He began to think about one or two matters that to him were not altogether pleasing. Chief among these was the fact that Sir Morton Pippitt had driven over twice now 'to inspect the church'— accompanied by Lord Roxmouth, and the Reverend 'Putty' Leveson. Once Lord Roxmouth had left his card at the rectory, and had written on it: 'Wishing to have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Walden'—a pleasure which had not, so far, been gratified. Walden understood that Lord Roxmouth was, or intended to be, the future husband of Miss Vancourt. He had learned something of it from Bishop Brent's letter- -but now that his lordship was staying as a guest at Badsworth Hall, rumour had spread the statement so very generally that it was an almost accepted fact. Three days had been sufficient to set the village and county talking;—Roxmouth and his tools never did their mischievous work by halves. John Walden accepted the report as others accepted it—only reserving to himself an occasion to ask Miss Vancourt if it were indeed true. Meantime, he kept himself apart from the visitors—he had no wish to meet Lord Roxmouth— though he knew that a meeting was inevitable at the forthcoming dinner-party at Abbot's Manor. Bainton had that dinner-party on his mind as well as his master. He had heard enough of it on all sides. Mrs. Spruce had gabbled of it, saying that 'what with jellies an' ices an' all the things as has to be thought of an' got in ready,' she was 'fair mazed an' moithered.' And she held forth on the subject to one of her favourite cronies, Mrs. Keeley, whose son Bob was still in a state of silent and resentful aggressiveness against the 'quality' for the death of his pet dog.
"It's somethin' too terrible, I do assure you!" she said—"the way these ladies and gentlemen from Lunnon eats fit to bust themselves! When they fust came down, I sez to cook, I sez—'Lord bless 'em, they must 'ave all starved in their own 'omes'—an' she laughed—she 'avin 'sperience, an' cooked for 'ouse-parties ever since she learned makin' may'nases [mayonnaise] which she sez was when she was twenty, an' she's a round sixty now, an' she sez, 'Lor, no! It do frighten one at first wot they can put into their stummicks, Missis Spruce, but don't you worry—you just get the things, and they'll know how to swaller 'em.' Well now, Missis Keeley, if you'll b'lieve me"—and here Mrs. Spruce drew a long breath and began to count on her fingers—"This is 'ow we do every night for the visitors, makin' ready for hextras, in case any gentleman comes along in a motor which isn't expected—fust we 'as horduffs—-"
"Save us!" exclaimed Mrs. Keeley—"What's they?"
"Well I calls 'em kickshaws, but the right name is horduffs, Primmins sez, bein' a butler he should know the French, an' 'tis a French word, an' it's nothin' but little dishes 'anded round, olives an' anchovies, an' sardines an' messes of every kind, enough to make ye sick to look at 'em—they swallers 'em, an' then we sends in soup—two kinds, white an' clear. They swallers THAT, an' the fish goes in—two kinds—the old Squire never had but one—THAT goes down, an' then comes the hentreys. Them's sometimes two—sometimes four—it just depends on the number we 'as at table. They'se all got French names—there's nothing plain English about them. But they'se only bits o' meat an' fowl, done up in different ways with sauces an' vegetables, an' the quality eats 'em up as though they was two bites of an apple. Then we sends in the roast and b'iled—and they takes good cuts off both—then there's game,—now that's nearly allus all eat up, for I like to pick a bone now and then myself if it comes down on a dish an' no one else wants it—but there's never a morsel left for me, I do assure you! Then comes puddings an' sweets—then cheese savouries—then ices—an' then coffee—an' all the time the wine's a-goin', Primmins sez, every sort, claret, 'ock, chably, champagne,—an' the Lord alone He knows wot their poor insides feels like when 'tis all a-mixin' up together an' workin' round arterwards. But, as I sez, 'tain't no business o' mine if the fash'nables 'as trained their stummicks to be like the ostriches which eats, as I'm told, 'ard iron nails with a relish, I onny know I should 'a' bin dead an' done with long ago if I put a quarter of the stuff into me which they puts into theirselves, while some of the gentlemen drinks enough whiskey an' soda to drown 'em if 'twas all put in a tub at once—-"
"But Miss Vancourt," interrupted Mrs. Keeley, who had been listening to her friend's flow of language in silent wonder,—"She don't eat an' drink like that, do she?"
"Miss Maryllia, bless 'er 'art, sits at her table like a little queen,"—said Mrs. Spruce, with emotion—"Primmins sez she don't eat scarce nothin', and don't say much neither. She just smiles pretty, an' puts in a word or two, an' then seems lookin' away as if she saw somethink beautiful which nobody else can see. An' that Miss Cicely Bourne, she's just a pickle!—'ow she do play the comic, to be sure!—she ran into the still-room the other day an' danced round like a mad thing, an' took off all the ladies with their airs an' graces till I nearly died o' larfin'! She's a good little thing, though, takin' 'er all round, though a bit odd in 'er way, but that comes of bein' in France an' learnin' music, I expect. But I really must be goin'—there's heaps an' heaps to do, but by an' by we'll have peace an' quiet again—they're all a-goin' next week."
"Well, I shan't be sorry!"—and Mrs. Keeley gave a short sigh of satisfaction—"I'm fair sick o' seein' them motor-cars whizzin' through the village makin' such a dust an' smell as never was,—an' I'm sure there's no love lost 'tweens Missis Frost an' me, but it do make me worrited like when that there little Ipsie goes runnin' out, not knowin' whether she mayn't be run over like my Bob's pet dog. For the quality don't seem to care for no one 'cept theirselves—an' it ain't peaceful like nor safe as 'twas 'fore they came. An' I s'pose we'll be seein' Miss Maryllia married next?"
Mrs. Spruce pursed up her mouth tightly and looked unutterable things.
"'Tain't no good countin' chickens 'fore they're hatched, Missis Keeley!" she said—"An' the Lord sometimes fixes up marriages in quite a different way to what we expects. There ain't goin' to be no weddin's nor buryin's yet in the Manor, please the A'mighty goodness, for one's as mis'able as t'other, an' both means change, which sometimes is good for the 'elth but most often contrariwise, though whatever 'appens either way we must bend our 'eads under the rod to both. But I mustn't stay chitterin' 'ere any longer—good day t'ye!"
And nodding darkly as one who could say much an' she would, the worthy woman ambled away.