“Dr. Mount has come to see her ladyship.”
“Oh, Dr. Mount” ... cried Peter, springing up.
“He’s waiting in the morning room, my lady.”
“Show him in here—you’d like him to come in, wouldn’t you, Mother?”
“Yes, of course, dear, but I expect he’ll have had his tea.”
“He can have another. Anyhow, I’d like to see him—I missed him last
leave.”
He crossed over to the window. Outside in the drive a small green Singer
car stood empty.
“Did Stella drive him over?—She would never stay outside.”
“I can’t see anyone—Hello, doctor—glad you’ve come—have some tea.”
Dr. Mount came into the room. He was a short, healthy little man,
dressed in country tweeds, and with the flat whiskers of an old-time
squire. He seemed genuinely delighted to see Peter.
“Back from the wars? Well, you’ve had some luck. They say it’ll be more
than a year before everyone’s demobbed. You look splendid, doesn’t he,
Lady Alard?”
“Yes—Peter always was healthy, you know.”
“I must say he hasn’t given me much trouble. I’d be a poor man if
everyone was like him. How’s the wound, Peter? I don’t suppose you even
think of it now.”
“I can’t say I do—it never was much. Didn’t Stella drive you over?”
“No—there’s a lot of medicine to make up, so I left her busy in the
dispensary.”
“What a useful daughter to have,” sighed Lady Alard. “She can do
everything—drive the car, make up medicines——”
“Work in the garden and cook me a thundering good dinner besides!” The
little doctor beamed. “I expect she’ll be over here before long, she’ll
be wanting to see Peter. She’d have come today if there han’t been such
a lot to do.”
Peter put down his teacup and walked over again to the window. Rose
Alard and her husband exchanged another of those meaning looks which
they found a useful conversational currency.
§ 4
Jenny soon wearied of the drawing-room, even when freshened by Dr.
Mount. She always found a stifling quality in Conster’s public rooms,
with their misleading show of wealth, and escaped as early as she could
to the old schoolroom at the back of the house, looking steeply up
through firs at the wooded slope of Brede Eye.
This evening the room was nearly dark, for the firs shut out the dregs
of twilight and the moon that looked over the hill. She could just see
the outlines of the familiar furniture, the square table on which she
and Gervase had scrawled abusive remarks in the intervals of their
lessons, the rocking chair, where the ghost of Nurse sometimes still
seemed to sit and sway, the bookcase full of children’s books—“Fifty-two
Stories for Girls” and “Fifty-two Stories for Boys,” the “Girls of St.
Wode’s” and “With Wallace at Bannockburn”—all those faded gilded rows
which she still surreptitiously enjoyed.
Now she had an indefinite feeling that someone was in the room, but had
scarcely realised it when a shape drew itself up against the window
square, making her start and gasp.
“It’s only me,” said an apologetic voice.
“Gervase!”
She switched on the light and saw her brother standing by the table.
“When did you come?”
“Oh, twenty minutes ago. I heard you all gassing away in the
drawing-room, so thought I’d come up here till you’d finished with
Peter.”
“How sociable and brotherly of you! You might have come in and said how
d’you do. You haven’t seen him for a year.”
“I thought I’d be an anti-climax—spoil the Warrior’s Return and all
that. I’ll go down in a minute.”
“How was it you and Peter didn’t arrive together? There hasn’t been
another train since.”
“I expect Peter came by Ashford, didn’t he? I came down on the other
line and got out at Robertsbridge. I thought I’d like the walk.”
“What about your luggage?”
“I left that at Robertsbridge.”
“Really, Gervase, you are the most unpractical person I ever struck.
This means we’ll have to send over tomorrow and fetch it—and Appleby has
something better to do than tear about the country after your traps.”
“I’ll fetch ’em myself in Henry Ford. Don’t be angry with me, Jenny.
Please remember I’ve come home and expect to be treated kindly.”
He came round the table to her and offered her his cheek. He was taller
than she was, more coltish and less compact, but they were both alike in
being their mother’s children, Kenyons rather than Alards. Their eyes
were soft and golden-brown instead of clear Saxon-blue, their skins were
pale and their mouths wide.
Jenny hugged him. She was very fond of Gervase, who seemed specially to
belong to her at the end of the long, straggled family.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she murmured—“come for good. Though I suppose
you’ll be off to a crammer’s before long.”
“I daresay I shall, but don’t let’s worry about that now. I’m here till
February, anyway. Who’s at home?”
“Everybody except Mary, and she’s coming after Christmas.”
“I wish she’d come before. I like old Mary, and I haven’t seen her for
an age. Is Julian coming too?”
“I don’t suppose so. He and Father have had a dreadful row.”
“What about?”
“He wouldn’t lend us any of the money he profiteered out of those
collapsible huts.”
“Well, I call it rather cheek of Father to have asked him.”
“It was to be on a mortgage of course; but I quite see it wouldn’t have
been much of an investment for Julian. However, Father seems to think it
was his duty as a son-in-law to have let us have it. We’re nearly on the
rocks, you know.”
“So I’ve been told a dozen times, but the place looks much the same as
ever.”
“That’s because Father and Mother can’t get out of their grooves, and
there are so few economies which seem worth while. I believe we need
nearly fifty thousand to clear the estate.”
“But it’s silly to do nothing.”
“I don’t see what we can do. But I never could understand about
mortgages.”
“Nor could I. The only thing I can make out is that our grandfather was
a pretty awful fool.”
“He couldn’t read the future. He couldn’t tell the price of land was
going down with a bump, and that there would be a European war. I
believe we’d have been all right if it hadn’t been for the war.”
“No we shouldn’t—we were going down hill before that. The war only
hurried things on.”
“Well certainly it didn’t do for us what it did for Julian—Seventy
thousand pounds that man’s made out of blood.”
“Then I really do think he might let us have some of it. What’s Mary’s
opinion?”
Jenny shrugged.
“Oh, I dunno. He’s had a row with her too.”
“What?—about the same thing?”
“No—about a man she’s friends with. It’s ridiculous really, for he’s
years and years older than she is—a retired naval officer—and awfully
nice; I lunched with them both once in town. But it pleases Julian to be
jealous, and I believe poor Mary’s had a hideous time.”
“Lord! What upheavals since I was home last! Why doesn’t anyone ever
write and tell me about these things?”
“Because we’re all too worried and too lazy. But you’ve heard everything
now—and you really must come down and see Peter.”
“I’m coming in a moment. But tell me first—has he changed at all? It’s
more than a year since I saw him.”
“I don’t think he’s changed much, except that he’s got stouter.”
“I wonder what he’ll do with himself now he’s home. Is there really a
rumour, or have I only dreamed, that he’s keen on Stella Mount?”
“Oh, I believe he’s keen enough. But she hasn’t got a penny. Father will
be sick if he marries her.”
She switched off the light, and the window changed from a deep,
undetailed blue to a pallid, star-pricked grey, swept across by the
tossing branches of trees.
§ 5
At Conster Manor dinner was always eaten in state. Lady Alard took hers
apart in her sitting-room, and sometimes Doris had it with her. On his
“bad days” Sir John was wont to find Doris a convenient butt, and as she
was incapable either of warding off or receiving gracefully the arrows
of his wrathful wit, she preserved her dignity by a totally
unappreciated devotion to her mother. Tonight, however, she could hardly
be absent, in view of Peter’s return, and could only hope that the
presence of the heir would distract her father from his obvious
facilities.
