The incidence of Tony’s anger has turned mine to mirth. “Is this a dishonourable proposal?” I enquire chortling.
“It is not,” says Tony. “If a dishonourable proposal—as you call it—would have interested you at all I should have made one years ago. My intention is to take you straight to Charters Towers. My mother will look after you.”
This fairly takes my breath away for Lady Morley is a terror and I would sooner starve in a garret than bear her company—but of course I can’t explain this to Lady Morley’s son, and Lady Morley’s son is obviously enchanted with his plan; he enlarges upon the delights awaiting me at his ancestral home and adds that he has Tim’s whole-hearted approval. They talked it over, says Tony, and agreed that nothing could be better. It will be so nice for Lady Morley to have me and so nice for me to lead a quiet peaceful existence in pleasant surroundings. I shall have nothing to do, of course, says Tony (who evidently thinks this is a draw), and I shall have butter from the home farm and a glass of milk every day.
When he has quite finished and I have regained my breath I smile sweetly and say an elopement would be much more fun.
“You little devil!” exclaims Tony. “It would serve you damn well right if I took you at your word.”
The afternoon is fine and warm, for Britain is enjoying the delights of an anti-cyclone. Tony and I wander out into the garden after lunch and feed the pigeons with some crumbs collected from the dining room. I do this quite often and the pigeons have begun to know me quite well; they fly down from the trees with a whirr of their lovely wings which shine with rainbow colours in the sunshine. When we have used up all the crumbs we find a sequestered seat and settle down for a good talk about old times and about the adventures we have had since last we met, and we talk about Tim and his activities in Egypt. Tony enquires about the house at Cobstead which belongs to Tim’s Aunt Posy, and which is to be ours when Tim can get his release from the Army. It has waited for us for six years and it may have to wait another six years before Tim is allowed to send in his papers. Tony says six years is pessimistic—it may be three—and on that we are silent.
“Tim told me to ask about the diary,” says Tony at last in a more cheerful tone.
“It’s coming along,” I reply. “Sometimes I write a lot and sometimes I don’t write a word for days. It depends on how I’m feeling.”
“Are you feeling good today?” he enquires gravely. “I mean you really must write a full account of our meeting and describe my manly charms . . . Anthony Morley stood six feet two in his stocking soles . . . why stocking soles, I wonder!”
“Not shoes,” I explain briefly.
“Why not bare feet? He might be wearing silk stockings or woollen. It’s idiotic, isn’t it? Well never mind, we must get on with my description. Anthony Morley stood six feet two in his bare feet—”
“On his bare feet—”
“Don’t interrupt, Hester. His hair was blond, slightly silvered at the temples, it swept back from his high forehead to the nape of his neck. He was slim, with long legs,” says Tony, with an admiring glance at those appendages, “and the—”
“No, you don’t understand,” I say firmly. “That isn’t the way it’s done. In fact, it isn’t done at all, because people who know you know what you’re like, and people who don’t know you would far rather imagine you for themselves.”
“How could they?”
“They take a Brigadier they happen to know and endow you with his physical characteristics.”
“Good Heavens!” cries Tony. “Brigadiers sometimes have bow windows.”
“But supposing they don’t know a Brigadier?
“In that case they take a Colonel and exaggerate him slightly.”
“Most unsatisfactory,” says Tony. “There must be some way of indicating the appearance of your characters without giving a description of their eyes and hair and teeth. I do grant you that’s boring. Personally I always skip it in a book.”
“There you are!”
“Let me see,” says Tony thoughtfully. “If I were describing you I should do it like this:” Looking at Hester, Tony decided she should always wear a blue frock, she should always sit on a green garden seat with a background of dark shiny rhododendrons. The golden sun found sunbeams in her hair and the bright blue sky was no bluer than her eyes. “You see the idea,” says Tony with a wave of his hand. “It’s all done by kindness, it’s description without tears.”
“It tells you practically nothing,” I object.
