The Soldier and the Gentlewoman Page 3

  “Where am I to stop?” Dick asked with impatience.

  “Stop you at this gate, sir,” said the man, “and we’ll be going through Cross-eyed Owen’s clover field, and climbing up on top o’ the old tump. You’ll be able to see your property from there, unrolled like a map just for you to read.”

  “No objection to my leaving the car here on the high road?” Dick enquired, as he jumped out.

  “If the Constable should happen to pass by, and to be so foolish as to say something, you tell ’en, sir, as you’ll soon be on the Bench.”

  Jones pushed open a gate and led Dick across country, climbing several hedges without any regard for their preservation. Dick was uneasy, but thought it wiser not to protest. The custom of this country might be different from that prevailing near London, in the neat fields, crossed by footpaths, where, before the war, he had taken girls to picnic on fine Sundays. He saw no notices here threatening tres- passers or offering milk for sale, and scarcely a dwelling was visible. But when he had panted after his guide up to the top of the prehistoric burial mound, he saw below him the chimneys of a large country house.

  “That looks a fine place, ” he said. “Whose is it? ” The Welshman slapped his knee and cackled like a hen whose egg is newly laid. “Well indeed now! That’s rich! That’s champion! That do beat all!

  Fancy you asking me—” and he mimicked Dick’s drawl—“whose is it? ’Tis yours, Captain, ’tis your own.”

  Dick turned his back on him and wished him at the devil. He wanted to be left alone—alone with his property. Digging his stick into the earth, he leaned back upon it. The grass was too wet for him to sit on, even though he wore a Burberry, but that did not deter the native from squatting down close to his feet. There was no shaking him off; and he would talk and talk.

  “This great big beech wood running all the length o’ the dingle is yours, sir, and the open park land over on the far side yonder with them clumps o’ trees in him here and there. Them fine farms as you can count high up above the park on the ridge is yours too. And the home farm, as they do call it, close behind the mansion, see? There’s another tidy-sized farm higher up, near the top o’ the dingle, look. You can’t see the house for them old spruces all blowed one way by the wind. The grazing rights on the open hill above is going with it up to the skyline. And over the top, sir, there’s two-three bye-tacks and small holdings like, and a rare bit o’ grouse shooting with ’em. They do say there’s as many pheasant as leaves down in the coverts in the valley; and there be a plenty o’ partridge, too, up on the brow o’ either slope. And as to trout, sir, there’s three miles and more o’ the tidiest fishing in the county. The Lord Lieutenant couldn’t wish for better.”

  I know. I know, Dick longed to cry out. It’s a miracle. But do, for God’s sake, shut up, and let me get used to it all! He remained silent, and the Welshman talked on.

  “Are you seeing the smoke from the keeper’s cottage, in among the woods? There’s half a dozen grand cottages, besides the head gardener’s close to the walled garden there, water laid on inside, and all. You’re not coming into an estate crumbling to pieces like stale bread same as what most o’ them be these days. No indeed. Miss Gwenllian, she’ve seen to that. Everything is done up as smart and ready to be looked into as a bride’s underwear. Now if you’ll follow the line o’ my finger, sir, you’ll ketch sight o’ yet another nice farm—the biggest in the parish—down where the valley is opening out beyond the lodge and the drive gates yonder. Your land is stretching on that side almost into Cwmnant village. And then there’s a couple more farms as we can’t see from here. They do go along o’ the dower house, where they did use to put away the widows. ’Tis let off now to an old lady—no relation. They do say Miss Gwenllian was raising the rent on her on account o’ the air raids. She knowed she couldn’t be safer nor she was here. So she’s paying a hundred and twenty pounds a year for a place as never brought the estate in a pennypiece before. That’s the talk, whatever. Miss Gwenllian she’d have made a first rate man o’ business. Pity indeed she were bom the wrong shape! ”

  Dick could think of no reply to make. He had never been able, like Flash Frank and other officers in the regiment, to crack jokes with his inferiors and, at the same time, keep them in their place. He had always hated the uncertain ground of N.C.O.s’ dances, finding that the social game was easiest when it was played by a strict rule and he was left in no doubt of what it was correct for him to do and say. Now he shifted his feet and was silent.