George and Rose had stayed to dinner in honour of the occasion or rather
had come back from a visit to Leasan Vicarage for the purpose of
changing their clothes. Rose always resented having to wear evening
dress when “just dining with the family.” At the Rectory she wore last
year’s summer gown, and it seemed a wicked waste to have to put on one
of her only two dance frocks when invited to Conster. But it was a
subject on which Sir John had decided views.
“Got a cold in your chest, Rose?” he had inquired, when once she came in
her parsonage voile and fichu, and on another occasion had coarsely
remarked: “I like to see a woman’s shoulders. Why don’t you show your
shoulders, Rose? In my young days every woman showed her shoulders if
she’d got any she wasn’t ashamed of. But nowadays the women run either
to bone or muscle—so perhaps you’re right.”
Most of the Alard silver was on the table—ribbed, ponderous stuff of
eighteenth century date, later than the last of the lost causes in which
so much had been melted down. Some fine Georgian and Queen Anne glass
and a Spode dinner-service completed the magnificence, which did not,
however, extend to the dinner itself. Good cooks were hard to find and
ruinously expensive, requiring also their acolytes; so the soup in the
Spode tureen might have appeared on the dinner-table of a seaside
boarding-house, the fish was represented by greasily fried plaice,
followed by a leg of one of the Conster lambs, reduced by the black
magic of the kitchen to the flavour and consistency of the worst New
Zealand mutton.
Peter noted that things had “gone down,” and had evidently been down for
a considerable time, judging by the placidity with which (barring a few
grumbles from Sir John) the dinner was received and eaten. The wine,
however, was good—evidently the pre-war cellar existed. He began to
wonder for the hundredth time what he had better do to tighten the Alard
finances—eating bad dinners off costly plate seemed a poor economy. Also
why were a butler and two footmen necessary to wait on the family party?
The latter were hard-breathing young men, recently promoted from the
plough, and probably cheap enough, but why should his people keep up
this useless and shoddy state when their dear lands were in danger?
Suppose that in order to keep their footmen and their silver and their
flowers they had to sell Ellenwhorne or Glasseye—or, perhaps, even
Starvecrow....
After the dessert of apples from Conster orchard and a dish of ancient
nuts which had remained untasted and unchanged since the last
dinner-party, the women and Gervase left the table for the drawing-room.
Gervase had never sought to emphasise his man’s estate by sitting over
his wine—he always went out like this with the women, and evidently
meant to go on doing so now he had left school. George on the other hand
remained, though he rather aggressively drank nothing but water.
“It’s not that I consider there is anything wrong in drinking wine,” he
explained broad-mindedly to Sir John and Peter, “but I feel I must set
an example.”
“To whom?” thundered Sir John.
“To my parishioners.”
“Well, then, since you’re not setting it to us, you can clear out and
join the ladies. I won’t see you sit there despising my port—which is
the only good port there’s been in the Rye division since ’16—besides I
want a private talk with Peter.”
The big clergyman rose obediently and left the room, his feelings
finding only a moment’s expression at the door, when he turned round and
tried (not very successfully) to tell Peter by a look that Sir John must
not be allowed to drink too much port in his gouty condition.
“He’s a fool,” said his father just before he had shut the door. “I
don’t know what the church is coming to. In my young days the Parson
drank his bottle with the best of ’em. He didn’t go about being an
example. Bah! who’s going to follow Georgie’s example?”
“Who, indeed?” said Peter, who had two separate contempts for parsons
and his brother George, now strengthened by combination.
“Well, pass me the port anyhow. Look here, I want to talk to you—first
time I’ve got you alone. What are you going to do now you’re back?”
“I don’t know, Sir. I’ve scarcely had time to think.”
“You’re the heir now, remember. I’d rather you stayed here. You weren’t
thinking of going back into Lightfoot’s, were you?”
“I don’t see myself in the city again. Anyhow I’d sooner be at Conster.”
“That’s right. That’s your place now. How would you like to be Agent?”
“I’d like it very much, Sir. But can it be done? What about Greening?”
“He’s an old fool, and has been muddling things badly the last year or
two. He doesn’t want to stay. I’ve been talking to him about putting you
in, and he seemed glad.”
“I’d be glad too, Sir.”
“You ought to know more about the estate than you do. It’ll be yours
before long—I’m seventy-five, you know. When Hugh was alive I thought
perhaps a business career was best for you, so kept you out of things.
You’ll have to learn a lot.”
“I love the place, Sir—I’m dead keen.”
“Yes, I remember you always wanted.... Of course I’ll put you into
Starvecrow.”
“Starvecrow!”
“Don’t repeat my words. The Agent has always lived at Starvecrow, and
there are quite enough of us here in the house. Besides there’s another
thing. How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Time you married, ain’t it?”
“I suppose it is.”
“I was thirty, myself, when I married, but thirty-six is rather late.
How is it you haven’t married earlier?”
“Oh, I dunno—the war I suppose.”
“The war seems to have had the opposite effect on most people. But my
children don’t seem a marrying lot. Doris ... Hugh ... there’s Mary, of
course, and George, but I don’t congratulate either of ’em. Julian’s a
mean blackguard, and Rose——” Sir John defined Rose in terms most
unsuitable to a clergyman’s wife.
“You really must think about it now,” he continued—“you’re the heir; and
of course you know—we want money.”
Peter did not speak.
“We want money abominably,” said Sir John, “in fact I don’t know how
we’re to carry on much longer without it. I don’t want to have to sell
land—indeed, it’s practically impossible, all trussed up as we are.
Starvecrow could go, of course, but it’s useful for grazing and timber.”
“You’re not thinking of selling Starvecrow?”
“I don’t want to—we’ve had it nearly two hundred years; it was the first
farm that Giles Alard bought. But it’s also the only farm we’ve got in
this district that isn’t tied—there’s a mortgage on the grazings down by
the stream, but the house is free, with seventy acres.”
“It would be a shame to let it go.”
Peter was digging into the salt-cellar with his dessert knife.
“Well, I rely on you to help me keep it. Manage the estate well and
marry money.”
“You’re damn cynical, Sir. Got any especial—er—money in your mind?”
“No, no—of course not. But you ought to get married at your age, and you
might as well marry for the family’s advantage as well as your own.”
Peter was silent.
“Oh, I know there’s a lot to be said against getting married, but in
your position—heir to a title and a big estate—it’s really a duty. I
married directly my father died. But don’t you wait for that—you’re
getting on.”
“But who am I to marry? There’s not such a lot of rich girls round
here.”
“You’ll soon find one if you make up your mind to it. My plan is first
make up your mind to get married and then look for the girl—not the
other way round, which is what most men do, and leads to all kinds of
trouble. Of course I know it isn’t always convenient. But what’s your
special objection? Any entanglement? Don’t be afraid to tell me. I know
there’s often a little woman in the way.”
Peter squirmed at his father’s Victorian ideas of dissipation with their
“little women.” He’d be talking of “French dancers” next....
“I haven’t any entanglement, Sir.”
“Then you take my words to heart. I don’t ask you to marry for money,
but marry where money is, as Shakespeare or somebody said.”
§ 6
Peter found a refreshing solitude in the early hours of the next day.
His mother and Doris breakfasted upstairs, his father had
characteristically kept his promise to “be about tomorrow,” and had
actually ridden out before Peter appeared in the morning room at nine.