“It tells you a good deal,” contradicts Tony. “It gives you a distinct picture of Hester sitting on a garden seat; and not only that, it gives you a character sketch as well. For instance there is the woman who looks her best in the ballroom, and the woman who is irresistible sunbathing on the plage, and the woman who is at her most attractive when sitting by a cosy fire—the intime atmosphere of the boudoir is her milieu. The moment you hear that Hester is at her best in a sunny garden you know at once whether or not she’s your cup of tea.”
I am about to answer this extravagance in a ribald manner when two figures stroll by, amongst the trees. They are arm in arm, their heads are close together and they are talking so earnestly that they do not see us. They stroll past and disappear.
“Honeymooners, obviously,” says Tony.
“No.”
Tony looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Oh, it’s like that, is it? And you aren’t surprised.”
“I knew—at least I thought—and Annie told me. Her husband is with the B.A.O.R. Isn’t it horrid?”
“Hm’m,” says Tony.
“What does one do?” I ask.
“You do nothing,” says Tony firmly. “If Anne of Cleves likes to take steps that’s her affair. Don’t meddle with things that are not your concern.”
“Yes—I mean no, I won’t,” I reply meekly.
After dinner I find Tony in the lounge talking to the American ladies. They beckon to me to join them and make room for me between them on the sofa. Mr. Whitesmith is one of the party and they are discussing Indian Politics—a subject which is too controversial to be comfortable. In fact before many moments have passed I have begun to wish I had not accepted the invitation to join them.
Mrs. Dene Potting says she cannot understand the Indian problem, Britain should treat the Indians in the same way as the United States treats her Indian population.
They are completely happy in their reservations, nobody interferes with their liberty and they can live their own lives.
Mr. Whitesmith says the population of India is about four hundred millions—so he believes—but the Brigadier knows better than he does, of course.
Mrs. Wilbur looks thoughtful and says they would require larger reservations.
Mrs. Dene says earnestly, “No, Darthy, that wouldn’t solve the problem. India must be returned to the Indians and the British Army must leave the country.”
Mr. Whitesmith says he hopes the Brigadier will contradict him if he is wrong but he is under the impression that the withdrawal of the British troops would lead to civil war.
Mrs. Dene says incredulously he can’t mean the Indians would fight against each other.
Mr. Whitesmith says he means just that—but the Brigadier will be able to tell them about it because he has just come back from India.
They all look at Tony. I look at Tony, too, and send up a silent prayer that he will not be naughty.
Tony lights a cigarette with care and says, “Well, you’ve asked for it; I could talk all day without telling you half the complications and difficulties involved but I shall be merciful. You see nobody could understand the problem without having studied the history of India before the incidence of the British Raj. It’s a history of constant war and unbelievable cruelty, a history of burning cities, looting, rape, murder and famine. India consists of a vast number of different races, and these races, owing to their racial habits and religious differences, cannot live together in peace. To take one cause of strife—th
e Moslem is taught by his religion that the pig is unclean, he loses caste if he touches a piece of its flesh. To the Hindu the cow is sacred. They use these little peculiarities to annoy one another in all sorts of ingenious ways—it’s quite a game. Then of course there are the people outside India proper, the war-like people of the hills. The Gurkhas, for instance—they are a fine race, sturdy as ponies and brave as lions. I was talking to a Gurkha one day and I asked him what would happen if the British Army were to leave India. He smiled and said, ‘Oh, Sahib, that would be a great day for us. We could go down to the big cities of the plains and take what we wanted.’ They would, too,” says Tony gravely. “They would come down in hordes and sack the cities—murder and loot would be the order of the day.”
Mrs. Dene Potting says, “Well, I just can’t believe it, Brigadier!” but she says it without much conviction. It is left to Mrs. Wilbur to thank the Brigadier for the interesting information, which she does with her usual social aplomb.
