“But for the entail,” Ralph had remarked afterwards to Anne, “poor old Uncle Ralph would have booted me out then and there. He told me I was a degenerate Hoyle and a disgrace to the family name. I suppose it is hard luck on him he has no direct heir now.”
Anne had made no comment. Her common sense told her some such step as Ralph proposed might very well be necessary. But she meant to make very sure that it was necessary. Countess Wych, presiding over ancient and historic Castle Wych, would be a much more imposing person than a Countess Wych in a London flat or occupying the dower house which was as old and inconvenient as the castle itself, and very much less magnificent; in fact, not magnificent at all. Besides, she had a genuine sense of the historic significance of the old place, where news had come of Agincourt, from whose towers beacons had blazed to tell of the coming of the Armada, where Charles the First had first raised his standard even before flying it at Nottingham, where galloping messengers had brought so often news of peace and war, of triumph and disaster, where three times over in the war of 1914-18, telegraph boys had come cycling up the long avenue with the tidings that once again the heir had died in battle; Mesopotamia, Gallipoli, France, all taking their toll in grim succession.
Turning now her ring round and round upon her finger, she was telling herself that things would have to be very bad indeed before she would consent to parting with the old historic dwelling, for so long the seat of the family. Certainly not merely to raise money for agricultural experiments. Always she had been accustomed to getting her own way, and she meant to have it about the old house, too. Only, somehow, glancing up at Ralph, as he leaned moodily against the stone parapet, she was aware of an uncomfortable feeling that that square, stuck-out chin, those clear and steady eyes, suggested a will as decided as her own.
Then, too, there was this new development, though that, it appeared, need not be taken too seriously. Ralph himself, at any rate, who had seen and talked to the fellow, had waved him aside as an obvious, almost bare-faced impostor. And Mr. Clinton Wells, the family lawyer, was very much of the same opinion.
Only why were they all three, earl, lawyer, claimant, closeted so long in the library? Or perhaps the police had been sent for and the delay was merely till they arrived?
Bitterly she reflected, with the sense of grievance that never left her, that the claim now made would not have mattered but for the absurd and unfair sex disability under which her natural rights were disallowed. She felt herself as competent as any man to look after the estate or to take part in those activities that in England are part and parcel of an ancient title. Indeed, her clear-cut features; her chin, smaller and rounder no doubt than Ralph’s, but sticking out in much the same manner; the firm lines of her mouth, too big, like that of all the Hoyles; the direct and haughty gaze of her clear eyes so ready to show disdain or anger; all spoke of much the same reversion to the original bold-baron type whereof Ralph also seemed an example. She was a handsome rather than a pretty girl, largely made, fond of all outdoor sports, a good rider to hounds, an excellent shot, inclined to despise tennis to which she sometimes referred as ‘pat ball,’ but almost in the championship class at golf. Not that she ever really enjoyed any game so much as she enjoyed a day’s shooting—deer stalking in the Highlands for example—or a good run to hounds ending with a kill in the open. The very first thrill in her life had been the old ceremony of blooding she had gone through at the age of five, after one of the best runs the Wychshire hounds had ever known. Nor probably had Castle Wych, in all its long history, ever been so well run as since Countess Wych’s increasing age and infirmities had confined her to her room and caused the reins of management to fall into Anne’s hands. The domestic staff held her in wholesome awe, though, like the schoolboy in the story, they would probably have admitted that if she was a beast, at any rate she was a just beast.
A girl came out from the house, small and hurrying and a little breathless. She was Sophy Longden, daughter of the Reverend Louis Longden, vicar of Brimsbury Wych, the village and parish dominated by the castle. Mr. Longden had not been vicar long. It is not always easy to-day to find incumbents for small, badly endowed country livings, and the bishop had been glad to hear of an East End curate who, threatened with a breakdown after twenty years’ hard work in a poor district, was willing to exchange the smoke and noise and squalor of the East End for the fresh air and quiet of Brimsbury Wych.