Jenny, who was a lazy young woman, did not come down till he had
finished, and Gervase, in one of those spasms of eccentricity which made
Peter sometimes a little ashamed of him, had gone without breakfast
altogether, and driven off in the Ford lorry to fetch his luggage,
sustained by an apple.
The morning room was full of early sunlight—dim as yet, for the mists
were still rising from the Tillingham valley and shredding slowly into
the sky. The woods and farms beyond the river were hidden in the same
soft cloud. Peter opened the window, and felt the December rasp in the
air. Oh, it was good to be back in this place, and one with it now, the
heir.... No longer the second son who must live away from home and make
his money in business.... He stifled the disloyalty to his dead brother.
Poor old Hugh, who was so solemn and so solid and so upright.... But
Hugh had never loved the place as he did—he had never been both
transported and abased by his honour of inheritance.
As soon as he had eaten his breakfast Peter went out, at his heels a
small brown spaniel, who for some reason had not gone with the other
dogs after Sir John. They went down the garden, over the half melted
frost of the sloping lawns, through the untidy shrubbery of fir, larch
and laurel, to the wooden fence that shut off Conster from the marshes
of the Tillingham. The river here had none of the pretensions with which
it circled Rye, but was little more than a meadow-stream, rather full
and angry with winter. Beyond it, just before the woods began, lay
Beckley Furnace with its idle mill.
And away against the woods lay Starvecrow ... just as he had dreamed of
it so many times in France, among the blasted fields. “Starvecrow”—he
found himself repeating the name aloud, but not as it was written on the
map, rather as it was written on the lips of the people to whom its
spirit belong—“Starvycrow ... Starvycrow.”
It was a stone house built about the same time as Conster, but without
the compliment to Gloriana implied in three gables. It lacked the grace
of Conster—the grace both of its building and of its planting. It stood
foursquare and forthright upon the slope, with a great descent of wavy,
red-brown roof towards the mouth of the valley, a shelter from the winds
that came up the Tillingham from the sea. It seemed preeminently a home,
sheltered, secure, with a multitude of chimneys standing out against the
background of the woods. From one of them rose a straight column of blue
smoke, unwavering in the still, frost-thickened air.
Peter crossed the stream by the bridge, then turned up Starvecrow’s
ancient drive. There was no garden, merely an orchard with a planting of
flowers under the windows. Peter did not ring, but walked straight in at
the side door. The estate office had for long years been at Starvecrow,
a low farmhouse room in which the office furniture looked incongruous
and upstart.
“I’ll change all this,” thought Peter to himself—I’ll have a gate-legged
table and Jacobean chairs.
The room was empty, but the agents wife had heard him come in.
“That you, Mr. Alard? I thought you’d be over. Mr. Greening’s gone to
Winterland this morning. They were complaining about their roof. He said
he’d be back before lunch.”
Peter shook hands with Mrs. Greening and received rather abstractedly
her congratulations on his return. He was wondering if she knew he was
to supplant them at Starvecrow.
She did, for she referred to it the next minute, and to his relief did
not seem to resent the change.
“We’re getting old people, and for some time I’ve been wanting to move
into the town. It’ll be a good thing to have you here, Mr. Alard—bring
all the tenants more in touch with the family. Not that Sir John doesn’t
do a really amazing amount of work....”
She rambled on, then suddenly apologised for having to leave him—a
grandchild staying in the house was ill.
“Shall you wait for Mr. Greening? I’m afraid he won’t be in for an hour
at least.”
“I’ll wait for a bit anyway. I’ve some letters to write.”
He went into the office and sat down. The big ugly rolltop desk was
littered with papers—memoranda, bills, estimates, plans of farms, lists
of stock-prices. He cleared a space, seized a couple of sheets of the
estate note-paper, and began to write.
“My loveliest Stella,” he wrote.
§ 7
He had nearly covered the two sheets when the rattle of a car sounded in
the drive below. He looked up eagerly and went to the window, but it was
only Gervase lurching over the ruts in the Ford, just scraping past the
wall as he swung round outside the house, just avoiding a collision with
an outstanding poplar, after the usual manner of his driving.
The next minute he was in the office.
“Hullo! They told me you were over here. I’ve just fetched my luggage
from Robertsbridge.”
He sat down on the writing-table and lit a cigarette. Peter hastily
covered up his letter. Why did Gervase come bothering him now?
“I wanted to speak to you,” continued his brother. “You’ll be the best
one to back me up against Father.”
“What is it now?” asked Peter discouragingly.
“An idea came to me while I was driving over. I often get ideas when I
drive, and this struck me as rather a good one. I think it would be just
waste for me to go to a crammer’s and then to Oxford. I don’t want to go
in for the church or the bar or schoolmastering or anything like that,
and I don’t see why the family should drop thousands on my education
just because I happen to be an Alard. I want to go in for engineering in
some way and you don’t need any ’Varsity for that. I could go into some
sort of a shop....”
“Well, if the way you drive a car is any indication——”
“I can drive perfectly well when I think about it. Besides, that won’t
be my job. I want to learn something in the way of construction and all
that. I always was keen, and it strikes me now that I’d much better go
in for that sort of thing than something which won’t pay for years.
There may be some sort of a premium to fork out, but it’ll be nothing
compared to what it would cost to send me to Oxford.”
“You talk as if we were paupers,” growled Peter.
“Well, so we are, aren’t we?” said Gervase brightly. “Jenny was talking
to me about it last night. She says we pay thousands a year in interest
on mortgages, and as for paying them off and selling the land, which is
the only thing that can help us....”
“I don’t see that it’s your job, anyway.”
“But I could help. Really it seems a silly waste to send me to Oxford
when I don’t want to go.”
“You need Oxford more than any man I know. If you went there you might
pick up some notions of what’s done, and get more like other people.”
“I shouldn’t get more like other people, only more like other Oxford
men.”
Peter scowled. He intensely disapproved of the kid’s verbal nimbleness,
which his more weighty, more reputable argument could only lumber after.
“You’ve got to remember you’re a gentleman’s son,” he remarked in a
voice which suggested sitting down just as Gervase’s had suggested a
skip and a jump.
“Well, lots of them go in for engineering. We’re in such a groove. I
daresay you think this is just a sudden idea of mine——”
“You’ve just told me it is.”
“I know, but I’ve been thinking for ages that I didn’t want to go to
Oxford. If I took up engineering I could go into a shop at Ashford....
But I’ll have to talk to Father about it. I expect he’ll be frightfully
upset—the only Alard who hasn’t been to the Varsity and all that ...
but, on the other hand, he’s never bothered about me so much as about
you and George, because there’s no chance of my coming into the estate.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” gibed Peter.
“Yes, of course, you might both die just to spite me—but it wouldn’t be
sporting of you. I don’t want to be Sir Gervase Alard, Bart.—I’d much
rather be Alard and Co., Motor-engineers.”
“You damn well shan’t be that.”
“Well, it’s a long time ahead, anyway. But do back me up against Father
about not going to Oxford. It really ought to help us a lot if I don’t
go—a son at the ’Varsity’s a dreadful expense, and when that son’s me,
it’s a waste into the bargain.”
“Well, I’ll see about it. My idea is that you need Oxford more
than—hullo, who’s that?”
“Dr. Mount,” said Gervase looking out of the window.
Peter rose and looked out too, in time to see the doctor’s car turning
in the sweep. This morning he himself was not at the wheel, but was
driven by what looked like a warm bundle of furs with a pair of bright
eyes looking out between collar and cap.