The party then divides. Mr. Whitesmith goes away, Mrs. Dene Potting talks to me and endeavours to persuade me to visit her sister-in-law, producing every inducement she can think of to lure me to America; while Tony and Mrs. Wilbur, ensconced together upon the sofa, carry on what is evidently a very intimate and amusing conversation in undertones.
These two ladies are leaving tomorrow and I am very sorry their stay has come to an end; they are interesting and ornamental, they are friendly with everyone and make for social pleasantness in Tocher House.
FRIDAY, 5TH APRIL
Today is warm and sunny with a few scattered clouds and a stiff breeze. Tony, to whom I have revealed the inward history of the Stannard family, has spent the golden hours fishing with Captain Stannard in the Rydd. This gives little Mr. Stannard the day off and he spends it in a deck chair in the garden shelter with a handkerchief spread over his face. He is not as young as he was and finds the unusual exercise of fishing tiring. It is extremely kind of Tony to bother with these people, who are not really his kind of people at all, but his benevolence is amply rewarded by their gratitude and by the day’s basket which consists of two good-sized salmon in excellent condition. Captain Stannard is quite talkative in the lounge after dinner, scraps of his conversation with his parents drift to my ears. It is obvious that he has learnt a great deal about salmon-fishing from “the Brigadier” and hopes to put his new knowledge to good effect. As Tony is sitting beside me on the sofa, it is reasonable to suppose that he also is hearing Captain Stannard’s account of the day and the supposition is confirmed by Tony leaning back and saying in a very low voice that he will get up and wring the young man’s neck if he says Brigadier again.
“I bore it all day,” says Tony in plaintive whispers. “He was so damn respectful—even when he was into a fish—that I longed to trip him up and throw him in the pool.”
“You’ve done a good deed, Tony. Let that be your reward.”
“I’ve got to go out with him again tomorrow,” groans Tony.
I am about to comfort him by telling him that familiarity breeds contempt and that by tomorrow the young man’s reverence for his exalted rank will have diminished, when Erica appears, looking somewhat distraught, and beckons to me to come.
I rise at once and make for the door.
“Captain Ovens has arrived,” says Erica in a low voice. “He’s asking for his wife and she isn’t in the house.”
“She’s out with that frightful young man, the one with the tan shoes,” says Tony who has followed us into the hall. “I saw them go off in his car—in fact we met them in the avenue when we were coming back from the river.”
“There!” exclaims Erica. “What did I tell you! I shouldn’t have let that woman stay on.”
A tall young man in uniform is standing at the other end of the hall with a battered-looking suitcase beside him. He now approaches and says he is sorry to give everybody so much trouble but he can’t understand it at all, really. He wired to his wife to say he was arriving this evening—do we think she received the wire?
I am about to answer that she certainly received the wire for I gave it to her myself, but Tony is before me.
“That’s it, of course,” says Tony. “She can’t have got the wire. I expect she’s gone to the pictures in Ryddelton with a friend.”
“Of course!” exclaims Captain Ovens, in obvious relief. “That’s the explanation. I never thought of it, but I’m sure you’re right. I got a bit of a shock when she wasn’t here to meet me.”
“Disappointing for you,” says Tony in sympathetic tones.
Captain Ovens smiles and says, “Yes, it is a bit disappointing . . . sir.” (Thus showing that even in plain clothes Tony looks the complete Brigadier.)
“Where are you now?” asks Tony. The question seems somewhat unnecessary, because it is obvious that the young man is standing before us in the hall at Tocher House, but Captain Ovens understands at once.
“At Kiel, sir,” he replies. “Quite a good spot, really. You get sailing and that sort of thing. Have you been out there yourself, sir?”
Tony replies that he was in the Desert Campaign and afterwards in India. They begin to talk, but before they have got very far Erica interrupts.
“Captain Ovens had better have something to eat,” says Erica firmly and hustles him into the dining room for a belated meal.
Tony and I are left standing in the hall.
“I think they’ve gone,” says Tony in a low voice. “In fact I’m pretty sure.”
