The Bachelor

  “Constance?” said her sister’s urgent voice, “this is Joan. My dear, have you heard from Kenneth? Did he——”

  “Yes, he telephoned about twenty minutes ago to say he would be back to lunch, bringing that wretched little creature with him. Why, is anything the matter?”

  “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “No, he didn’t tell me anything. Wh——”

  “He says he’s—they’re engaged.”

  “What?”

  “Engaged—engaged to be married.”

  “Nonsense!” exploded Miss Fielding.

  “That’s what I said at first, but I’m afraid it’s true. He——”

  “Engaged! To that little—why, she’s no better than a servant! I can’t——”

  “That’s exactly what I told him. And a foreigner too. I said——”

  “Are you sure he wasn’t—was he quite sober?”

  “Perfectly sober. As you know, he spent the night here, and I thought something was up because I heard him laughing quite loudly with Henry after I’d gone to bed and you know Henry hardly ever laughs. That’s queer, I thought, and then Ken’s manner was so extraordinary. He was so cheerful and excited. Whistling all over the flat. And then at breakfast he told me.”

  “I can’t believe it! It must be a mistake! Or perhaps it’s his idea of a joke. I never heard——”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t a joke, Connie. He seems very determined. He was quite rude about it. And Henry actually backed him up. Of course at first I just laughed and said ‘Rubbish!’ but he took not the slightest notice. I pointed out all the difficulties——”

  “But she’s a Mohammedan!” Miss Fielding’s voice rose to a wail.

  “Not quite. Don’t they have a sort of modified Greek Orthodoxy? But that’s bad enough and I don’t know what everybody will say. Henry’s mother was on the telephone to me this morning.”

  “How did she come to know about it? Whatever——”

  “Henry told her, if you please. She was very much upset. And then there’s Great-aunt Dolly——”

  “I shouldn’t think we’d better tell her for a day or two until we see what’s going to happen. It might kill her.”

  “That’s what I thought. After all, they aren’t married yet, and perhaps the whole thing will blow over.”

  “Oh, I do hope so! I can’t believe it. Are you sure——”

  “Of course I’m sure, Constance.” Mrs. Miles’s voice was very tart. “I’m in possession of my senses, I suppose. If you had seen Kenneth’s face and heard him talk about it you’d be quite sure too. I never saw anyone look so besotted; it was quite repulsive in a man of his age.”

  “I don’t know how I shall bring myself to speak to her,” said Miss Fielding awfully. “Of course, she set herself to catch Kenneth from the first. There’s no doubt of that now.”

  “None at all——”

  Pip—pip—pip—

  “Thr-r-r-ee minutes, please.”

  “Oh—we will have another call, please, don’t cut us off,” said Mrs. Miles hastily.

  After a pause.

  “—from the very first minute she saw him,” Miss Fielding was saying, “and of course when she made that quilt for him she showed her hand just a little too plainly. How men can be such fools——”

  “Exactly what I said to Henry. Constance, do you think Father could talk to Kenneth and make him see sense?”

  “I don’t suppose so for a moment. Father’s very much aged, you know, in these last few months and Doctor Anderson says he mustn’t be agitated. Besides, if I did wait until one of his good days and then told him I’m afraid it’s just the sort of mad thing he would enjoy. He has a most peculiar and unfortunate sense of humour as you know.”

  “Yes. Yes, I don’t suppose he’d be much good. I really don’t know who to suggest. He wouldn’t listen to Frankie, I suppose?”

  “Oh I’m sure he wouldn’t. Besides, Frankie is fond of Vartouhi; she always has been.”

  “Well, then, I’m sure I don’t know who to suggest. There doesn’t seem anything to be done, does there?”

  “I will talk to him,” said Miss Fielding, more confidently than she felt. “I dare say I can knock some sense into him.”

  “Well, I’m sure I wish you joy of the task, my dear,” said Mrs. Miles. “I talked to him for an hour this morning (I was so late at the Ministry that I’m all in arrears with my day’s schedule) and it had no more effect than if he’d been stone-deaf and blind into the bargain. He’s completely infatuated.”