Peter opened the window.
“Stella!” he cried.
§ 8
A minute later Stella Mount was in the room. Gervase had not seen her
for several years; during the greater part of the war she had been away
from home, first at a munition factory, then as an auxiliary driver to
the Army Service Corps. When last they had met the gulf between the
schoolboy of fourteen and the girl of twenty had yawned much wider than
between the youth of eighteen and the young woman of twenty-four. Stella
looked, if anything, younger than she had looked four years ago, and he
was also of an age to appreciate her beauty which he had scarcely
noticed on the earlier occasions.
In strict point of fact Stella was not so much beautiful as pretty, for
there was nothing classic in her little heart-shaped face, with its wide
cheek-bones, pointed chin and puckish nose. On the other hand there was
nothing of that fragile, conventional quality which prettiness is
understood to mean. Everything about Stella was healthy, warm and
living—her plump little figure, the glow on her cheeks, the shine of her
grey eyes between their lashes, like pools among reeds, the decision of
her chin and brows, the glossy, tumbling masses of her hair, all spoke
of strength and vigour, a health that was almost hardy.
She came into the room like a flame, and Gervase felt his heart warming.
Then he remembered that she was Peter’s—Jenny had said so, though she
had not blessed Peter’s possession.
“How d’you do, Stella?” he said, “it’s ages since we met. Do you know
who I am?”
“Of course I do. You haven’t altered much, except in height. You’ve left
Winchester for good now, haven’t you?”
“Yes—and I’ve just been arguing with Peter about what I’m to do with
myself now I’m home.”
“How very practical of you! I hope Peter was helpful.”
“Not in the least.”
He could feel Peter’s eyes upon him, telling him to get out of the way
and leave him alone with his bright flame....
“Well, I must push off—they may be wanting the Ford at home.”
He shook hands with Stella, nodded to Peter, and went out.
For a moment Peter and Stella faced each other in silence. Then Peter
came slowly up to her and took her in his arms, hiding his face in her
neck.
“O Stella—O my beauty!...”
She did not speak, but her arms crept round him. They could scarcely
meet behind his broad back—she loved this feeling of girth which she
could not compass, combined as it was with a queer tender sense of his
helplessness, of his dependence on her——
“O Peter,” she whispered—“my little Peter....”
“I was writing to you, darling, when you came.”
“And I was on my way to see you at Conster. Father was going there after
he’d called on little Joey Greening. I wouldn’t come yesterday—I thought
your family would be all over you, and I didn’t like....”
She broke off the sentence and he made no effort to trim the ragged end.
Her reference to his family brought back into his thoughts the
conversation he had had with his father over the wine. She had always
felt his family as a cloud, as a barrier between them, and it would be
difficult to tell her that now he was the heir, now he was home from the
war, instead of being removed the cloud would be heavier and the barrier
stronger.
“I’m so glad you came here”—he breathed into her hair—“that our first
meeting’s at Starvecrow.”
“Yes—I’m glad, too.”
Peter sat down in the leather-covered office chair, holding Stella on
his knee.
“Child—they’re going to give me Starvecrow.”
“O Peter!”...
“Yes—Greening wants to leave, and my father’s making me agent in his
place.”
“How lovely! Shall you come and live here?”
“Yes.”
The monosyllable came gruffly because of the much more that he wanted to
say. It was a shame to have such reserves spoil their first meeting.
“I’m so awfully, wonderfully glad, Peter darling.”
She hid her soft, glowing face in his neck—she was lying on his breast
like a child, but deliciously heavy, her feet swung off the floor.
“Stella—my sweetheart—beautiful....”
His love for her gave him a sweet wildness of heart, and he who was
usually slow of tongue, became almost voluble——
“Oh, I’ve longed for this—I’ve thought of this, dreamed of this.... And
you’re lovelier than ever, you dear.... Stella, sweetheart, let me look
into your eyes—close to—like that ... your eyelashes turn back like the
petals of a flower.... O you wonderful, beautiful thing ... And it’s so
lovely we should have met here instead of at home—the dearest person in
the dearest place ... Stella at Starvecrow.”
“Starvycrow,” she repeated gently.
For a moment he felt almost angry that she should have used his name—his
private music. But his anger melted into his love. She used his name
because she, alone in all the world, felt his feelings and thought his
thoughts. Perhaps she did not love Starvecrow quite as he did, but she
must love it very nearly as much or she would not call it by its secret
name. They sat in silence, her head upon his shoulder, his arms about
her, gathering her up on his knees. On the hearth a log fire softly
hummed and sighed. Ages seemed to flow over them, the swift eternities
of love.... Then suddenly a voice called “Stella!” from the drive.
She started up, and the next moment was on her feet, pushing away her
hair under her cap, buttoning her high collar over her chin.
“How quick Father’s been! I feel as if I’d only just come.”
“You must come again.”
“I’m coming to dinner on Christmas day, you know.”
“That doesn’t count. I want you here.”
“And I want to be here with you—always.”
The last word was murmured against his lips as he kissed her at the
door. He was not quite sure if he had heard it. During the rest of the
morning he sometimes feared not—sometimes hoped not.
§ 9
“It will be a green Christmas,” said Dr. Mount.
Stella made no answer. The little car sped through the lanes at the back
of Benenden. They had driven far—to the very edge of the doctor’s
wide-flung practice, by Hawkhurst and Skullsgate, beyond the Kent Ditch.
They had called at both the Nineveh farms—Great Nineveh and Little
Nineveh—and had now turned south again. The delicate blue sky was
drifted over with low pinkish clouds, which seemed to sail very close to
the field where their shadows moved; the shadows swooped down the lane
with the little car, rushing before it into Sussex. Stella loved racing
the sky.
On her face, on her neck, she could still feel cold places where Peter
had kissed her. It was wonderful and beautiful, she thought, that she
should carry the ghosts of his kisses through Sussex and Kent. And now
she would not have so long to be content with ghosts—there would not be
those terrible intervals of separation. She would see Peter again soon,
and the time would come—must come—when they would be together always.
“Together always” was the fulfilment of Stella’s dream. “They married
and were together always” sounded better in her ears than “they married
and lived happy ever after.” No more partings, no more ghosts of kisses,
much as she loved those ghosts, but always the dear, warm bodily
presence—Peter working, Peter resting, Peter sleepy, Peter hungry, Peter
talking, Peter silent—Peter always.
“It will be a green Christmas,” repeated Dr. Mount.
“Er—did you speak, Father dear?”
“Yes, I said it would be a gr——but never mind, I’m sure your thoughts
are more interesting than anything I could say.”
Stella blushed. She and her father had a convention of silence between
them in regard to Peter. He knew all about him, of course, but they both
pretended that he didn’t; because Stella felt she had no right to tell
him until Peter had definitely asked her to be his wife. And he had not
asked her yet. When they had first fallen in love, Hugh Alard was still
alive and the second son’s prospects were uncertain; then when Hugh was
killed and Peter became the heir, there was still the war, and she knew
that her stolid, Saxon Peter disapproved of war-weddings and grass
widows who so often became widows indeed. He had told her then he could
not marry her till after the war, and she had treated that negative
statement as the beginning of troth between them. She had never
questioned or pressed him—it was not her way—she had simply taken him
for granted. She had felt that he could not, any more than she, be
satisfied with less than “together always.”
