Cakes and Ale

asked me to stay to tea.”

I felt rather than saw the quizzical look that Driffield gave him. He said something about the mammon of unrighteousness, which I recognized as a quotation, but did not gather the sense of. Mr. Galloway laughed.

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “What about the publicans and sinners?”

I thought the remark in very bad taste, but I was immediately seized upon by Lord George. There was no constraint about him.

“Well, young fellow, home for the holidays? My word, what a big chap you’re growing.”

I shook hands with him rather coldly. I wished I had not come.

“Let me give you a nice strong cup of tea,” said Mrs. Driffield.

“I’ve already had tea.”

“Have some more,” said Lord George, speaking as though he owned the place (that was just like him). “A big fellow like you can always tuck away another piece of bread and butter and jam and Mrs. D. will cut you a slice with her own fair hands.”

The tea things were still on the table and they were sitting round it. A chair was brought up for me and Mrs. Driffield gave me a piece of cake.

“We were just trying to persuade Ted to sing us a song,” said Lord George. “Come on, Ted.”

“Sing, ‘All Through Stickin’ to a Soljer,’ Ted,” said Mrs. Driffield. “I love that.”

“No, sing ‘First We Mopped the Floor with Him.’ ”

“I’ll sing ’em both if you’re not careful,” said Driffield.

He took his banjo, which was lying on the top of the cottage piano, tuned it, and began to sing. He had a rich baritone voice. I was quite used to people singing songs. When there was a tea party at the vicarage, or I went to one at the major’s or the doctor’s, people always brought their music with them. They left it in the hall, so that it should not seem that they wanted to be asked to play or sing; but after tea the hostess asked them if they had brought it. They shyly admitted that they had, and if it was at the vicarage I was sent to fetch it. Sometimes a young lady would say that she had quite given up playing and hadn’t brought anything with her, and then her mother would break in and say that she had brought it. But when they sang it was not comic songs; it was “I’ll Sing Thee Songs of Araby,” or “Good-Night, Beloved,” or “Queen of My Heart.” Once at the annual concert at the Assembly Rooms, Smithson, the draper, had sung a comic song, and though the people at the back of the hall had applauded a great deal, the gentry had seen nothing funny in it. Perhaps there wasn’t. Anyhow, before the next concert he was asked to be a little more careful about what he sang (“Remember there are ladies present, Mr. Smithson”) and so gave “The Death of Nelson.” The next ditty that Driffield sang had a chorus and the curate and Lord George joined in lustily. I heard it a good many times afterward, but I can only remember four lines:

First we mopped the floor with him;

Dragged him up and down the stairs;

Then we lugged him round the room,

Under tables, over chairs.

When it was finished, assuming my best company manners, I turned to Mrs. Driffield.

“Don’t you sing?” I asked.

“I do, but it always turns the milk, so Ted doesn’t encourage me.”

Driffield put down his banjo and lit a pipe.

“Well, how’s the old book getting along, Ted?” said Lord George heartily.

“Oh, all right. I’m working away, you know.”

“Good old Ted and his books,” Lord George laughed. “Why don’t you settle down and do something respectable for a change? I’ll give you a job in my office.”

“Oh, I’m all right.”

“You let him be, George,” said Mrs. Driffield. “He likes writing, and what I say is, as long as it keeps him happy why shouldn’t he?”

“Well, I don’t pretend to know anything about books,” began George Kemp.

“Then don’t talk about them,” interrupted Driffield with a smile.

“I don’t think anyone need be ashamed to have written Fairhaven,” said Mr. Galloway, “and I don’t care what the critics said.”

“Well, Ted, I’ve known you since I was a boy and I couldn’t read it, try as I would.”

“Oh, come on, we don’t want to start talking about books,” said Mrs. Driffield. “Sing us another song, Ted.”

“I must be going,” said the curate. He turned to me. “We might walk along together. Have you got anything for me to read, Driffield?”

Driffield pointed to a pile of new books that were heaped up on a table in the corner.

“Take your pick.”

“By Jove, what a lot!” I said, looking at them greedily.

“Oh, it’s all rubbish. They’re sent down for review.”

“What d’you do with them?”

“Take ’em into Tercanbury and sell ’em for what they’ll fetch. It all helps to pay the butcher.”