still pretty weak and I don’t want any fuss. Isn’t it about time Stocke cleared out? Can’t you drop him a hint?”

  It was Wednesday when this letter arrived, bringing fresh agitation to Sunglades and causing Miss Fielding to cast herself, for the first time, upon Dr. Stocke for comfort. The iniquities of old Mr. Fielding were enlarged upon and the deplorable prospect of having him to live at Sunglades was drawn in the blackest shades, with frequent references to lack of harmony and the Evil Principle and the difficulty of resuming her Work after the war with a frivolous old man in the house to be looked after.

  But Dr. Stocke, to the surprise and pleasure of Betty and Miss Burton (who guessed at the course of the conversation without being actually informed of it), gave Miss Fielding a lecture in which he told her roundly that a woman’s first duty was to her family and home. He mollified her by agreeing that her father’s presence would be a severe trial, but said that she must support it, and added that he knew she could and would. After all, Dr. Stocke pointed out, the voice of scandal would be busier over occasional visits from her eccentric father than it would be over a chastened (Dr. Stocke was sure that he would be chastened) old man of nearly eighty living conventionally with his son and daughter. So great was Dr. Stocke’s influence over her and so admirable his power of managing females (one sort of female) that she emerged after an hour of it feeling brave and good and much tried, which is how we all like to feel; and ready to face the many trials of next Friday.

  Betty had grown so tired of it all by Thursday evening that she telephoned Richard at Cobbett Hall and inquired if he would take his Mum to the pictures, which he said that he would be very glad to do. She had not seen him since Vartouhi’s departure and was apprehensive about the effect it would have upon him. She felt almost sure that he would take it calmly ; but there was just a doubt in her mind; did he care so much for that horrid little girl that he would go chasing off to try to find her? Betty thought not: it was only in books that people did such senseless things. Nevertheless, she wanted to break the news to him herself.

  There was much to tell him while they were having a hasty drink and sandwich in the “George” in St. Alberics. She began with Mr. Fielding’s expected return with Kenneth on Friday.

  “Oh dear,” said Richard, raising his eyebrows.

  “Well, he’s been very ill, Rick. I expect he’s got over me by now. (What is that stuff you’ve got in your sandwich?)”

  “(Liver sausage.) Don’t you be too sure.”

  “(How disgusting it looks.) Oh Rick, he must have.”

  “(It tastes quite good.) We must hope for the best and expect the worst.”

  “You are comforting, aren’t you? Poor old boy. I’m glad Ken’s bringing him home. It’s quite clear what’s happened; Ken’s had one of those queer obstinate fits he gets sometimes when he does just what he wants to do and no one can stop him. And he always was fond of his father. But I’m afraid——” Betty opened one of her own sandwiches and peered interestedly into it as she spoke so that she need not look at her son’s face—“he’ll get a shock when he does come home; Connie’s sacked Vartouhi. (This seems to be corned beef; it’s all right.)”

  After a pause Richard said, “Do you mean she’s gone—left there?”

  “Oh yes. She left nearly a week ago and we haven’t heard a word from her since and I don’t believe we shall, though Connie does (or says she does). There was an awful row. (Are you going to have some more beer?)”

  “(Yes, if you will. I’ll get it.) Oh … was there?” A pause. “I don’t want to hear about it, if you don’t mind. I don’t expect it’s interesting, is it?”

  “Not very, darling. I just thought I’d tell you.”

  “Thank you, Betty. I’m nearly cured of that particular disease; but it’s just as well to have the germ out of the way.”

  “Rick!” said Betty illogically, “aren’t you rather hard? She’s only a child and she’s gone off in a towering temper and anything may have happened to her.”

  “You don’t expect me to like her, do you? The knight in La Belle Dame Sans Merci can’t have been exactly full of lovingkindness towards his lady. She’ll be all right. Barbarians and sorceresses always fall on their feet.”

  He got up and glanced towards the bar; their table was in a far corner. The black-out over the door had just been moved aside, revealing for an instant the deep blue of the spring twilight veiling the ancient houses of the High Street, and Alicia came in. She was alone and looked tired. “Now there,” said Richard, nodding towards her, “is someone who won’t always fall on her feet and whom I do like. She needs taking care of.” He picked up his own and his mother’s glasses and went over to the bar.

  The place was rather full and noisy and Alicia, pushing her way towards the bar, through the crowd of R.A.F. groundsmen and soldiers, had not noticed him. He came up behind her as she was ordering a double whisky and said, “Hullo, Alicia.”

  She turned quickly, and a smile of pleasure brightened her pale face. “Richard! I am glad to see you!” she said, forgetting to be guarded and casual, and showing the happiness that always came over her in his company. “I haven’t seen you for ages.”

  “I have been thinking about you a great deal for the last three weeks,” he said deliberately, smiling down at her. “I’m having a drink with my mother and we’re going to the pictures. Are you meeting anyone here?”

  “No. I only felt I couldn’t exist another minute without a drink on my way back from work so I hopped out of our factory bus and came in here.”

  “What’s yours, sir?” inquired the barmaid.

  “Same again, please,” said Richard, pushing the glasses towards her. “Come and sit with us, will you?”

  “Grand.” She picked up her whisky, and Richard having obtained his beers, they carried their drinks across to Betty, who had been repairing her make-up. She looked up at Alicia with a friendly smile. She now understood and liked Alicia; a girl who was cool, well-groomed, apparently selfish and hard, and actually sensitive and a good friend; a brave reserved girl, with no creed and no standards except the contemporary one of not moaning or being a bore; the product of an expensive girls’ school, from which every romantic trimming had apparently been pruned away. Yet her dark hair was rolled about her small head as gracefully as the locks of any girl for the last hundred years, and the long fingers clasped about the whisky glass were white and cool. Her full mouth was painted the colour of a dark red rose and her eyes, slightly bloodshot after the long exhausting hours in the factory, were blue as flax flowers. Alicia smiled and said she did hope she wasn’t
butting in, and sat down with her drink. People are always saying civilization is decadent, thought Betty, but I think there’s still a lot to be said for it. Good gracious, this beer is even weaker than the last. I shouldn’t have believed it possible.

  “Has anything more been done about that dreary Little Frimdl?” inquired Alicia.

  They explained to her what a lot had happened at Sunglades in the past month; she had heard of the arrival of Dr. Stocke through her father, who constantly met ‘Kenneth in their mutual Home Guard duties, but did not know that the doctor himself had discouraged the performance of his play. Nor had she heard of the departure of Vartouhi. She made no comment beyond observing that Miss Fielding would find it very difficult to get anyone else; but, tired as she was after nine hours’ hard physical work and already slightly under the influence of whisky, she did let one swift unguarded glance at Richard escape her, and Betty caught the blue gleam. Richard happened to be looking at her as his mother spoke, and Alicia’s glance encountered his grey eyes. He did not look in the least conscious, and Alicia instantly looked down at her drink again. But under her pale skin a blush slowly came, to the entertainment of the woman of 1914.

  Certainly, after the news about Vartouhi, Alicia’s spirits grew markedly more cheerful, and when Richard suggested that she should accompany them to the pictures, she first (more prettily than Betty would have believed possible) asked if she were truly not butting in, and, on being reassured, accepted with obvious pleasure. Betty was too tactful to plead a sudden headache and let them go alone; with such a moody creature as Alicia that might be fatal and startle her into her shell again. So they all went to the pictures and Richard calmly held Alicia’s hand, and once dropped one of his light kisses on her cheek, as if Betty had not been there. She heard them, as they said good night, making an arrangement to meet on the following day.