But now she felt that something definite must happen soon, and their
tacit understanding become open and glorious. His family would
disapprove, she knew, though they liked her personally and owed a great
deal to her father. But Stella, outside and unaware, made light of
Conster’s opposition. Peter was thirty-six and had five hundred a year
of his own, so in her opinion could afford to snap his fingers at Alard
tyranny. Besides, she felt sure the family would “come round”—they would
be disappointed at first, but naturally they wouldn’t expect Peter to
give up his love-choice simply because she had no money. She would be
glad when things were open and acknowledged, for though her secret was a
very dear one, she was sometimes worried by her own shifts to keep it,
and hurt by Peter’s. It hurt her that he should have to pretend not to
care about her when they met in public—but not so much as it would have
hurt her if he hadn’t done it so badly.
“Well, now he’s back, I suppose Peter will take the eldest son’s place,”
said Dr. Mount, “and help his father manage the property.”
“Yes—he told me this morning that Sir John wants him to be agent instead
of Mr. Greening, and he’s to live at Starvecrow.”
“At Starvecrow! You’ll like that—I mean, it’s nice to think Peter won’t
have to go back and work in London. I always felt he belonged here more
than Hugh.”
“Yes, I don’t think Hugh cared for the place very much, but Peter always
did. It always seemed hard lines that he should be the second son.”
“Poor Hugh,” said Dr. Mount—“he was very like Peter in many ways—Sober
and solid and kind-hearted; but he hadn’t Peter’s imagination.”
“Peter’s very sensitive,” said Stella—“in spite of his being such a big,
heavy thing.”
Then she smiled, and said in her heart—“Peter’s mine.”
§ 10
Christmas was celebrated at Conster in the manner peculiar to houses
where there is no religion and no child. Tradition compelled the various
members of the family to give each other presents which they did not
want and to eat more food than was good for them; it also compelled them
to pack unwillingly into the Wolsey car and drive to Leasan church,
where they listened in quite comprehensible boredom to a sermon by
brother George. Peter was able to break free from this last
superstition, and took himself off to the office at Starvecrow—his
family’s vague feeling of unrest at his defection being compensated by
the thought that there really wouldn’t have been room for him in the
car.
But Starvecrow was dim and sodden on this green Christmas day, full of a
muggy cloud drifting up from the Tillingham, and Peter was still sore
from the amenities of the Christmas breakfast table—that ghastly effort
to be festive because it was Christmas morning, that farce of exchanging
presents—all those empty rites of a lost childhood and a lost faith. He
hated Christmas.
Also he wanted Stella, and she was not to be had. She too had gone to
church—which he would not have minded, if she had not had the
alternative of being with him here at Starvecrow. He did not at all
object to religion in women as long as they kept it in its proper place.
But Stella did not keep hers in its proper place—she let it interfere
with her daily life—with his ... and she had not gone to church at
Leasan, which was sanctified to Peter by the family patronage and the
family vault, but to Vinehall, where they did not even have the
decencies of Dearly Beloved Brethren, but embarrassing mysteries which
he felt instinctively to be childish and in bad taste.
In Stella’s home this Christmas there would be both religion and
children, the latter being represented by her father and herself. Last
night when he called at Hollingrove—Dr. Mount’s cottage on the road
between Leasan and Vinehall—to ask her to meet him here today at
Starvecrow, he had found her decorating a Christmas tree, to be put in
the church, of all places. She had asked him to stop and go with her and
her father to the Midnight Mass—“Do come, Peter—we’re going to make such
a lovely noise at the Gloria in Excelsis. Father Luce has given the boys
trays to bang this year.” But Peter had declined, partly because he
disapproved of tray-banging as a means of giving glory to God, but
mostly because he was hurt that Stella should prefer going to church to
being with him at Starvecrow.
She had made a grave mistake, if only she’d known it—leaving him here by
himself today, with his time free to think about her, and memories of
her dark side still fresh in his mind. For Stella had her dark side,
like the moon, though generally you saw as little of it as the moon’s.
In nearly all ways she was Peter’s satisfaction. He loved her with body
and mind, indeed with a sort of spiritual yearning. He loved her for her
beauty, her sense, her warmth, her affectionate disposition which
expressed itself naturally in love, her freedom from affectation, and
also from any pretensions to wit or cleverness, and other things which
he distrusted. But for two things he loved her not—her religion and her
attitude towards his family.
Hitherto neither had troubled him much. Their meetings had been so few
that they had had but little talk of anything save love. He had merely
realised that though she held the country round Vinehall and Leasan as
dear as even his idolatry demanded she was very little impressed with
the importance of the family to whom that country belonged. But up in
London that had scarcely mattered. He had also realised that Stella, as
she put it, “tried to be good.” At first he had thought her wanton—her
ready reception of his advances, her ardent affection, her unguarded
manner, had made him think she was like the many young women filling
London in those years, escaped from quiet homes into a new atmosphere of
freedom and amorousness, making the most of what might be short-lived
opportunities. But he was glad when he discovered his mistake. Peter
approved of virtue in women, though he had occasionally taken advantage
of its absence. He certainly would never have married a woman who was
not virtuous, and he soon discovered that he wanted to marry Stella.
But in those days everything flowed like a stream—nothing was firm,
nothing stood still. Things were different now—they could flow no
longer, they must be established; it was now that Peter realised how
much greater these two drawbacks were than they had seemed at first.
Stella’s religion did not consist merely in preserving his treasure
whole till he was ready to claim it, but in queer ways of denial and
squander, exacting laws, embarrassing consecrations. And her attitude
towards the family gave him almost a feeling of insult—she was so
casual, so unaware ... she did not seem to trouble herself with its
requirements and prohibitions. She did not seem to realise that the
House of Alard was the biggest thing on earth—so big that it could crush
her and Peter, their hope and romance, into dust. But she would soon
find out what it was—whether they married or not, she would find out.
Sometimes—for instance, today—he was almost savagely glad when he
thought how sure she was to find out. Sometimes he was angry with her
for her attitude towards the family, and for all that she took for
granted in his. He knew that she expected him to marry her whatever
happened—with a naïvety which occasionally charmed but more often
irritated him. She imagined that if his father refused to let them live
at Starvecrow, he would take her and live with her in some cottage on
five hundred a year ... and watch the place go to ruin without him. She
would be sorry not to have Starvecrow, but she would not care about
anything else—she would not fret in the least about the estate or the
outraged feelings of those who looked to him to help them. She would not
even have cared if his father had had it in his power—which he had
not—to prevent her ever becoming Lady Alard. Stella did not care two
pins about being Lady Alard—all she wanted was to be Mrs. Peter. He had
loved her for her disinterestedness, but now he realised that it had its
drawbacks. He saw that his choice had fallen on a woman who was not a
good choice for Alard—not merely because she had no money, but because
she had no pride. He could not picture her at Conster—lady of the Manor.
He could picture her at Starvecrow, but not at Conster.
... He bowed his head upon the table—it felt heavy with his thought.
Stella was the sweetest, loveliest thing in life, and sometimes he felt
that her winning was worth any sacrifice, and that he would pay her
price not only with his own renunciation but with all the hopes of his
house. But some unmovable, fundamental part of him showed her to him as
an infatuation, a witch-light, leading him away from the just claims of
his people and his land, urging him to a cruel betrayal of those who
trusted to him for rescue.
After all, he had known her only a year. In a sense, of course, he had
known her from her childhood, when she had first come with her father to
Vinehall, but he had not loved her till he had met her in London a year
ago. Only a year.... To Peter’s conservative soul a year was nothing.
