‘How quiet it is here!’ says Mrs. Loudon. ‘Even the river seems to run softly past this place, as if it were afraid of disturbing their rest.’
‘They had a wild time while it lasted,’ Major Morley says. ‘They’ve earned a peaceful sleep. I think I should have liked to live in those days ’
‘What! with no hot baths, Tony?’ asks Hector MacQuill, smiling.
‘That would be a drawback, of course,’ replies Major Morley, gravely. ‘But think how pleasant to be able to kill off your enemies whenever you felt inclined unless, of course, they got you – first and if you fancied anybody as a wife you just carried her off and married her. On the whole we have lost more than we have gained by the march of civilisation.’
‘Isn’t there a salmon loup near here?’ asks Mrs. Loudon, looking round her as if she expects to see salmon leaping amongst the trees.
‘Yes, there is,’ replies Hector MacQuill. ‘Why not walk down the river and have a look at it? Of course, there will be no salmon going up October is the best month to see the salmon but the falls are very pretty, and, anyway, it is a better occupation on a hot day than hitting a ball about in the sun. I shall have to go back to my duties as host. I’m afraid I have been away from them too long already – but Tony knows the way.’
I have never seen a ‘salmon loup’, and am delighted at the prospect of adding to my experiences – even if there are no salmon on view. At the back of my mind there lingers a faint hope that we might see one, foolish enough to have made a mistake in the date.
The three of us, therefore, bid a temporary farewell to our host, and stroll down the little path amongst feathery grasses, shaded from the sun by a canopy of tall trees.
The sound of falling water comes to our ears, at first faintly like the sound of the distant sea, but with every step it grows louder and louder, until our ears are filled with the thunder of it, and we see the river, which has hitherto kept us company, disappear over a rocky precipice, and fall in several green billows, broken by rocks and fringed with foam, into a dark pool some twenty feet below. Major Morley seizes my arm, and we climb over the rocks and watch the falling water for a long time without speaking. Indeed the sound of the falls is too loud for conversation to be possible. I am dazed and mesmerised with the noise, and quite glad to cling to my companion’s arm.
How beautiful it is! How wild and primeval! There is something almost terrifying in the relentless way the river flings itself over its barrier of rock and plunges down amongst flying spray and creamy foam. The spray is full of rainbows, and drops of rainbow hue sparkle upon the feathery fronds of the ferns which overhang the pool.
‘A lot of water today,’ shouts Major Morley. ‘Melting snow – Ben Seoch– ’
I wish he would be quiet and not try to talk. It is enough for me to watch the curling billows, and the rainbow spray – I don’t want to know where it comes from – I could stand here all day just looking at it–
But Major Morley is tugging at my arm, and I realise that we have been here long enough, and it is time for tea.
We are bound with chains of iron to this strange custom of eating and drinking at set hours, whether we want to eat and drink or not. With unwilling feet I follow my companions up the path. Their conversation – which I can now overhear in snatches – is evidently a continuation of one started before, and appears to be on the subject of Elsie Baker.
Mrs. Loudon has found, not only a sympathetic ear in Major Morley, but a fellow sufferer who is prepared to go even farther than herself in the vilification of the wretched girl. I have purposely refrained from criticising Elsie Baker to Mrs. Loudon, because I feel in my bones that Guthrie intends to marry her, and probably will, unless something unforeseen occurs. Major Morley has no such scruples – he lays bare her manifold delinquencies before Mrs. Loudon’s horrified eyes. According to Major Morley she is a cocktail drinker, a cigarette fiend, and a man hunter. He says that she lies in wait for him in the corridor, bumps into him on purpose, and then screams with pretended fear. He says that her plucked eyebrows give him shivers all down his back, and her golden hair sets his teeth on edge. He says that her lips and the tips of her fingers remind him of a cannibal after a meal of raw flesh –
Mrs. Loudon’s eyes nearly fall out of their sockets. ‘What a like creature for a daughter-in-law!’ she exclaims.
‘Oh, come now, it’s not as bad as all that,’ says Major Morley. ‘Sailors often fall for impossible women.’
‘And marry them,’ adds Mrs. Loudon with impenetrable gloom.