The change had been very successful in filling in Sophy’s small, thin face, with the broad low forehead and the pointed chin. She was even beginning to show roses in her cheeks, and her eyes had become less strained, and quieter. Fruit and vegetables from their own garden were still a treat, bewilderingly different from the stuff of the same name, bought from London greengrocers. Nor had Sophy as yet quite recovered from her awe of the castle and those who dwelled therein, especially of the tall old man, so very upright and dignified, who treated her when they met with a lofty courtesy that not only deeply gratified her, but somehow left her more than ever conscious of the enormous difference between Earl Wych and the younger daughter of a country parson.
It had been an added wonder, a kind of Cinderella tale come true in real life, when quite unexpectedly she had found herself actually living in a real castle, rising each morning, going to bed each night, in one of England’s stately homes—Sophy knew her Mrs. Hemans—and able in her leisure time to sit with her book or sewing in one or other of those magnificent rooms; even in the west drawing-room, for instance, where, according to legend, Queen Elizabeth had once held council. It was as a kind of part secretary, part companion, part nurse to the bed-ridden Countess Wych that she was there, and though the salary was small enough, it paid for her clothes, there was one mouth less to feed at home, there was even often a little over to help her mother with the housekeeping, and she was still able to help her father in such small ways as taking a class in the Sunday school, arranging flowers in the church, and so on.
Indeed Sophy thought herself an extraordinarily lucky young person, even if she did not fully realize that she was doing twice the work any maid would have done for less than a half of the wage. Not that any one else realized it, either.
She was genuinely fond of the aged Countess Wych, and really liked to listen to those interminable tales of her young days Anne would have cut very short indeed. Of Earl Wych she stood in deep awe, tempered by a lively gratitude that he permitted her to breathe the same air as himself. Anne she worshipped from a great distance, absolutely convinced that Anne was the most perfect and altogether wonderful creature the world had ever seen. She was more than a little doubtful of Ralph, though, holding him quite unworthy of her paragon, but loyally accepting him, since Anne had deigned to do the same. Still she liked him the least of the family. She found a trifle alarming his silences, his abstractions, there was something about him she felt vaguely disturbing. Not for the world would she ever have been alone with him, and once when he had offered to drive her into Midwych on some errand or another, she had looked so startled and scared that he had burst out laughing and gone off without her.
That had been hard to forgive; for her dignity, of which she was seldom aware, had really been ruffled on that occasion. On his side he had put her down as a colourless little thing and had never since taken much notice of her. She said now, a little breathlessly:—
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know tea was ready. Would you like me to pour out, Anne?”
(Yes, she was allowed to call Anne by her Christian name, and Anne quite often called her ‘Sophy’. Countess Wych, too, who had begun with ‘Miss Longden’, had progressed to ‘Sophy’, and now seldom called her anything but ‘dear’ or ‘dear child’. It was all very wonderful, and if only Earl Wych had been a trifle less alarming and Ralph a trifle more friendly, she would have felt herself entirely at home.) Without replying directly to her question, Anne said:— “Are they still in the library?”
Sophy nodded and looked grave.
“I think,”
she said, “they must be giving him a—talking to.” She looked graver still as she thought of how awful it must be to be ‘talked to’ by Earl Wych. She said severely:— “I don’t know how any one can be so wicked as to pretend to be some one they aren’t. I could kill them.” Then she saw Ralph smiling, and that really annoyed her. It was nothing to laugh at. She said quite loudly:— “Well, I could,” and indeed at the moment she felt there was nothing, however desperate, she was not capable of to defend this great House of Wych against disaster.
“Another Joan of Arc come to Castle Wych,” Ralph said, amused, and yet a little impressed, too, by the sudden note of will and energy in the generally quiet, clear little voice.
“Sophy’s not saying she’s a Joan of Arc,’’ interposed Anne, who felt that if any Joan of Arcs were required, she herself was quite ready to supply the need. Sophy looked at her gratefully, thankful for this defence. Anne added:— “What’s the good of talking like that? The man’s an evident impostor.”