  “Dreadful,” said Miss Fielding deeply, shaking her head down the telephone.

  “I say, Constance, I suppose you don’t think—how about appealing to her?”

  Miss Fielding’s reply to this suggestion took the form of a snort; she did not think it worth while to answer in words. But Mrs. Miles persisted.

  “You don’t think if we told her that she’d be dragging him down and upsetting all his friends and relations—that sort of thing—eh?”

  “No I don’t, Joan. You don’t know her, you see. I do. She doesn’t behave or reason like an ordinary person at all. She——”

  “Dear me, I hope she isn’t wrong in the head, on the top of everything else?”

  “Oh no, far from it. She’s very cunning. But you can never get at her! I have never been able to, anyway. And——”

  Pip—pip—pip.

  “Thrrrree minutes, please.”

  This time the sisters did ring off, having made hasty arrangements for Miss Fielding to telephone later on in the day after she had seen Kenneth.

  Having replaced the receiver, Miss Fielding strode out into the hall and shouted up the stairs:

  “Frankie, Frankie, can you come down? Oh no—perhaps I’d better come up——” for she suddenly recollected that her father, though dozing beside the drawing-room fire, would be sure to overhear an excited colloquy in the hall.

  She hurried up to Miss Burton’s apartments and found her cousin doing some mending before the fire. She looked up and said, “Surely it isn’t half-past eleven yet? I was just coming down to help you with lunch.”

  “Frankie, what do you think—isn’t it dreadful—Joan has just telephoned to say that Kenneth is engaged to Vartouhi!”

  “How splendid! Oh, I am so glad!” exclaimed Miss Burton.

  “Glad! How can you, Frances? A paid companion—a sort of servant—and a foreigner——”

  “You oughtn’t to mind that, anyway, Constance,” drawled The Usurper. “But tell me all about it. What happened? What did Joan say?”

  “She said he told her they were engaged. He seemed quite besotted and behaved very queerly, laughing with Henry and so on. He telephoned here only a few minutes before to say he’ll be home to lunch but he never said a word to me about being engaged.”

  “Is he bringing Vartouhi with him?”

  “Yes, he said so. Oh dear——”

  “Oh, how delightful!” cried Miss Burton. “Now, Connie, you will open one of those six bottles of champagne, won’t you?”

  “Indeed, I shall do nothing of the kind, Frances. You don’t seem to understand. It’s been a terrible shock to me and I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels. I simply can’t believe it. Of course, Kenneth has always been a fool over a pretty face——”

  “There you go again, Connie!” exclaimed Miss Burton, dashing down the mending and sitting very upright and staring indignantly at her cousin, “it’s that sort of remark that’s driven Kenneth into getting engaged to Vartouhi. Not that he doesn’t love her, dear little thing, I expect he’s devoted to her and who wouldn’t be—but you don’t seem to understand that it’s natural for men to like pretty faces and they don’t like being called fools when they do. For years you’ve been dinning it into him that he’s a fool about women and now I expect he thought: ‘Oh well, what does it matter if I am? Better a fool and happy than a miserable half-starved old bachelor!’”

  “Kenneth is not half-starved, F
rances. I don’t know what——”

  “Starved for love, starved for love, I mean,” said Miss Burton crossly. “It isn’t a happy state to be in, Connie, you know, although unfortunately it’s a chronic one for many people. Why, even you’ve been much nicer since you’ve had Doctor Stocke.”

  “Frances!”

  “Well, since you’ve been writing to him or whatever it is you do—I don’t know.” Miss Burton was now thoroughly worked up and determined to have her say. “Yes, much nicer. And why? Because you’re happier.”

  “I think that’s a very extraordinary remark to make, Frances. And how you can compare a purely intellectual and spiritual friendship, such as I have for Gustav, with a mere vulgar flirtation——”

  “Intellectual and spiritual fiddlesticks. You’re in love with him,” said Miss Burton, snatching up the mending again and furiously examining it for holes.

  “You have a low mind, Frances,” said Miss Fielding, after a pause in which she had gone crimson. “I am very sorry to say so, but you have.”