‘I can’t believe that your son – ’ Major Morley hints with flattering emphasis.
Even this compliment fails to raise the lady’s spirits. ‘The man’s bereft of his senses,’ she replies trenchantly.
‘Something must be done about it,’ says Major Morley gravely. ‘It simply can’t be allowed. Surely between us we can think of a plan to rescue this poor deluded man.’
Mrs. Loudon brightens a little. ‘Major Morley! The creature is staying at your hotel. Couldn’t you – ’
‘Nothing doing, I assure you,’ says Major Morley, laughing. ‘Not even for your son would I allow myself to fall into her clutches. Besides, it would be a fatal mistake. It would only make him all the keener if he saw another victim in her toils. No, there’s a much better way than that – but I should need Mrs. Christie’s help.’
‘Why, of course Hester will help you!’ cries Mrs. Loudon, full of excitement at the prospect of something to be done.
I look at him doubtfully; he is so difficult to understand, such a queer mixture of kindness and wickedness. What mood is he in at the present moment? I rather think he is enjoying himself, in spite of his grave countenance and sympathetic manner.
‘It’s quite simple,’ says Major Morley, leading us to a garden seat which stands conveniently near. ‘Let’s sit down for a few minutes and discuss the matter fully. You need not be alarmed, Mrs. Christie. All you have to do is to look charming and allow me to adore you from afar. The first is natural to you already, the second will come quite naturally in time.’
‘But I don’t see what good that will do,’ I protest; for, to tell the truth, I don’t like the plan at all.
‘Surely, you see,’ says Major Morley, persuasively. ‘Our friend Guthrie sees me adoring, and takes one glance at Mrs. Christie – he has not seen her before, because he is blinded by his infatuation for his cannibal – one glance at Mrs. Christie is enough, he will never look at Miss Baker again.’
The plan seems to me the height of foolishness, and I say so firmly. But Mrs. Loudon – who seems bewitched out of her usual sanity – is attracted by the idea, and beseeches me to ‘try it’, pointing out that at any rate it can do no harm. It is really Mrs. Loudon’s own original plan, only carried to insane lengths.
‘I’m not so sure about its harmlessness,’ I reply.
‘Why?’ asks Mrs. Loudon. ‘What harm can it do?’
Major Morley seconds her by pointing out that I need do nothing. He will do all that is necessary. And adds, that surely I can bear to be adored from afar to save a poor young man from the clutches of a cannibal.
I feel certain that Tim would object to the plan, but all my arguments are overruled or swept aside by my companions. They settle everything to their entire satisfaction though not to mine and we return to the garden, where we find the sacred rites of afternoon tea are being celebrated with suitable solemnity.
‘I’m afraid you will have to call me “Tony” ,’ Major Morley says gravely, as he appears at my side with a cup of tea and a plate of cream buns. ‘It’s rather a nuisance for you, of course, but we want to make the thing as real as possible, and there is no time to lose poor “Froggy” is fast hooked, I’m afraid.’
‘Froggy?’ I enquire.
‘He would a-wooing go, whether his mother would let him or no,’ explains Major Morley. ‘There is the poor wight, holding a lace parasol for the Cannibal Queen – and very silly he looks.’
I glance in the direction indicated, and see that it is only too true. Guthrie is making a fool of himself.
‘He’s hardly worth rescuing, is he?’ remarks my companion, guessing my thoughts in an uncanny way he has.
Mrs. Loudon has been claimed by an old crony, so we find a seat in the shade, and Major Morley (or Tony, as I suppose I must call him) sits down at my feet, and gazes at me with a yearning expression which is so realistic that it makes me feel quite uncomfortable.
Presently Guthrie appears, and asks if I will make up a four.
‘Don’t tire yourself, Hester,’ says Tony anxiously. ‘I really think you are more comfortable sitting here in the shade with me.’ But I have had quite enough of sitting in the shade with Tony, and profess myself quite ready for a game. Tony jumps up with alacrity, and says in that case he will play too, and we can have a return of our previous set. This does not appeal to Guthrie at all (he is not very fond of being beaten and he is quite aware that he and Elsie are not strong enough for us). He suggests that we should ‘split up’, but Tony insists on playing with me. All Guthrie’s feeble objections are countered – he is no match for Tony in diplomacy – and, a court falling vacant at the critical moment, we take them on again and beat them worse than before.