All the same there was a touch of renewed unease in her voice. Why were they so long in the library? why hadn’t the fellow been thrown out long ago? Sophy began to pour out the tea. Anne had not answered her question directly, but Anne had a habit of not answering questions. She expected her wishes to be understood. She expected people to know what they ought to do and to do it. A regal attitude, but Anne had a regal turn of mind. The fact that Sophy was rather quick at understanding what Anne wished was one of the reasons why she had found favour in Anne’s sight—Sophy having anything but a regal turn of mind. From the parapet Ralph said:—
“Here’s Arthur coming. The gathering of the clans—or is it a case of the eagles and the carcase?” and Sophy thought the remark in dreadfully bad taste.
A stout, comfortable-looking, middle-aged man was walking towards them across the lawn. He was Arthur Hoyle, next in succession in the direct male line—or so till now it had been assumed—though it was four generations through which he traced descent. His grandfather was the only member of the Hoyle family who, venturing into the city, had there been not shorn but shearer—an expert shearer, too. Arthur’s father had been less successful, but Arthur himself was supposed to have more than retrieved their fortunes. He was an accountant by profession, a director of many companies, engaged in various complicated financial operations, and he lived in some style in an imposing mansion known as The Thatched Cottage, presumably because it was neither thatched nor a cottage, and situated between the town of Midwych and Wych forest. He was a widower, having lost his wife some years ago, and there were no children. Rumour said there were many willing to do their best to bring him consolation for his loss, and rumour was busy, too, with the passing consolations he was supposed to be finding for himself. Fortunately rumour can generally be disbelieved, and these were no more than rumours. He was still a good-looking and in his way an imposing person, with the Hoyle blue eyes—a colder blue in his case perhaps—the fair hair, the wide mouth and the thin lips, these last more tightly pressed together than with most of the Hoyles. On the whole, belonging to the more recent Hoyle type, the supple, smiling, ready-witted type rather than to the direct and dominant type to which both Ralph and Anne belonged.
He ascended the terrace by one of the short flights of steps that led up to it from the lawn, and waved them a cheery greeting.
“Hullo! ” he called. “Thought I would drop in and hear the news. I heard Clinton Wells was bringing him along. I suppose he’s here.”
Ralph nodded an assent.
“They’re in the library,” he said.
“Well, you ought to be there, too,” Arthur remarked.
Ralph made no comment but looked as though he were of the same opinion.
“You’re an interested party,” Arthur said. “So am I, I suppose, for that matter—or would be, if you weren’t so disgustingly healthy.”
He collected a chair and sat down. Sophy, whose existence he had acknowledged with a brief nod, poured out another cup of tea for him. Silently Anne pushed over a plate of cakes. She was still turning round and round the ring on her engagement finger. Ever since her earliest childhood, it had always been understood that she and Ralph were to marry. It was, in a way, her right. That absurd sex disability whereby she was barred from her natural right of succession might have had some sense in it in days when occasionally rights had to be defended by the use of lance and battle axe. Not that Anne didn’t feel perfectly capable of wielding axe and lance herself, if necessary. But in settled days of law and order, this sex disability business was a ridiculous and disgusting anachronism. Had she been the grand-daughter of an American millionaire instead of an English peer of ancient lineage, sex would not have mattered in the least. Her rights would not have been affected in any way by the totally irrelevant detail that she generally wore skirts and not trousers. True, the American millionaire could leave his money as he liked and the English peer had no say in the matter, all that being regulated by the entail. But Anne felt as fully competent to deal with supposititious American millionaires as with equally supposititious battle axes. She would have liked to see any old millionaire grandfather disinheriting her, just as she would have liked a chance to wave a battle axe in the thickest of the fray. So the engagement to Ralph, heir to title and estates by the mere accident of having been born to trousers and not skirts, had always been regarded as no more than her right, the simple compensation due to her. Turning the ring round and round, she thought:—
“Arthur’s awfully rich. Money matters to-day. If you’ve money you’ve everything. Ralph wouldn’t have a farthing, if he wasn’t heir, and he has no profession except managing the estates. I wonder if Arthur would give him a job—five or ten pounds a week perhaps. What’s the good of that?”