  “Pity indeed!” Jones continued. “’Twas Miss Gwenllian had the notion o’ making a bit o’ money by the dower house, since they hadn’t a widow handy at the time o’ the old Squire’s death. He buried his missus ten years afore. Ah, he was a fine handsome gentleman, with a neck on him like a prize bull! And a voice as ’ould carry very near as far as a ship’s foghorn at sea. He’d have lived to put any number o’ wives underground if he hadn’t followed the bottle, as he followed hounds, without ever drawing rein. Miss Gwennie’s father, I’m speaking of, sir. And the talk is that her brother’s widow won’t be needin’ the dower-house neither as she do intend going back into foreign parts. England’s where she was coming from—a stranger to us. But you’ll be knowing best about that, sir?”

  Blast you, exclaimed Dick inwardly, I wish to heaven you’d keep quiet and just let me look!…“Oh yes,” he said aloud, “she wrote to tell me something about it.”

  The countryman’s bright eyes were fixed upon him, making him as uncomfortable as though two sharp pieces of jet had been thrust against his face. “And might I be so bold, Captain, as to ask where Miss Gwenllian is going?”

  “Who? Oh, the unmarried sister?”

  “Yes, Captain, sister to them two poor gentlemen as the Huns was killing. Ah,” the little man added with venom, “and some do reckon Government be going to let that there Kayzer off scot free! You don’t think that could ever be now, do you, sir? David Lloyd George, he’ll see justice done, if he has to hang ’en with his own hands.”

  Dick grinned. “Well, I don’t know, ” he said. “I’m a soldier, not a politician. I’ve had enough slaughter for a bit.” And he returned to complacent survey of his property.

  “May I take the liberty o’ asking what Miss Gwenllian is going to do?”

  “Oh, take up something, I expect. Poultry, or breeding pet dogs.”

  “She ’on’t shift far from Plâs Einon, sir, I’ll swear. Her couldn’t thrive off of the old Squire’s land. She’d never fatten on no other.”

  “Oh,” said Dick, without interest in this middle-aged cousin whom he had never seen.

  The Welshman chattered on; but receiving no encouragement, rose at last.

  “I’ll be getting along now, Captain. I’m much obliged to you for the lift,” he said, still lingering with an expression of hope upon his sharp features.

  Dick hastily gave him half-a-crown, and bade him good-day. He could afford to tip well now; that was another of the many comfortable prospects before him.

  When he was alone, he drew a long breath. The air was newly washed by rain. It held the saltness of the sea, and the sweetness of rising sap. The pungency of wet leaf mould and of moss was in it, rank woodland scents, stealing up from the dingle below and blending with the tonic breeze that swept the hilltops. Cool, he thought, clean, restful, safe! He shut his eyes and smiled. Safe, he repeated to himself, and then—home. He was poignantly happy. He wanted to cry.

  After a while he opened his eyes again. They were round, slightly prominent, and had the anxious pucker of brow above them to be seen on the face of a puppy that has been cuffed. But now the pucker was almost gone. His face was as smooth as a contented baby’s. He let his gaze travel round the circle of the horizon. Nearly all that he saw was his. It was unbelievable. During four years he had hoped daily for nothing better than to escape death. Suddenly, with the news of peace, this had come to him, the inheritance of two other soldiers, now dead.

  Long valley and winding r
iver, open mountains on either hand, neat white farms, a park stately with oak, enclosed fields spread out like a patch-work quilt, and, to crown all, the great house built in the grey stone of the district, with its terraces and wide flights of steps, that seemed to have been hewn out of the hillside—these, and more, were his.

  He gave a choky little laugh and lit a cigarette. His hand shook. He burnt his fingers.