For nearly two hundred years the Alards had owned Starvecrow—and they
had been at Conster for three hundred more. Was he going to sacrifice
those century-old associations for the passion of a short year? He had
loved her only a year, and these places he had loved all his life—and
not his life only, but the lives of those who had come before him,
forefathers whose spirit lived in him, with love for the land which was
his and theirs.
§ 11
The Christmas tension at the Manor was relieved at dinnertime by the
arrival of George Alard and his wife, Dr. Mount and Stella, and a young
man supposed to be in love with Jenny. A family newly settled at the
Furnace had also been invited and though it had always been the custom
at Conster to invite one or two outside people to the Christmas dinner,
Rose Alard considered that this year’s hospitality had gone too far.
“It’s all very well to have Dr. Mount and Stella,” she said to Doris,
“but who are these Hursts? They haven’t been at the Furnace six months.”
“They’re very rich, I believe,” said Doris.
“They may be—but no one knows how they made their money. I expect it was
in trade,” and Rose sniffed, as if she smelt it.
“There’s a young man, I think; perhaps he’ll marry Jenny—he’s too young
for me.”
“But Jenny’s engaged to Jim Parish, isn’t she?”
“Not that it counts—he hasn’t got a bean, or any prospects either. We
don’t talk of them as engaged.”
“Is she in love with him?”
“How can I possibly tell?” snapped Doris, who had had a trying afternoon
with her mother, and had also been given “The Christian Year” for the
second time as a present from Rose.
“Well, don’t bite my head off. I’m sure I hope she isn’t, and that
she’ll captivate this young Hurst, whoever he is. Then it won’t be
so bad having them here, though otherwise I should feel inclined
to protest; for poor George is worn out after four services and
two sermons, and it’s rather hard to expect him to talk to
strangers—especially on Christmas day.”
Doris swallowed her resentment audibly—she would not condescend to
quarrel with Rose, whom she looked upon much as Rose herself looked upon
the Hursts, George having married rather meanly in the suburb of his
first curacy.
When the Hursts arrived, they consisted of agreeable, vulgar parents, a
smart, modern-looking daughter and a good-looking son. Unfortunately,
the son was soon deprived of his excuse as a possible husband for Jenny
by his mother’s ready reference to “Billy’s feeonsay”—but it struck both
Rose and Doris separately and simultaneously that it would do just as
well if the daughter Dolly married Peter. She really was an
extraordinarily attractive girl, with her thick golden hair cut square
upon her ears like a mediæval page’s. She was clever, too—had read all
the new books and even met some of the new authors. Never, thought Rose
and Doris, had wealth been so attractively baited or “trade” been so
effectively disguised. It was a pity Peter was in such bad form tonight,
sitting there beside her, half-silent, almost sullen.
Peter knew that Dolly Hurst was attractive, he knew that she was clever,
he knew that she was rich, he knew that she had come out of the
gutter—and he guessed that his people had asked her to Conster tonight
in hopes that through him her riches might save the house of Alard. All
this knowledge crowned by such a guess had the effect of striking him
dumb, and by the time Wills and the footmen had ushered in with much
ceremony a huge, burnt turkey, his neighbour had almost entirely given
up her efforts to “draw him out,” and had turned in despair to George
Alard on her right.
Peter sat gazing unhappily at Stella. She was next to Gervase, and was
evidently amusing him, to judge by the laughter which came across the
table. That was so like Stella ... she could always make you laugh. She
wasn’t a bit clever, but she saw and said things in a funny way. She was
looking devilish pretty tonight, too—her hair was done in such a pretty
way, low over her forehead and ears, and her little head was round and
shining like a bun ... the little darling ... and how well that blue
frock became her—showing her dear, lovely neck ... yes, he thought he’d
seen it before, but it looked as good as new. Stella was never
tumbled—except just after he had kissed her ... the little sweet.
He was reacting from his thoughts of her that morning—he felt a little
ashamed of them. After all, why shouldn’t she have gone to church if she
wanted to? Wasn’t it better than having no religion at all, like many of
the hard young women of his class who shocked his war-born agnosticism
with theirs?—or than having a religion which involved the whole solar
system and a diet of nuts? And as for her treatment of his family—surely
her indifference was better than the eager subservience more usually
found—reverence for a title, an estate, and a place in the charmed
exclusiveness of the “County.” No, he would be a fool if he sacrificed
Stella for any person or thing whatsoever. He had her to consider, too.
She loved him, and he knew that, though no troth had yet passed between
them, she considered herself bound to the future. What would she say if
she knew he did not consider himself so bound?... Well, he must bind
himself—or let her go free.
He longed to talk to her, but his opportunity dragged. To his
restlessness it seemed as if the others were trying to keep them apart.
There was Gervase, silly fool, going out with the women as usual and
sitting beside her in the drawing-room—there was George, sillier fool,
keeping the men back in the dining-room while he told Mr. Hurst exactly
why he had not gone for an army chaplain. Then directly they had joined
the ladies, both Doris and Rose shot up simultaneously from beside Dolly
Hurst and disposed of themselves one beside Lady Alard, the other beside
Stella. He had to sit down and try again to be intelligent. It was worse
than ever, for he was watching all the time for Miss Hurst to empty her
coffee-cup—then he would go and put it down on the Sheraton table, which
was not so far from Stella, and after that he would sit down beside
Stella no matter how aggressively Rose was sitting on her other side.
The coffee-cup was emptied in the middle of a discussion on the relative
reputations of Wells and Galsworthy. Peter immediately forgot what he
was saying....
“Let me put your cup down for you.”
He did not wait for a reply, but the next minute he was on the other
side of the room. He realised that he had been incredibly silly and
rude, but it was too late to atone, for Jim Parish, Jenny’s ineligible
young man, had sat down in the chair he had left.
Stella was talking to Rose, but she turned round when Peter came up and
made room beside her on the sofa. Rose felt annoyed—she thought Stella’s
manner was “encouraging,” and began to say something about the sofa
being too cramped for three. However, at that moment Lady Alard called
her to come and hear about Mrs. Hurst’s experiences in London on
Armistice Day, and she had regretfully to leave the two ineligibles
together, with the further complication that the third ineligible was
sitting beside Dolly Hurst—and though Jim Parish was supposed to be in
love with Jenny, everyone knew he was just as much in need of a rich
wife as Peter.
“Stella,” said Peter in a low voice—“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry! What for, my dear?”
He realised that of course she did not know what he had been thinking of
her that morning.
“Everything,” he mumbled, apologizing vaguely for the future as well as
the past.
Stella had thought that perhaps this evening “something would happen.”
At Conster—on Christmas night ... the combination seemed imperative. But
Peter did not, as she had hoped, draw her out of that crowded,
overheated room into some quiet corner of the house or under the cold,
dark curtains of the night. Peter could not quite decide against the
family—he must give it time to plead. He leaned back on the sofa, his
eyes half-closed, tired and silent, yet with a curious peace at his
heart.
“You’re tired, boy,” said Stella—“what have you been doing today?”
“I’ve had a hateful day—and I _was_ tired—dog tired; but I’m not tired
any longer now—now I’m with you.”
“Oh, Peter, am I restful?”
“Yes, my dear.”
Stella was satisfied. She felt that was enough—she did not ask anything
more of the night.