Guthrie’s patience wears somewhat thin during the set, and he points out to his partner that her spectacular strokes are losing them every game. To which Elsie replies that her forehand drive has been much admired by Mr. Jones, the professional at her club in Portsmouth. At this exchange of pleasantries Tony winks at me, and serves an easy lob to Elsie, which she promptly drives, with all her force, into the back net. This gives us the set.
It is now time to go. Tony rushes off to find our car, and packs us into it with anxious care he is extraordinarily good at these small attentions. ‘I may call?’ he enquires of Mrs. Loudon, as he tucks the rug round her feet.
‘Of course any friend of Hester’s. Come over tomorrow afternoon,’ she murmurs hospitably.
Guthrie, who has elected to drive, starts the car with a jerk that nearly upsets Tony – the latter still having one foot on the step – and we career madly over the drawbridge, and down the drive, which is now crowded with departing guests.
‘For any sake take care!’ exclaims Mrs. Loudon in a surprised voice. ‘You nearly had the kilt off that man, Guthrie.’
‘The damned fool should keep off the road,’ replies Guthrie murderously. From all of which I deduce that the good Guthrie is slightly put out about something.
Seventh June
Annie has gone into the village on some mysterious errand that only she herself can do, so Betty and I take our favourite book of fairy tales into the garden.
‘Read about Snow-White and the Seven Dwarfs,’ says Betty. ‘You read much nicer than Annie. I like when you make them talk with different voices, Mummie.’
We spread a rug under a fir tree and settle down.
At this moment there is a glimpse of a blue frock at the gate in the fence leading to the woods, and Guthrie hurries down the garden and leaps the burn. He has gone to meet her, of course. They – must have arranged to meet, and go for a walk together now we know why Guthrie was so distrait at lunchtime, and why he threw cold water on all his mother’s suggestions for spending the afternoon.
Meanwhile the book has opened conveniently at the picture of Snow-White in her glass coffin, which must always be thoroughly examined before the story begins. ‘Don’t the dwarfs look sad?’ Betty says in sympathetic tones. ‘Of course they don’t know she’ll come to life again when the coffin gets banged against a tree. How hard could you bang a glass coffin against a tree without it breaking, Mummie?’ she enquires interestedly.
Like most of Betty’s questions this is difficult to answer, so I suggest we should begin the story.
‘Yes, begin,’ says Betty, with a luxurious sigh.
‘ “Once upon a time there was a beautiful queen . . . ”’
So we set off together on the well-known journey with the little princess whose skin was as white as snow, and whose cheeks were as red as the rose. Betty listens, enthralled, while the wicked queen tries to poison her beautiful stepdaughter with a poisoned comb, and to choke her with a magic apple. Custom cannot stale the thrill of the story for Betty, she knows it by heart, yet her eyes gleam with excitement and her small body is gathered into a tense ball.
‘And what are they doing now?’ I wonder to myself, for long practice has made it possible for me to think my own thoughts and read quite easily at the same time. The two threads mingle and commingle in a single strand. Snow-White strays through the dark woods with Guthrie and Elsie Baker, their fates seem bound together, and flow along in one melodious stream. The little dwarfs peer at them from behind the trees, and consult together in their strange gruff voices as to what had better be done about it all. And how I wish these same little dwarfs would cease their useless labour of making a glass coffin for Snow-White, and would rush after Guthrie and Elsie, and tear them apart! They are fitted for each other in no way that I can see, and, instead of growing together, they will grow apart. Guthrie is grave, with a taste for fantastic humour which Elsie will never appreciate; Elsie is frivolous and enjoys the society of frivolous people. They will hate each other’s friends, and misunderstand each other’s wit. What hope is there for them?
I sit on by myself long after the story is finished, and Betty has flown off to the garden to find Donald and pester him for gooseberries. The tale of Snow-White is finished, but the tale of Guthrie is still to be told. How sad it is to see a tale marred in the making! Why must we stand aside and see those we care for heading straight for shipwreck on the rocks of life?