  “Oh rot,” answered Miss Burton, getting up and flinging the mending aside. “Of course you’re in love with him and so is he with you—in a peculiar sort of way, but it’s love all right.”

  “Well, really.” Words failed Miss Fielding and she took refuge in lofty amusement.

  “Yes, really,” mimicked Miss Burton, sweeping past her and out of the door. “Why don’t you come off your high horse and admit it and be nice to Ken and Vartouhi when they come? I think it’s all perfectly delightful and I only hope they’ll get married almost at once. What are we going to have for lunch?”

  “Tinned herrings.” Miss Fielding followed her out of the room and down the stairs, “I suppose you realize that this may mean you can’t live here any longer?”

  “Oh, I quite expected that,” said Miss Burton airily, although she had not realized it and her heart sank. “They won’t want an old thing like me around, especially when the children begin to come.”

  “Children!” Miss Fielding gave a sort of shriek. “Oh dear, oh dear, I hadn’t thought of that! I hope there won’t be any.”

  “That’s simply wicked, Constance,” said Miss Burton flatly. “I don’t like children myself, to be candid, but a marriage is all the better for having them. That’s what marriages are for, you know.”

  “Dreadful little Bairamian nephews and nieces with yellow faces! Mohammedans! I believe this will kill Great-aunt Dolly.”

  “Then don’t tell her,” said Miss Burton. “Shall we have the potatoes in their jackets? It saves work.”

  “If you like. Mashed go better with tinned herrings. I think I had better tell her. It would look so odd if she found out.”

  “Why should she? She’s eighty-seven and bedridden.”

  “Joan writes to her every month, regularly.”

  “All the same I don’t see why she should know. And if she does find out, what business is it of hers? She’s had her life; eighty-seven years of it and eight children. She ought not to grudge other people their share.”

  By now they had arrived at the kitchen. It was full of sunlight and a yellow hyacinth was flowering in a pot on the windowsill. Miss Burton flung open the window and let in the soft spring air.

  “Delicious,” she said, leaning out.

  “I don’t know where I shall go, or what will become of me,” said Miss Fielding sombrely, beginning to assemble the luncheon.

  “No. She won’t want you here, either.”

  “Our Mother’s home!” said Miss Fielding tragically. “Is this lettuce too far gone, do you think?”

  “Perhaps she won’t want to live here herself. They won’t notice what they’re eating. I’ll mix some batter for pancakes, shall I?”

  “Do, if you will. I suppose she won’t do any work when she comes back, either.”

  “Oh I don’t know. You never can tell what Vartouhi’s going to do.”

  “She’ll loll about all day like a duchess and we shall be worse off than ever.”

  “Are you going to tell Uncle Eustace?” asked Miss Burton, dropping milk into her batter.

  “Oh dear, I’d quite forgotten Father! No, I can’t; I really can’t. I shall leave it to Kenneth. Doctor Anderson said Father mustn’t be agitated, and I don’t think I could trust myself not to break down.” Miss Fielding endeavoured to look as if she were on the verge of breaking down but only succeeded in looking very cross. “And there’s Betty too; but I suppose she will be furious.”

  “Why should she?”

  “Oh, well, it’s been quite plain lately, hasn’t it, that she’d have Kenneth like a shot herself if he’d ask her?”

  “Yes, you were afraid she would get him at one time, weren’t you? What a pity she didn’t—she wouldn’t have given you yellow nephews and nieces.”

  “Well, Betty would certainly have been better than Vartouhi—anything—anyone would have been better than that!”

  And Miss Fielding went on with her preparations, reflecting bitterly that all her efforts to steer Kenneth clear of entanglements with Betty, with the Palgrave girl, and Alicia, and Una Maltravers, had only ended in this, the worst, the most hopelessly unexpected and undesirable entanglement of them all.

  Miss Burton took it upon herself to break the news to old Mr. Fielding. He was sitting by the fire with the newspaper and his correspondence, which was so extensive and cosmopolitan that his daughter sarcastically said he ought to have a secretary. He looked very small and old and frail but cheerful, and received Miss Burton with a smile.