  He had never dreamed of being other than poor. With what misgivings had his mother allowed him to go into the Army! “I’m afraid you will feel your position, dear, when you cannot spend as freely as the others,” she had said, while he argued that the Service was more gentlemanly than a bank. Her fears had been justified in the years before the war. But since 1914, nothing had mattered as much as thirst and lice and the terror of being proved a coward—forms of misery which, because they were shared by officers who had despised him, had af- fected him less deeply than a lack of cash. Little enough had he got out of the war—no distinctions of any kind, the common ration of medals, no more —but he was alive. He drew in the air and let it stroke the wet roof of his mouth so that he might feel that he was alive and not thirsty. The doctors said his heart was bad—well, he’d take it easy now. Towards the end his nerve had gone; it would come back. And I’ve been drinking too much, he thought. That will have to stop.…It would be easy now.

  Property, this miracle, made everything easy. Already it had freed him of the Army, and now—he could have pretty well what he chose. Twenty-eight; not like the poor devils of forty odd; time enough to forget and start again. Thank God, he’d escaped a bachelor from the entanglements of calf-love. Now he could take his pick. Not just a pretty girl or a good mover, but more—someone who would see that, though he might be shy, he wasn’t a fool, and draw him out and be fond of him and not say sharp things that made him curl into himself. Someone kind; there were women like that—even young and pretty ones; besides, he’d be master, the property would be his, not hers. But he’d be cautious. No man knew as well as he how to make use of wealth and freedom, for none had ever wanted them more. How he meant to enjoy them! By God, how he did!

  So excited and jubilant was he, that he clapped his hands together like a child. This, unfortunately, made him aware of his wrist-watch and of the time. He had forgotten the awkward call he must pay on the ladies whom he was turning out of their home.

  Come on Dickie, old boy, he exhorted himself, better get it over and done with. You’ll only have to see ’em this once to be civil, and that will be the end of it.

  He marched back to the car of which he was still newly proud and gazed at it.

  “Poor women,” he thought cheerfully. “I’m sorry for ’em. Must be decent about it. Must do the right thing.”

  That little glow of chivalry towards the disinherited gave him pleasure. Such feelings, he knew, became a soldier.

  Chapter II

  HE MEETS HIS COUSIN

  “Captain Einon-Thomas,” the parlour-maid announced, opening the door in front of Dick. She wore a grey alpaca uniform with a tight fitting bodice. Nice, old-fashioned servant, he thought, and then: Mother used to dress in grey. He remembered shrinking behind her skirts at children’s parties, ashamed of his suit, afraid lest some big boy in an Eton jacket might ask him if he rode a pony. There had been a great house, belonging to a friend of his father’s, to which he had been invited when he was a child—a house as chill and marbled as a town hall. The journey to it from Streatham had been full of terrors. For a week before their going, his mother had been nervously critical of his manners, and in the train her searching eye had keyed him to his ordeal. When he went to school at Dulwich, the yearly invitation to Carlton House Terrace had ceased. He would have been glad, but that his mother was sorry. “I wonder,” she used to sigh, “if you did anything to give offence.”

  At these recollections, his hand went up to his tie. Was it straight and correct? He jerked his hand down and tugged at a button of his waistcoat. To hell with this nonsense, he thought. Couldn’t he be done with it now? Wasn’t he Einon-Thomas of Plâs Einon? But that had been the name of the poor devils into whose inheritance he was come! It seemed indecent to be announced to their relatives by the title of the dead. A sense of his own inadequacy caused Dick to look down at his feet; a shoe-lace was dangling; he stooped to tuck it in. Two Sealyham terriers came sniffing and waggling at him, their claws scuttering on the parquet floor. A warm tongue licked the tip of his nose. How easy it was to get on well with dogs! Then he stood up, threw back his shoulders as on parade, and strode past the shielding grey skirt. To leave it behind was like taking a plunge into cold water.

  Three ladies rose to meet him. All were in mourning for his predecessors.

  “I—I hope you don’t mind,” he stuttered, and shook hands rigidly with the widow.

  She wore the usual little white collar and cuffs on a black gown, and an expression of decorous melancholy. Her large blue eyes were pretty but unprovocative. She seemed to have been very tired for a number of years.

  “My calling, I mean,” he hurried on, “I was awfully afraid, perhaps, that, that you’d think it rather soon after—” His voice trailed into silence.

  Hot with shame, he gripped the next hand extended to him. It returned his clutch with a warm pressure. Some women’s hands felt kind, he thought, particularly if they were broad and firm. But when he glanced up, encouraged, he was met by a frankly amused smile, which disconcerted him. He took the third hand. It was cold and glossy, and narrow, like a serpent.