§ 12
It was Gervase, not Peter, who lay awake that night, thinking of Stella
Mount. He had been glad when he was told to take her in to dinner, and
the meal which had been so unspeakably trying to his brother had passed
delightfully for him. On his other side sat Doris, deep in conversation
with Charles Hurst, so he did not have to bother about her—he could talk
to Stella, who was so easy to talk to....
Afterwards in the drawing-room he had not felt so easy. He knew that he
must not monopolise Stella, for she was Peter’s. So when he heard the
men crossing the hall, he made some excuse and left her, to see Rose sit
down by her side directly Peter came in. He was glad when poor old Peter
had managed to get near her at last ... though he hadn’t seemed to make
much of his opportunities. He had sat beside her, stupid and silent,
scarcely speaking a word all the evening through.
Upstairs in bed, in his little misshapen room under the north gable,
where he had slept ever since the night-nursery was given up, Gervase
shut his eyes and thought of Stella. She came before the darkness of his
closed eyes in her shining blue dress—a dress like midnight.... She was
the first woman he had really noticed since in far-back childish days he
had had an infatuation for his rather dull daily governess—his
“beautiful Miss Turner” as he had called her and thought of her
still.... But Stella was different—she was less of a cloud and a
goddess, more of a breathing person. He wondered—was he falling in love?
It was silly to fall in love with Stella, who was six years older than
he ... though people said that when boys fell in love it was generally
with women older than themselves. But he mustn’t do it. Stella was
Peter’s.... Was she?... Or was it merely true that he wanted to take her
and she wanted to be taken?
He did not think there was any engagement, any promise. Circumstances
might finally keep them apart. Rose, Doris, Jenny, his father and
mother—the whole family—did not want Peter to marry Stella Mount whose
face was her fortune. It was the same everlasting need of money that was
making the same people, except Jenny of course, shrug at poor Jim
Parish, whose people in their turn shrugged at portionless Jenny.
Money—money ... that was what the Squires wanted—what they must have if
their names were to remain in the old places.
Gervase felt rather angry with Peter. He was angry to think that he who
had the power was divided as to the will. How was it possible that he
could stumble at such a choice? What was money, position, land or
inheritance compared to simple, solid happiness?... He buried his face
in the pillow, and a kind of horror seized him at the cruel ways of
things. It was as if a bogey was in the room—the kind that used to be
there when he was a child, but no longer visible in the heeling shadows
round the nightlight, rather an invisible sickness, the fetish of the
Alards dancing in triumph over Stella and Peter.
It was strange that he should be so hurt by what was after all not his
tragedy—he was not really in love with Stella, only felt that, given
freedom for her and a few more years for him, he could have been and
would have been. And he was not so much hurt as frightened. He was
afraid because life seemed to him at once so trivial and so gross. The
things over which people agonised were, after all, small shoddy
things—earth and halfpence; to see them have such power to crush hopes
and deform lives was like seeing a noble tree eaten up by insects. In
time he too would be eaten up ... No, no! He must save himself, somehow.
He must find happiness somewhere. But how?
When he tried to think, he was afraid. He remembered what he used to do
in the old days when he was so dreadfully afraid in this room. He used
to draw up his knees to his chin and pray—pray frantically in his fear.
That was before he had heard about the Ninety-nine Just Sheep being left
for the one that was lost; directly he had heard that story he had given
up saying his prayers, for fear he should be a Just Sheep, when he would
so much rather be the lost one, because the shepherd loved it and had
carried it in his arms.... He must have been a queer sort of kid. Now
all that was gone—religion ... the school chapel, confirmation classes,
manly Christians, the Bishop’s sleeves ... he could scarcely realise
those dim delicate raptures he had had as a child—his passionate
interest in that dear Friend and God walking the earth ... all the
wonderful things he had pondered in his heart. Religion was so different
after you were grown up. It became an affair of earth and halfpence like
everything else.
Stella’s religion still seemed to have some colour left in it, some
life, some youth. It was more like his childhood’s faith than anything
he had met so far. She had told him tonight that there were two
Christmas trees in church, one each side of the Altar, all bright with
the glass balls and birds that had made his childhood’s Christmas trees
seem almost supernatural.... Yggdrasils decked for the eternal Yule ...
he was falling asleep.... He was sorry for Stella. She had told him too
about the Christmas Crib, the little straw house she had built in the
church for Mary and Joseph and the Baby, for the ox and the ass and the
shepherds and their dogs and the lambs they could not leave behind....
She had told him that she never thought of Christ as being born in
Bethlehem, but in the barn at the back of the Plough Inn at Udimore....
He saw the long road running into the sunrise, wet and shining, red with
an angry morning. Someone was coming along it carrying a lamb ... was it
the lost sheep—or just one of the lambs the shepherds could not leave
behind? ... all along the road the trees were hung with glass balls and
many-coloured birds. He could feel Stella beside him, though he could
not see her. She was trying to make him come with her to the inn. She
was saying “Come, Peter—oh, do come, Peter,” and he seemed to be Peter
going with her. Then suddenly he knew he was not Peter, and the earth
roared and the trees flew up into the sky, which shook and flamed.... He
must be falling asleep.
§ 13
Gervase’s feelings towards Alard being what they were, anybody might
wonder he should think of giving up Oxford for the family’s sake.
Indeed, he almost changed his mind in the throes of that wakeful,
resentful night, and resolved to take his expensive way to Christ’s or
Balliol. But by morning he had come to see himself more clearly and to
laugh at his own pretences. He wasn’t “giving up” Oxford—he didn’t want
to go there—he had always shrunk from the thought of Oxford life with
its patterns and conventions—and then at the end of it he would still be
his father’s youngest son, drawing a youngest son’s allowance from
depleted coffers. He would far rather learn his job as an engineer and
win an early independence. Going to his work every morning, meeting all
sorts of men, rough and smooth, no longer feeling irrevocably shut up in
a class, a cult, a tradition ... in that way he might really win freedom
and defy the house of Alard. “My name’s Gervase Alard,” he said to
himself—“and I’m damned if Gervase shall be sacrificed to Alard, for
he’s the most important of the two.”
If only he could persuade his father to see as he saw—not quite, of
course, but near enough to let him make a start. Peter had not seen very
well, still he had nearly agreed when the argument was broken up. Sir
John must be found in a propitious hour.
The next day provided none such, for Christmas had not unexpectedly
brought a return of the Squire’s twinges, but these passed off with
unusual quickness, and on Innocents’ Day his indomitable pluck mounted
him once again on his grey horse to ride round the farms. Gervase found
him finishing his breakfast when he came down for his own, and seeing by
whip and gaiters what was planned, he realised that a favourable time
had come. So he rushed into his request while he was helping himself to
bacon.
To his surprise his father heard him without interruption.
“Have you any bent for engineering?” he asked at the end.
“Oh, yes, Sir. I can drive any sort of car and mess about with their
insides. I always was keen.”
“You’ve been keen on a good many things if I remember right, but not
always proficient. All my sons have been to Oxford.”
“But think what a lot it ’ud cost you, Sir, to send me.”
“I expect it ’ud cost me nearly as much to make an engineer of you.”
“Oh, no, Sir—you’ll only have to plank down about a hundred to start
with, and in time they’ll pay me some sort of a screw. And if I go into
a shop at Ashford I can live at home and cost you nothing.”
“You think you’ll cost nothing to keep at home? What ull you live on,
you damned fool?”
“Oh, relatively I meant, Sir. And if I get, say, fifteen bob a week, as
I shall in time....”
“It’ll be a proud day for me, of course.”