“You both look a bit down,” Arthur said. He helped himself to another cake. “I can remember Bertram,” he said. “I was here when we heard of his death. Cheek for this bloke to turn up now and claim to be him. Clinton Wells has seen him, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. He told me there was nothing in it,” Ralph answered.
“Well, he’s a lawyer and he ought to know,” Arthur remarked.
“Oh, the fellow’s an impostor all right,” declared Ralph. “He’s managed to get hold of poor old Bertram’s papers— stole them after Bertram died most likely. Now he has his tale pat, but there are all kinds of things he ought to know that he hasn’t any idea of. You could see it. When he got here he was gaping all round, like one of the Saturday shillingers. He wasn’t remembering familiar things, he was noticing and trying to remember new ones. Bertram wasn’t bad at cricket. The first century he made in anything like a good match was for Wych and District against an M.C.C. team. No chap ever forgets his first century in a good match. Couldn’t if he tried,” pronounced Ralph, who himself bowled a good fast ball and was a fair, if somewhat impetuous, batsman, generally good for runs if he didn’t get out in the first over. “But this fellow hadn’t a notion what I was talking about when I tried him with it.”
“Wonder why he has waited so long?” Arthur mused, half to himself. “If he managed to get hold of Bertram’s papers after his death, that’s all of ten years ago, isn’t it?”
“To explain why he has forgotten such a lot,” Ralph suggested.
“Yes, there’s that,” agreed Arthur. “Handy excuse. Or he may have been screwing up his courage.”
“Grand-dad ought to send for the police,” Anne interposed sharply. “I can’t think why he doesn’t. Perhaps he has,” she added hopefully, “and they’re just waiting for the police to get here.”
“Well, about that,” Arthur pointed out, helping himself to more cake, “I don’t know what he could be charged with. I don’t quite know what just saying you are someone you aren’t would come under for a police charge.”
“The Roger Tichborne man was sent to prison,” Anne reminded him.
“Wasn’t that for perjury committed at the first trial?” Arthur asked. “Do you know, Ralph?”
Ralph didn’t answer. He didn’t like Arthur’s tone very much, and he liked still less the touch of mockery, of malice indeed, he felt beneath the smoothness of Arthur’s voice. It has the voice Arthur used, he felt, when Arthur was explaining to someone that he, Arthur, had got the best of the bargain, and there was nothing the someone could do about it. Of course, it all made very little difference to Arthur since his prospect of inheriting had always been negligible. Ralph’s expectation of life was perfectly good, he and Anne had every intention of producing a large family. Besides, when a chap was as rich and prosperous and successful as Arthur Hoyle, he had no need to worry about losing so small a chance of inheriting. There were, no doubt, those vague rumours about Arthur having dropped a packet recently on the Stock Exchange, but rumours don’t amount to much, and certainly there was no sign of any change in the luxurious style of living at The Thatched Cottage, any more than there was any sign of worry to be seen overshadowing Arthur’s accustomed air of plump prosperity. He was well into his fifth cake now, by the way.
Through the french windows that opened on the terrace from the small drawing-room, three men came in succession. First was old Earl Wych, aged, white-haired, erect, looking stern and intent, with so set and grim an expression indeed that Sophy found herself thinking of a soldier advancing to the attack. Not that she had ever seen a soldier advancing to the attack, but that was the thought that came into her mind. Behind the old earl was a much younger man, evidently very nervous, a nervousness that showed itself in restless eyes, an occasional twitching at the corners of the mouth, a perpetual fidgeting with handkerchief and cigarette case, and so on. Sophy remembered, too, later on, how when he stood still she could see his toes working inside his long, narrow, shiny, patent leather shoes. A natural nervousness perhaps in a man claiming to be the long-lost heir and uncertain of his reception. At the moment the thought in Sophy’s mind was that if you said ‘Boo’ to him very loudly and very suddenly, he would probably run away. Unfortunately, it occurred to no one to try the experiment. Besides, it may be Sophy did not quite understand the kind of timid desperation, of frightened obstinacy, some people can display.
Four Strange Women Page 30
