‘It seems to be a very dangerous animal,’ said one of the guests.
‘That’s what the mother of the gardener’s boy said,’ remarked Teresa; ‘she wanted me to have it destroyed, but I pointed out to her that she had eleven children and I had only one elk. I also gave her a black silk skirt; she said that though there hadn’t been a funeral in her family, she felt as if there had been. Anyhow, we parted friends. I can’t offer you a silk skirt, Emily, but you may have another cup of tea. As I have already remarked, there are muffins in the grate.’
Teresa closed the discussion, having deftly conveyed the impression that she considered the mother of the gardener’s boy had shown a far more reasonable spirit than the parents of other elk-assaulted victims.
‘Teresa is devoid of feeling,’ said Mrs Yonelet afterwards to the vicar’s wife; ‘to sit there, talking of muffins, with an appalling tragedy only narrowly averted–’
‘Of course you know whom she really intends Bertie to marry?’ asked the vicar’s wife; ‘I’ve noticed it for some time. The Bickelbys’ German governess.’
‘A German governess! What an idea!’ gasped Mrs Yonelet.
‘She’s of quite good family, I believe,’ said the vicar’s wife, ‘and not at all the mouse-in-the-background sort of person that governesses are usually supposed to be. In fact, next to Teresa, she’s about the most assertive and combative personality in the neighbourhood. She’s pointed out to my husband all sorts of errors in his sermons, and she gave Sir Laurence a public lecture on how he ought to handle the hounds. You know how sensitive Sir Laurence is about any criticism of his Mastership, and to have a governess laying down the law to him nearly drove him into a fit. She’s behaved like that to every one, except, of course, Teresa, and every one has been defensively rude to her in return. The Bickelbys are simply too afraid of her to get rid of her. Now isn’t that exactly the sort of woman whom Teresa would take a delight in installing as her successor? Imagine the discomfort and awkwardness in the county if we suddenly found that she was to be the future hostess at the Hall. Teresa’s only regret will be that she won’t be alive to see it.’
‘But,’ objected Mrs Yonelet, ‘surely Bertie hasn’t shown the least sign of being attracted in that quarter?’
‘Oh, she’s quite nice-looking in a way, and dresses well, and plays a good game of tennis. She often comes across the park with messages from the Bickelby mansion, and one of these days Bertie will rescue her from the elk, which has become almost a habit with him, and Teresa will say that Fate has consecrated them to one another. Bertie might not be disposed to pay much attention to the consecrations of Fate, but he would not dream of opposing his grandmother.’
The vicar’s wife spoke with the quiet authority of one who has intuitive knowledge, and in her heart of hearts Mrs Yonelet believed her.
Six months later the elk had to be destroyed. In a fit of exceptional moroseness it had killed the Bickelbys’ German governess. It was an irony of its fate that it should achieve popularity in the last moments of its career; at any rate, it established the record of being the only living thing that had permanently thwarted Teresa Thropplestance’s plans.
Dora Yonelet broke off her engagement with an Indian civilian, and married Bertie three months after his grandmother’s death◦– Teresa did not long survive the German governess fiasco. At Christmas time every year young Mrs Thropplestance hangs an extra large festoon of evergreens on the elk horns that decorate the hall.
‘It was a fearsome beast,’ she observes to Bertie, ‘but I always feel that it was instrumental in bringing us together.’
Which, of course, was true.
‘Down Pens’
‘Have you written to thank the Froplinsons for what they sent us?’ asked Egbert.
‘No,’ said Janetta, with a note of tired defiance in her voice; ‘I’ve written eleven letters today expressing surprise and gratitude for sundry unmerited gifts, but I haven’t written to the Froplinsons.’
‘Some one will have to write to them,’ said Egbert.
‘I don’t dispute the necessity, but I don’t think the some one should be me,’ said Janetta. ‘I wouldn’t mind writing a letter of angry recrimination or heartless satire to some suitable recipient; in fact, I should rather enjoy it, but I’ve come to the end of my capacity for expressing servile amiability. Eleven letters today and nine yesterday, all couched in the same strain of ecstatic thankfulness: really, you can’t expect me to sit down to another. There is such a thing as writing oneself out.’
‘I’ve written nearly as many,’ said Egbert, ‘and I’ve had my usual business correspondence to get through too. Besides, I don’t know what it was that the Froplinsons sent us.’
‘A William the Conqueror calendar,’ said Janetta, ‘with a quotation of one of his great thoughts for every day in the year.’
‘Impossible,’ said Egbert; ‘he didn’t have three hundred and sixty-five thoughts in the whole of his life, or, if he did, he kept them to himself. He was a man of action, not of introspection.’
‘Well, it was William Wordsworth, then,’ said Janetta; ‘I know William came into it somewhere.’
‘That sounds more probable,’ said Egbert; ‘well, let’s collaborate on this letter of thanks and get it done. I’ll dictate, and you can scribble it down. “Dear Mrs Froplinson◦– thank you and your husband so much for the very pretty calendar you sent us. It was very good of you to think of us.”’
‘You can’t possibly say that,’ said Janetta, laying down her pen.
‘It’s what I always do say, and what every one says to me,’ protested Egbert.
‘We sent them something on the twenty-second,’ said Janetta, ‘so they simply had to think of us. There was no getting away from it.’
‘What did we send them?’ asked Egbert gloomily.
‘Bridge-markers,’ said Janetta, ‘in a cardboard case, with some inanity about “digging for fortune with a royal spade” emblazoned on the cover. The moment I saw it in the shop I said to myself “Froplinsons” and to the attendant “How much?” When he said “Ninepence”, I gave him their address, jabbed our card in, paid tenpence or elevenpence to cover the postage, and thanked heaven. With less sincerity and infinitely more trouble they eventually thanked me.’
‘The Froplinsons don’t play bridge,’ said Egbert.
‘One is not supposed to notice social deformities of that sort,’ said Janetta; ‘it wouldn’t be polite. Besides, what trouble did they take to find out whether we read Wordsworth with gladness? For all they knew or cared we might be frantically embedded in the belief that all poetry begins and ends with John Masefield, and it might infuriate or depress us to have a daily sample of Wordsworthian products flung at us.’
‘Well, let’s get on with the letter of thanks,’ said Egbert.
‘Proceed,’ said Janetta.
‘“How clever of you to guess that Wordsworth is our favourite poet,”’ dictated Egbert.
Again Janetta laid down her pen.
‘Do you realise what that means?’ she asked; ‘a Wordsworth booklet next Christmas, and another calendar the Christmas after, with the same problem of having to write suitable letters of thankfulness. No, the best thing to do is to drop all further allusion to the calendar and switch off on to some other topic.’
‘But what other topic?’
‘Oh, something like this: “What do you think of the New Year Honours List? A friend of ours made such a clever remark when he read it.” Then you can stick in any remark that comes into your head; it needn’t be clever. The Froplinsons won’t know whether it is or isn’t.’