“Things have changed since the war, and lots of chaps who’d have gone up
to the ’Varsity now go straight into works—there’s Hugh’s friend, Tom
Daubernon, opened a garage at Colchester....”
“That will be your ambition in life—to open a garage?”
“No, Sir—Alard and Co., motor-engineers and armament makers—that’s my
job, and not so bad either. Think of Krupps.”
Sir John laughed half angrily.
“You impudent rascal! Have it your own way—after all, it’ll suit me
better to pay down a hundred for you to cover yourself with oil and
grease than a thousand for you to get drunk two nights a week at
Oxford” ... a remark which affected Gervase in much the same way as the
remark on “little women” had affected Peter.
The conversation was given a more romantic colour when Sir John retailed
it to Peter on the edge of the big ploughed field by Glasseye Farm.
Peter was going out after duck on the Tillingham marshes—he had that
particularly solitary look of a man who is out alone with a gun.
“I must say I think the boy has behaved extremely well,” said his
father—“it must have cost him a lot to give up Oxford. He thinks more of
our position than I imagined.”
“I don’t see that it’ll add much to the dignity of our position to have
him in a workshop.”
“It mayn’t add much to our dignity—but he’s only the youngest son. And
what we want more than dignity is money.”
“Gervase giving up Oxford won’t save you more than a few hundred, and
what’s that when it’ll take fifty thousand to pay off the mortgages?”
“You’re a sulky dog, Peter,” said Sir John. “If you’d only do as well as
your brother, perhaps you could pull us out of this.”
“What d’you mean, Sir?”
“Gervase has done his best and given up the only thing he had to give
up—Oxford. If you could sink your personal wishes for the family’s
sake....”
Peter turned crimson and his pale Saxon eyes darkened curiously.
“D’you know what I mean?” continued his father.
“You mean marry a rich woman ... you want me to marry Dolly Hurst.”
For a moment Sir John was silent, then he said in an unexpectedly
controlled voice——
“Well, what’s wrong with Dolly Hurst?”
“Nothing that I know of ... but then I know nothing ... and I don’t
care.”
“I’m told,” continued the baronet, still calmly, “that you have already
formed an attachment.”
“Who told you?”
“Never mind who. The point is, I understand there is such an
attachment.”
Peter sought for words and found none. While he was still seeking, Sir
John shook the reins, and the grey horse moved off heavily up the side
of the field.
§ 14
On the spur of the hill below Barline stands that queer edifice known as
Mocksteeple. It has from the distance a decided look of a steeple, its
tarred cone being visible for many miles down the river Tillingham. It
was built early in the eighteenth century by an eccentric Sir Giles
Alard, brother of non-juring Gervase and buyer of Starvecrow. A man of
gallantries, he required a spot at which to meet his lady friends, and
raised up Mocksteeple for their accommodation—displaying a fine cynicism
both towards the neighbours’ opinion—for his tryst was a landmark to all
the district—and towards the ladies themselves, whose comforts could
have been but meagrely supplied in its bare, funnel-shaped interior.
Today it had sunk to a store-house and was full of hop-poles when Peter
approached it from the marshes and sat down to eat his sandwiches in the
sunshine that, even on a December day, had power to draw a smell of tar
from its walls. At his feet squatted the spaniel Breezy, with
sentimental eyes fixed on Peter’s gun and the brace of duck that lay
beside it. Peter’s boots and leggings were caked with mud, and his hands
were cold as they fumbled with his sandwiches. It was not a good day to
have lunch out of doors, even in that tar-smelling sunshine, but
anything was better than facing the family round the table at
Conster—their questions, their comments, their inane remarks....
It was queer how individually and separately his family irritated him,
whereas collectively they were terrible with banners. His father, his
mother, Doris, Jenny, George, Gervase—so much tyranny, so much
annoyance ... the Family—a war-cry, a consecration. It was probably
because the Family did not merely stand for those at Conster now, but
for Alards dead and gone, from the first Gervase to the last, a whole
communion of saints.... If Conster had to be sold, or stripped to its
bare bones, it would not be only the family now sitting at luncheon that
would rise and upbraid him, but all those who slept in Leasan churchyard
and in the south aisle at Winchelsea.
Beside him, facing them all, would stand only one small woman. Would her
presence be enough to support him when all those forefathers were
dishonoured, all those dear places reproached him?—Glasseye, Barline,
Dinglesden, Snailham, Ellenwhorne, Starvecrow ... torn away from the
central heart and become separate spoil ... just for Stella, whom he had
loved only a year.
Leaning against the wall of the Mocksteeple, Peter seemed to hear the
voice of the old ruffian who had built it speaking to him out of the
tar—deriding him because he would take love for life and house it in a
Manor, whereas love is best when taken for a week and housed in any
convenient spot. But Peter had never been able to take love for a week.
Even when he had had adventures he had taken them seriously—those
independent, experience-hunting young women of his own class who had
filled the place in his life which “little women” and “French dancers”
had filled in his father’s. They had always found old Peter
embarrassingly faithful when they changed their minds.
Now at last he had found love, true love, in which he could stay all his
life—a shelter, a house, a home like Starvecrow. He would be a fool to
renounce it—and there was Stella to be thought of too; he did not doubt
her love for him, she would not change. Their friendship had started in
the troublesome times of war and he had given her to understand that he
could not marry till the war was over. Those unsettled conditions which
had just the opposite effect on most men, making them jump into
marriage, snatch their happiness from under the cannon wheels, had made
Peter shrink from raising a permanent relation in the midst of so much
chaos. Marriage, in his eyes, was settling down, a state to be entered
into deliberately, with much background.... And Stella had agreed, with
her lips at least, though what her heart had said was another matter.
But now the war was over, he was at home, the background was ready—she
would expect.... Already he was conscious of a sharp sense of treachery.
At the beginning of their love, Hugh had been alive and the Alard
fortunes no direct concern of Peter’s—he had expected to go back into
business and marry Stella on fifteen hundred a year. But ever since
Hugh’s death he had realised that things would be different—and he had
not told her. Naturally she would think his prospects improved—and he
had not undeceived her, though on his last leave, nine months ago, he
had guessed the bad way things were going.
He had not behaved well to her, and it was now his duty to put matters
right at once, to tell her of his choice ... if he meant to choose....
Good God! he didn’t even know yet what he ought to do—even what he
wanted to do. If he lost Stella he lost joy, warmth, laughter, love, the
last of youth—if he lost Alard he lost the First and Last Things of his
life, the very rock on which it stood. There was much in Stella which
jarred him, which made him doubt the possibility of running in easy yoke
with her, which made him fear that choosing her might lead to failure
and regret. But also there was much in Alard which fell short of
perfection—it had an awkward habit of splitting up into its component
parts, into individuals, every separate one of which hurt and vexed.
That way, too, might lead to emptiness. It seemed that whichever choice
he made he failed somebody and ran the risk of a vain sacrifice.
But he must decide. He must not hold Stella now if he did not mean to
hold her forever. He saw that. His choice must be made at once, for her
sake, not in some dim, drifting future as he had at first imagined. He
was not going to marry the Hurst girl—he almost hated her—and to marry a
girl for her money was like prostitution, even though the money was to
save not him but his. But if he was not going to marry Stella he must
act immediately. He had no right to keep her half bound now that the
time had come to take her entirely. Oh, Stella!...
Breezy the spaniel came walking over Peter’s legs, and licked his hands
in which his face was hidden.
§ 15