  “Guess what, Uncle Eustace?”

  “I have no idea, Frances. You are always asking me to guess what and it’s usually something pleasant. What is it this time?”

  “Kenneth telephoned this morning. He will be here to luncheon and who do you think he is bringing with him?”

  Mr. Fielding smilingly shook his head. Loud voices and long conversations and bright lights tired him so much nowadays that he often wished people would go away.

  “Vartouhi. And—this will be a big surprise to you—they’re engaged to be married!”

  “No, good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Fielding, dropping his glasses, and sitting upright. “Really? Are you sure? How astounding!”

  “Yes, isn’t it? But splendid news. Kenneth ought to have been married years ago and she will make him a fine little wife.”

  “I can’t recall her face at all,” said Mr. Fielding confusedly.

  “Well, they’ll soon be here and you’ll see her again. And I must go and get on with toast for their lunch. Of course——” but she checked herself and only smiled at him as she went out of the room, saying, “I thought you would like to hear the news.”

  “Thank you, my dear, very good of you. I say—Frances—what’s Connie got to say to it, eh?”

  “Not very pleased,” said Miss Burton, smiling and shaking her head, and shut the door. She had been going to say that of course this would mean changes at Sunglades and probably old Mr. Fielding and herself would have to seek new quarters, but thought it wiser not to worry him yet.

  The morning drew on. About half-past twelve Miss Fielding went upstairs and arrayed herself in a dark dress with gloomy brown embroidery and came down with slightly reddened eyelids. I don’t care; she should have thought of that before, all those years when she was snubbing Ken and telling him no one would ever fall in love with him, thought Miss Burton. It’s nothing but wounded vanity and paddy-whack because her nose has been put out of joint; and she went out into the garden with a walking-stick and pulled down and broke off a branch of double cherry blossom and put it, bridal and opulent, on the luncheon table.

  “Was that necessary, Frances?” inquired Miss Fielding, pointing.

  “I thought so, Connie. Since you won’t open anything to drink and you don’t seem very pleased——”

  “Pleased! Good heavens!”

  “—we must do something to welcome them.”

  “Frances! Connie! Here they are!” cried
Mr. Fielding from the hall where he had been pottering about for the last ten minutes, and Miss Burton hurried out to the front door.

  Miss Fielding followed more slowly. “Father, please, remember Doctor Anderson said you weren’t to excite yourself. We don’t want you ill again, on the top of everything else,” she said irritably.

  Kenneth came out first. He was smiling, but immediately glanced beyond his father and Miss Burton to where his sister stood silently in the hall. Miss Fielding’s expression was stony, and his smile became uneasy.

  The interior of the taxi was dark. There was no sign at first of Vartouhi. Then suddenly a little hand appeared, grasping the window frame, and giving the group on the steps an excellent view of the large single ruby flashing on its fourth finger, and a moment later the door was opened and she appeared, smiling yet dignified, and dressed exactly as she had been when she left Sunglades a month ago.

  “Why, she’s charming,” muttered Mr. Fielding, “of course I remember her now.”

  “My dear!” cried Miss Burton, running down the steps, “I am so glad to see you!”

  But Vartouhi did not take her outstretched hand. She made a low curtsy and said:

  “Honoured cousin, I am glad to see you.”

  “Oh—of course! I forgot,” said Miss Burton, smiling and colouring faintly and glancing at Kenneth. “We’re going to be cousins. How queer it seems but very delightful. Well, can I kiss my future cousin?”

  “Is too much kissing in England,” said Vartouhi decidedly, “all the time it is nothing but kissing. In Bairamia we put your hand on my heart. Is better,” and she did so, then lifted it to her forehead, bowing twice. “Am pleased to be back at Sunglades, honoured cousin,” said Vartouhi in conclusion.

  This ceremony had to be repeated more elaborately with old Mr. Fielding while Kenneth paid the taxi-driver. Vartouhi knelt on the doorstep to receive his blessing, to his extreme embarrassment, as he had never blessed anyone in his life before and could not think of anything to say except, “Er—bless you, my dear. I hope you will be very happy and I’m—er—sure you will.”