  “My sister-in-law, Mrs. Blake,” the widow was murmuring. “ And my other sister-in-law, Miss Einon-Thomas. She lives with us—that is, I mean— she—has always made her home here.” There was a dangerous pause until she added with forced brightness, “I am trying to persuade her to pay me a visit at Cannes next winter. I mean to share a small villa with an old friend there.”

  “Oh, do you?” said Dick. And after a moment’s travail he brought forth, “Jolly nice spot, I believe.” “Oh very,” she said, and began to speak in a flat voice, as though to gain time, about English clubs, and of how, by living abroad for half the year, one might escape Income Tax. But from that topic she shied away, not wishing to reproach him with her future poverty. Nice, feeling little woman, he told himself; and felt the more guilty in robbing her of her husband’s estate.

  She turned to her married sister-in-law.

  “Mrs. Blake is only here on a visit…Won’t you sit down? I’m sure I don’t know why we are all standing.…Her husband is in the Navy. At least he is actually resigning this week, isn’t he, Frances?” “Yes,” answered the lady with the large friendly hand. She dropped into an easy chair and crossed her legs. “He’s going to give up the service and try his luck in Fleet Street. Unless I manage to get a job, too, I expect the children will starve.”

  That’s a bit stiff! Dick thought, but the speaker seemed cheerfully unaware of having embarrassed him. She talked about employment, and the problems of the new rich and the new poor, as though she were alluding to a game of chess, and not to matters which touched them all closely. At length the widow intervened, bringing the conversation back to safe, dull ground: the weather, the state of the roads.

  “They are terribly cut up,” she said. “So much timber-hauling during the war, you know.”

  “Oh, of course,” he agreed.

  Watching her hands, small and white, which played with an antique mourning brooch of black enamel, he began to think of the family jewels which his wife might wear—when he had chosen her. It would be chivalrous to take over the widow with the estate and to let her wear the heirlooms to which she was accustomed. But the idea made him want to laugh. He would marry a dazzler, a real fresh pretty girl! This Mrs. Einon-Thomas was old enough to be his mother. Not quite, perhaps, but nearing forty. Still, she was the best of the three, the most womanly; though the others had appeared more striking in the flurry of his first encounter. He began now, furtively, to study them.

  The
y were much alike, tall and dark. No doubt they were considered handsome a few years ago. But they weren’t his style—too foreign, too much what you expected of the Welsh. It was odd that they should be his first cousins. Those boldly marked, level eyebrows, those almost Italian features with so little flesh upon them, suggested bad temper, or worse, fanaticism. He shouldn’t wonder if they were rabid teetotallers, or religious, or something of the kind. The married one looked cheerful enough, and she was the younger, but she displeased him by being untidy. His mother and the Army had taught him to revere neatness in dress and to disapprove of those who were indifferent to it. Frances Blake’s abundance of black hair, with its natural, unruly wave, seemed to have been tossed up in a hurry, and her dress was without precision. Dick turned away to her sister and tried to draw her into the conversation. Last night, in the bar of the Green Dragon, he had talked with a man in the Timber Supply Department. Now he quoted what he hoped was a well-informed remark on the supply of pit-props to the collieries of South Wales. Miss Einon-Thomas looked at him in silent disdain. Had the timber fellow been pulling his leg? he wondered; and he recalled hotly that Flash Frank had laid traps for his ignorance when first he joined the regiment. What was his cousin thinking of him as she sat there, not troubling to answer? At least she was not laughing at him, as they had so often laughed in the Mess. She was staring out of the French windows at the lawns and the tall trees beyond. Her profile would look well on a coin.

  She was dressed, though plainly, with the care for exact order that he had been bred to admire. An uneasy interest in her stirred within him, not because she was a woman, for she was hard and dry, like well-seasoned wood, but because he guessed, by the stiffening of her body and the compression of her well-shaped lips, that, of these three, it was she who suffered most. I suppose, he decided, being un-married and a daughter at home and all that, she was wrapped up in her brothers, and he was sorry for her.