A MEETING ON THE MARSHES
Trains from the station nearest to Beke ran at inconceivably
inconvenient hours; for instance, a quarter to eight in the morning,
and half-past four in the afternoon, the latter wandering into London
about midnight. Ronnie, of course, departed by the first, and I took
leave of him in the front hall with copious tears (the professor, in
a plaid dressing-gown, and with dishevelled locks, peering over the
banisters).
“Buck up, old girl!” he said; “it will be all right; within six months
you will be hugging me in India. Mind you write every mail, take great
care of yourself--and--er--good-bye.” Then he tore himself away, and
ran down the tiled footpath to where an aged fly--once the equipage of
a countess--and a sprightly young horse were waiting to transport him
to the junction.
As I watched the light-hearted animal plunging and straining at the
shafts I was conscious of a guilty hope that he and the venerable
vehicle would part company, and thus spare me Ronnie for a few hours;
but no, tottering and swaying, the ancient landau rolled away intact.
Then I went upstairs to my own room, locked the door, and huddled down
in the deep window seat, there to mourn and meditate. I seemed to have
come to the end of my hopes and had now nothing to look forward to. A
painful conviction for a young and sanguine soul!
For one whole year Ronnie’s return had been my lodestar; my first
thought in the morning, my last at night; now he had come and gone--it
was all so soon over. Surveying the future, what a bleak, monotonous
outlook lay before me. It appeared to me that I might almost as well
have been born a cabbage or a thistle! So far as the result of Ronnie’s
letter was concerned, I had not been foolishly sanguine; I knew Aunt
Mina, from what might be called her “wrong side,” and how she disliked
anyone to interfere with her settled plans; her plan with respect to me
was that I should remain harmlessly at Beke, and I had frequently heard
her express a horror of India--a country that, in her opinion, was
full of second-rate people, fast, disreputable women and impecunious
gambling men; no, there would be no gorgeous East for me, and I could
not reasonably expect to see Ronnie for three long years.
I must confess that for some days after my brother’s departure I was
a moping, undesirable house-mate; even a letter from Marseilles, a
gold wristlet watch, and Tossie’s enthusiastic admiration for my
beloved, scarcely helped to raise the clouds. Still, it comforted
me to talk about him to Lizzie and Tossie, who were both sincerely
sympathetic--not so the professor, who became portentously glum
whenever Ronnie’s name was mentioned, and sat silently aloof with
an air of Olympian detachment. Apparently their antipathy had been
mutual, for he imparted to the parson, who told Tossie, who told
me, that “young Lingard was a conceited, empty-headed dandy, just a
good-for-nothing, impudent jackanapes!”
It was about this time, I imagine, that he began to work with arduous
enthusiasm upon a new play, in which the ne’er-do-well and scapegrace
was a full-sized portrait of my brother--so far as his personal
appearance was concerned; particulars dealing with his dress were given
in microscopic detail. For once there was much mystery concerning
this effort. Naturally the professor never read it to me, and for
this “let off” I was profoundly thankful, for it was something of an
ordeal to sit in a stuffy study, which reeked of stale tobacco, dust,
and worm-eaten furniture, whilst Uncle Sep read aloud with sonorous
complacency, occasionally pausing to look over his glasses and say,
“That is a fine speech, eh? How does it strike you?”
Lizzie, who was not a fellow sufferer, warmly approved of these
readings. “It was better,” she declared, “not to disturb the amiable
delusions of our fellows, but to encourage such friends to believe
in themselves!” The result was that I was immured in the study,
administering to Uncle Sep’s vanity, whilst she bustled about the
village, doing parish work or conferring with the rector.
The rector, a distinguished looking white-haired old widower, had
contrived to appropriate Lizzie as lay worker and curate. Beke was
a large and scattered parish, and she visited various outlying
hamlets on her bike, controlled the Sunday school, undertook mothers’
meetings, the Red Cross, the village nurse, Girls’ Friendly Society
and the choir, whilst the Reverend Clement Chesterfield enjoyed an
amount of spacious ease, and had ample leisure to read the _Guardian_,
the _Spectator_, the heavier monthlies and the particular class of
literature which appealed to him. When the rectory had guests or
entertained the bishop, Miss Puckle managed the housekeeping; when the
rector was sick, she made poultices and beef tea, and nursed him most
efficiently. All the village believed it would be “a match,” although
Mr. Chesterfield was seventy. The rumour went further, and one of his
married nieces had lately invaded Beke; her manner to Miss Puckle had
been pointedly disagreeable, and she was reported to have “said things.”