I have become very fond of Guthrie in the last few days there is something lovable in his very simplicity. I can see his faults, of course, but they are offset by his virtues. How strange are the differences in people! Guthrie is boyish, almost childlike in nature; his sulkiness is short-lived, his selfishness is the selfishness of a child. The sun shines through him, and his every thought is mirrored on his open countenance. And Tony Morley is like a deep pool whose bottom you cannot see for the darkness of the water not muddy water, not that kind of opaqueness, but clear dark water that reflects here a rock, there a patch of blue sky with a passing cloud and the ripples play over the surface with every breath of wind.
I gaze up at the fir tree above my head, and admire its light green frills, which are sewn on to its dark green frock with invisible stitches light green frills moving up and down gently in the faintly stirring air while, with another part of my mind, I dissect the differences in these two men. Guthrie is this, Tony is that, I like Guthrie for this, I like Tony for that. Thoughts flicker about me quickly, vaguely, so that my brain, lulled to drowsiness by the afternoon peace, cannot follow them. They dance up and down before my eyes like a cloud of midges – up and down – up and down.
Take Tony first. How considerate he is! How quick to respond to an idea! How sensitive to other people’s feelings! Yes, but sometimes he tramples on them on purpose (which Guthrie never does), and isn’t it worse to trample purposely than to trample unconsciously, like Guthrie? like a huge elephant in the jungle, leaving a track of broken flowers in its wake . . .
‘Are you asleep, Hester?’ Mrs. Loudon says, and I think I must have been, for Guthrie had turned into an elephant, and was standing trumpeting fiercely at his reflection in a dark pool – and the dark pool was rippling softly as if it were smiling to itself.
‘Major Morley’s come,’ continues my hostess. ‘He’s talking to Millie in the drawing room or perhaps it would be more like the thing to say that Millie’s talking to him. I thought we’d have tea early, and you can take him fishing. Where’s Guthrie?’
I rub my eyes and try to banish the mists which are still clouding – – my brain
‘Poor lassie – you’re half asleep yet. I’d not have wakened you, but I can’t leave the Major in Millie’s clutches – the man will be deaved to de
ath.’
‘You needn’t worry about him,’ I reply, trying to smooth my hair, which seems to be standing straight on end. ‘Major Morley is quite capable of looking after himself.’
‘Come away,’ she adjures me impatiently. ‘The man’s come to see you, not to listen to Millie’s haverings.’
I follow my hostess meekly towards the drawing-room windows which open on to the veranda. We pause outside and look at each other in bewilderment, for it is Major Morley’s voice, and not Mrs. Falconer’s, which comes clearly to our ears.
‘Father always insisted that us boys should come home for the Christmas holidays,’ he says in confidential tones. ‘Sometimes we begged him to allow us to stay at school and continue our studies, but father wouldn’t hear of it. “You must have two helpings of plum pudding on Christmas Day,” he used to say. “And how can I be sure that you eat it unless I have you under my own eye?” Well, one Christmas holidays a very strange thing happened – it may have been in the year 1900 or 1901, or possibly 1902. I remember distinctly that it was a Monday, because we had had cold beef for lunch (but you must not think it was anything to do with the cold beef; cold beef may be indigestible, but it does not predispose a person to hallucinations). It must have been about half past three in the afternoon, because I was just beginning to feel hungry for tea, and it was probably a few days after Christmas, because my young cousin had been given a new pair of football boots and was busy rubbing them with castor oil – castor oil has such a filthy smell,’ adds Tony thoughtfully.
‘Yes, but what – ’
‘Suddenly,’ says Tony, interrupting the poor lady unmercifully. ‘Suddenly there were footsteps on the gravel outside the open window – it was an old man coming up the drive with a sack over his back, or it may have been a woman selling bootlaces, or an Italian boy selling onions, or a Punch-and-Judy man – the fact is, it was really too dark to see who it was, which shows it must have been a very dark afternoon, shouldn’t you say so, Mrs. Falconer?’
Mrs. Tim of the Regiment Page 23