“Gone!” I exclaim.
“Done a bunk. They had suitcases on the back of the car.”
“But that’s impossible! They couldn’t bring down their suitcases without being seen.”
“Isn’t there a back stair?”
There is, of course. It leads to the kitchen passage and from thence to the backyard.
“That’s what’s happened,” says Tony nodding. “They could do it all right if they chose a time when there was nobody about.”
I don’t wait for more but turn and rush upstairs, two steps at a time, to Mrs. Ovens’s bedroom.
The room looks much as usual with towels strewn upon the floor. One or two garments lying upon the chair and the bed gives it a tenanted appearance . . . but on closer inspection I discover that there are no toilet requisites upon the dressing table and the drawers and cupboards are empty.
At this moment Erica bursts into the room, bent upon the same investigation as myself. She looks round and exclaims, “Thank Heaven! I thought she might have gone for good!”
“She has,” I reply, opening the door of the cupboard and displaying its vacuity.
Erica’s remarks are unfit to record.
“I know,” I reply. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Erica sits down on a chair and lets herself go.
“Yes,” I agree, nodding. “Yes, she is. You’ve expressed my views exactly.”
Erica pauses for breath.
“What are we to do with that nice young man?” I enquire anxiously.
“He’s well rid of her,” declares Erica.
“I daresay—but he may not think so—and somebody will have to tell him.”
“H’m, that’s true,” says Erica thoughtfully. “D’you think Brigadier Morley would tell him?”
“Why should Brigadier Morley tell him?” enquires Tony, who has got tired of waiting in the hall and followed us upstairs.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that!” exclaims Erica. “You’re always appearing suddenly where one doesn’t expect you to be—it’s unnerving—like a jack-in-the-box or something.”
“No,” objects Tony. “Not like a jack-in-the-box, Miss Clutterbuck. He appears when you don’t expect him; in my case time and place are equally uncertain.”
“If Captain Ovens were a woman I would tell her,” says Erica.
“I see the implication,” says Tony, nodding. “This is the first time in my life I have regretted the fact that I am a man.”
Erica is no fool. She un
derstands at once. “Thank you very much,” says Erica. “You had better let him finish his dinner first.”
SATURDAY, 6TH APRIL
I was under the impression that Tony was fishing again today so am somewhat surprised to meet him on the stairs attired in a lounge suit. He seizes my arm and says he wants to speak to me and as I have a burning desire to hear what he has to say we repair to the linen room and shut the door.
“What is he doing?” I enquire.
“If you mean Ovens—”
“Of course!”
“Fishing,” says Tony laconically.
“Fishing! But Tony, didn’t you tell him?”
“Of course I told him. When have you known me flinch from an unpleasant duty?”
“But—but didn’t he mind?”
“Really, Hester!” says Tony impatiently. “What an extraordinary question! Do you think any man wouldn’t mind hearing the news that the wife of his bosom had gone off with another fellow and left him in the lurch?”
“What did he say?” I enquire, too full of curiosity to resent the unmerited rebuke.
“Quite a lot,” replies Tony with a thoughtful air. “But he might have said a good deal more. I’m afraid the fact that I was a fairly senior officer cramped his style. Of course he was all for dashing after them then and there, but as we had no idea where to look for them it wouldn’t have been very sensible, so I managed to persuade him to wait until morning. I let him get the worst of it off his chest and then sent him off to bed with a stiff whisky and soda and a couple of aspirins. He slept soundly.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, as a matter of fact I looked in about two,” says Tony with a slightly shame-faced grin. “He’s a nice young fellow and I was a bit worried about him, you see.”
“I see.”
“It was quite natural that I should be worried about him,” declares Tony, looking at me suspiciously. “I mean—after all—”
“Oh, quite,” I agree hastily.
“This morning—it was a bit after eight and I was in the middle of shaving—in came young Ovens, full of apologies of course, to say he had been thinking about it all night and had changed his mind.”
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