Lizzie’s time, as may be supposed, was fully occupied, but I had many
empty hours in spite of practising and readings. Some of these hours I
filled in with visits to my intimates in the villages, to the Soadys,
or by long tramps over the country, accompanied by Kipper. To Myson’s
Dyke was his favourite excursion; here were rabbits, rabbits, and
rabbits--oh, such good hunting! Our path lay over a series of ugly flat
fields, ending in the palings and outlying plantations of one of the
big places.
On this particular occasion, although it happened to be my birthday, my
reflections were by no means cheerful. The morning’s post had brought
me the gift of a lace pocket-handkerchief from my cousin Dora and a
note in which she said, “Father had a letter from Ronald; he said that
you are looking splendid--so much for Beke!”
So much for Beke indeed! Apparently Ronnie’s appeal had fallen flat;
there was not a word about India. Alas! that door of escape was closed.
As I turned my face towards the village, and contemplated the hateful,
too familiar and forbidding path across the dried-up marshes, a memory
suddenly flashed into my mind:
“Over the meadows that blossom and wither
Rings but the note of a sea-bird’s song;
Only the sun and the rain come hither.
All year long.”
I asked myself impatiently how long was I to lead this empty, dull
existence? A life given over to the monotonous duties of an alien
household and to pandering to the vanity of a garrulous old man! My
school-fellows wrote to me from time to time. Several had asked me
to visit them, but Aunt Mina vetoed all such hospitalities. “These
people,” she said, “were not in our set. You must remember that your
grandmother was a duke’s daughter and only associate with your own
class, not with second-rate acquaintances.” It was evident that she
liked to play dog-in-the-manger, and would neither suffer me to stay
with others nor offer me an invitation herself!
As I strolled along in a melancholy mood, musing on the misery of my
virtual internment, an acute sense of homelessness overcame me. My
eyes were dim with tears of self-pity, when, through these tears, I
discerned a distant speck on the pathway; it approached, gradually
grew larger, and presently materialised into the figure of a man,
tall, square-shouldered, and carrying a gun under his arm. Nearer and
nearer he strode, and when within ten yards I saw that he was a well
set-up, soldierly individual, in orthodox shooting garb, with dark,
rather sleepy eyes and a masterful chin. He looked me straight in
the face, as we passed almost touching--the sole human beings within
sight over miles of space. Kipper, with his hackles on end, sniffed
suspiciously at the man’s leggings, and then, so to speak, “accepted
him,” and I proceeded homewards, listening to the steady tramp of a
pair of heavy shooting boots till the sound had ceased. I had advanced
a certain distance, when an imperative curiosity impelled me to halt
and look back--I am well aware that this was a most unladylike action;
nevertheless I fell! To my horror and embarrassment, I discovered that
the stranger was doing precisely the same thing, standing apparently
immovable as a milestone. Undoubtedly our curiosity and, I think I
may say, interest, had been mutual! I was sincerely thankful that the
distance was too great for us to distinguish one another’s features,
and felt deeply ashamed, exquisitely flattered, and painfully shy.
Before I could turn he had snatched off his cap and waved it to me!
What audacious impertinence! My heart beat unusually fast, and my face
flamed. Here was an adventure at last, and although its form was highly
indiscreet--nevertheless I liked it!
Possibly it may not be surprising when I state that I thought of
the stranger all the way home; my mind was so full of him that the
monotonous miles seemed as yards. I recalled his upright bearing, his
handsome eyes, his kindly word to Kipper. Was this the hero that every
girl of nineteen sees in her dreams? It is a remarkable fact that at
dinner I, who usually poured out my budget of small news--such as, how
someone had broken Mrs. Hogg’s window, the postman’s baby had croup,
or a party of motorists had stopped to tea at “The Beetle”--never
once mentioned my experience, but kept it locked up in my heart; yes,
even from Tossie, who brought all her joys and sorrows to me. Behold
my first secret! After all how puny and insignificant; nevertheless,
I hugged it like a child with her first doll! On Slacklands Flats I
had encountered a good-looking stranger--no doubt one of the guns
at Myson--who had stared hard, looked after me, and signalled a
gay greeting. “Ships that pass in the night”--“a couple who pass
at sundown.” I must confess that I allowed my mind to dwell on the
adventure as I sewed, as I listened to the professor’s plays, yes,
even in church, when naturally I ought to have been engrossed in holy
thoughts and the rector’s short, crisp sermon.