I met Mrs. Bradley later—on the following Monday—and commiserated with her on the failure of the cure. She cackled, as usual, and informed me that there was no doubt Candy would be released. He would probably have to undergo a medical examination, she told me.
“And now,” she continued, blandly, “I am ready to lecture for you, Noel, my dear.”
I looked rather surprised, I expect. I remembered having once given her the gist of one of my lectures—the one on Sir Robert Walpole, if I remember rightly—but, try as I would, I could not recollect having asked her to lecture to us. Still, I supposed that, in a moment of mental aberration, I must have done so; therefore I coughed to break the rather dead silence which had followed her announcement, and expressed my pleasure, thanks and gratification as heartily as I could.
“When?” I said, trembling inwardly, of course.
“When do you hold your meetings?” she demanded. It was Monday, as I say, when she asked. Oh, yes, of course it was Monday. Bob Candy was returned to Saltmarsh, the hero of the hour, on the following Friday, and was sent off to Kent, with the barmaid Mabel and Mabel’s brother Sidney, to recuperate at Mrs. Bradley’s expense. The idea was for a friend of Mrs. Bradley—a Kentish landowner—to find him a job later on. This was done, by the way, and Bob’s story ended happily, so far as I know.
“The lectures are on Wednesdays,” I replied. She beamed.
“Wednesday week, then, dear child.”
“And the—er—the subject?” I stuttered, hoping, of course, for the best.
“Ah, the subject,” said Mrs. Bradley, looking a bit dashed. “Of course. Yes. The subject.” She brightened. “How do you think they would like to hear me on ‘Ego and Libido’?”
I choked a bit, swallowing it, and passed a humid forefinger round the inside of the dog-collar.
“Ah, well, perhaps not. It’s really rather elementary,” she said. “What about ‘Pride and Prejudice in their Relationship to Racial Health’?”
“Well, er—” I said desperately.
“Well, look here,” said Mrs. Bradley. “We’ll leave it until to-morrow. I’ll get up something, never fear.”
“They aren’t awfully easily interested, you know,” I said, feebly. “I mean, we generally have lantern slides, and even then they hoot and raise catcalls sometimes, and I have known them to chuck things at the screen.”
“Ah, I couldn’t have that,” said Mrs. Bradley. She paused. “Does the vicar turn up?” she asked. (Well, he doesn’t, of course.)
“He will for your lecture, I have no doubt,” I said, hoping, again, for the best.
“And Mrs. Coutts?” said Mrs. Bradley.
“I’ll rake her in,” I said, hurriedly.
“And I myself will get Edwy David Burt to come along, and I think we ought to have Sir William and Mr. Bransome Burns—”
“He’s staying rather a long time at the Manor House, isn’t he?” I asked; rather rudely, of course, for it was none of my business how long Sir William kept his guests. Mrs. Bradley laughed like a hyena.
“So am I staying rather a long time, dear child,” she pointed out. She poked me in the ribs.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, sheering off a pace or two. I blushed. Rather a brick, of course. But, really, I had become so much accustomed to her presence in and about the village that I had forgotten that she was, in that sense, Sir William’s guest.
“Never mind, dear child,” she said gaily. “We meet at Philippi.”
I broke the news of the lecture to the members of the vicarage household at tea that evening. Their reactions were characteristic, of course. Old Coutts grinned ruefully.
“I suppose I must turn up and help keep order,” he said.
“We’d better start with a tea, or else we shan’t get anybody, and that would be frightfully awkward for the poor old dear,” said Daphne, who, of course, is full of the milk of human kindness and drips it about rather after the manner of a punctured cocoanut—that is to say, where it is neither expected nor desired.
“Don’t you worry,” said William sturdily. “They’ll come, if it’s only to throw eggs. She’s been talking to some of ’em about the way they bring up their bally offspring.”
“William!” said Mrs. Coutts, sharply.
“Well, anyway, she has!” said William defiantly. “What’s she going to talk about, Noel?”
“Well, that’s just the point,” I said, weakly. Mrs. Coutts sat up very straight and parked the tea-pot, with which she had been about to fill my cup, on its parent china stand.
“You understand,” she said, with frightful venom, “I hold you responsible.”
I didn’t get this at first.
“Eh?” I said, with my winning smile.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Coutts, “if That Woman speaks upon an Indelicate Topic, I shall hold you personally responsible. So mind!” She picked up the tea-pot and cascaded the brew into my cup.
“Hello,” said William, opening his eyes wide, “has she been talking to you, too, Aunt, about bringing up kids?”
“Go out of the room, William!” thundered old Coutts. William, hastily snatching a chunk of bread and butter, went.
“Really,” I said, “I think—don’t you think—I mean, you’re a bit premature, Mrs. Coutts. After all, why should she talk about anything peculiar? Besides, I am sure that Mrs. Bradley would never dream of lecturing upon any topic which is—well, not lecturable upon.”
I tried the winning smile again, but it came unstuck half-way. I don’t know why. I mean, I’m not afraid of Mrs. Coutts. Daphne came to my rescue.
“You can always rise and protest, Aunt,” she said austerely, “if you don’t approve of the lecture.”
“Quite, quite,” said old Coutts, rising from the table. Mrs. Coutts stacked up the tray in frightful silence, and waited rather pointedly for my cup. I got up and rang the bell. When tea was cleared, Mrs. Coutts hopped it to the Girls’ Guildry and Daphne and I collared cake out of the sideboard and went in search of William.
At intervals during the next day I tried in vain to get from Mrs. Bradley the subject of her lecture. She would tell me nothing definite. All she would do was to hint that the lecture would certainly draw crowds if I would fix up, in place of the usual notice, a card indicating that a Mystery Lecture would be given by Mrs. Beatrice Lestrange Bradley, in the Village Hall at 9.0 p.m. on the Wednesday week.
“But we always start at seven-thirty. You see, we wash out the Women’s Prayer Meeting and Devotional on lecture nights,” I said. She waved all that aside.
“We have dinner just before that,” she said. “Surely, dear child, you are not suggesting that I miss my dinner?”
“No, of course not,” I said, “but isn’t nine o’clock rather the other extreme?”
“No,” said Mrs. Bradley. “It must be quite dark while my lecture is going on. The hall must be dark, and it must be pitch dark outside.”
“But we can draw the blinds and things,” I pointed out. “We always do darken the hall for lantern lectures. By the way, do you want somebody to manage the slides for you?”
She shook her head.
“There is only one slide,” she said. “It can be fixed at the commencement of the lecture and left until the end.”