Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (32 page)

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 death.'

‘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. Falconer says, ‘But if you couldn't see who it was – '

‘Ah, but I could smell the onions,' replies Tony triumphantly. ‘And that proves conclusively that it must have been an Italian onion boy, because if it had been a Punch-and-Judy man he would have smelt of whisky – there was a Punch-and-Judy man who used to come round quite often during the holidays; he had a very red nose, poor fellow, and his breath always smelt of whisky – and bootlaces have a peculiar smell of their own, so it couldn't possibly have been the bootlace woman.'

‘Papa always used to say– ' Mrs. Falconer begins, seizing her opportunity while her opponent pauses for breath.

‘And he was perfectly right,' agrees Tony earnestly. ‘Bootlaces are not what they were. I've never met a modern bootlace that could stand a good tug. And studs – the way they leap into corners and hide under mats! It's my belief, Mrs. Falconer, that all studs are possessed of an evil spirit, and I simply don't believe these fellows who write to the papers saying that they have used the same stud for thirty years. The thing's impossible. I once knew a man who was completely ruined by a stud – '

‘Ruined by a stud!' gasps Mrs. Falconer.

‘Don't ask me to tell you about it,' Tony says, with a slight tremble in his voice. ‘The man was my friend – you will be the first to admit that silence is golden. Let us talk of shoes, or ships, or sealing wax – I know a fellow who uses pink sealing wax – a most disgusting habit! This man actually had the impertinence to write a proposal of marriage to a lady he had known for nine days – or it may have been nine years, I really can't remember which, and it doesn't matter, for both are equally insulting, you will agree. In nine days he couldn't possibly have known her well enough to propose, and in nine years he should have known her too well. But the point is he sealed the letter with pink sealing wax, which warned the poor girl in the nick of time. She was good enough to ask my advice on the subject. “Shall I accept him, Tony?” she said to me with tears in her eyes. “Shall I accept him, and spend my life trying to wean him from his vicious habits?” But, alas, I could give her no hope! I knew, only too well, that a man can never be broken of pink sealing wax, once it has a hold on him.'

‘But surely you don't mean – '

‘No, no!' says Tony gravely. ‘You must not think I meant
that
. Let us leave the subject and go on to cabbages. Personally I would rather eat hay or thistles, but I am told that quite a number of people consider the cabbage fit for human consumption. The hardhearted ones are best – they are tougher, and have more white stalk to the cubic inch.'

‘Dear Papa did not care for cabbage,' Mrs. Falconer announces breathlessly.

‘Of course not!' exclaims Tony with rapture. ‘Nobody did. It is only recently that the cabbage has come to the fore. In your father's time a gentleman ate to please his palate; nowadays he eats to pamper his stomach. Do not blush, Mrs. Falconer. I assure you that this important organ may now be spoken of with impunity in the drawing rooms of Mayfair. However, if you would rather go on to kings, you have only to say the word. It is the last subject on our list, but by no means the least worthy of exploration. Which is
your
favourite king? Mine has always been Charles the Second. I feel that he and I would have hit it off splendidly. For many years I found myself in the minority on this point, but I am glad to notice a distinct revulsion in his favour amongst thinking men and women. Why, only the other day the Y.W.C.A. had an exhibition of his relics! It is not a body in which one would expect to find appreciation of the Merry Monarch – but, after all, why not? Doubtless he gave pleasure to a great many young women who would otherwise have led somewhat drab lives – '

At this moment Mrs. Loudon sneezes violently, and discovers our presence. The monologue ceases abruptly.

‘There you are,' says Tony. ‘Mrs. Falconer and I have had a most interesting conversation – the time has simply flown.'

Mrs. Falconer says nothing; there is a dazed look in her eyes.

‘We must really continue our conversation some time,' Tony says brazenly, as we take our places round the tea table. ‘We have not exhausted the subject of kings.'

‘Perhaps you have exhausted Mrs. Falconer,' I suggest maliciously.

‘Cruel!' he sighs, helping himself to a scone.

Guthrie's chair looks very empty – there are several other unoccupied chairs in the room, but only Guthrie's looks empty. I remark on the phenomenon, but nobody seems to get my point.

‘Where
is
Guthrie?' enquires his mother, a trifle anxiously. ‘Have any of you seen him this afternoon?'

Tony says that he saw Guthrie and Miss Thingummy starting off for a walk, but he doesn't suppose they've gone far. When asked the reason for his supposition, he replies that people
don't
as a rule. They generally sit down on the first thing handy.

Mrs. Loudon sighs heavily, and Mrs. Falconer, somewhat revived by a cup of strong tea, whispers to me, ‘Do you think he's offered for her yet?' but I pretend not to hear.

After tea Tony and I go out on the loch together. Tony insists on acting as boatman, and gives me some valuable advice on the art of throwing a fly. I catch several fine trout, and enjoy myself thoroughly.

Tony is really much more unselfish than most men or else he is not such a keen fisherman, or else– But there is no other explanation; he can't be such a keen fisherman.

– About seven o'clock the breeze freshens, and Tony says we had better pack up now, it's too cold for me. I point out that he need not keep up the pretence of solicitude for my welfare when Guthrie is not here to see it, whereupon Tony replies that it is excellent practice for him, and rows firmly homewards.

We find Guthrie waiting for us at the boathouse. He seems slightly out of temper, and says he has been waiting for nearly an hour, and didn't we hear him shouting to us. (Now that I think of it I believe I did hear somebody shouting.)

Tony replies that the wind is in the other direction, and anyhow it is too cold to fish any more tonight.

‘Cold!' snorts Guthrie. ‘I don't call it cold. Some people seem to be made of cotton wool.'

Tony takes no notice of this strange remark; he busies himself collecting the fishing tackle, and making fast the boat.

‘What about another hour's fishing?' Guthrie says, ignoring Tony, and addressing himself to me in a wheedling manner. ‘Dinner isn't till eight, you know, Hester.'

I am about to reply when Tony says innocently, ‘I suppose there is a ghillie belonging to the place, isn't there, Loudon? Or do you depend entirely on your guests to work the boat for you?' Guthrie opens his mouth to reply, but no sound comes. He watches in silence while Tony helps me out of the boat as if I were made of spun glass (this is for his especial benefit, of course) and we all walk up to the house together.

Mrs. Loudon comes into my room when I am going to bed and says THE PLAN is working admirably. Guthrie has just been advising her not to ask that fellow Morley to the house any more ‘as he seems rather gone on Hester'. Whereupon I tell her flatly that I hate the plan and everything to do with it, and that I don't know what on earth Tim would say if he knew.

Mrs. Loudon replies, incoherently, that it would do Tim a lot of good, and that he will never know anything about it, and that anyway I'm not doing anything wrong. ‘And anyway I've asked the man to come over tomorrow afternoon,' she adds firmly, ‘and I'll not put him off for all Guthrie's blethering.'

She stays a few moments longer, talking about various matters, and then goes away.

I suppose I must have gone to sleep at once, for I seem to have been asleep for hours but quite suddenly, I am wide awake. It is raining hard and quite dark. Perhaps it is the heavy rain that has wakened me. I lie very still and listen.

Somebody is on the veranda beneath my window. I can hear the sound of hushed voices, and the pad of stealthy feet on the tiles. The sounds are the more alarming because there have been several small burglaries lately in the neighbourhood, and I decide at once that the correct thing for me to do is to waken Guthrie. I slip on my dressing gown in the dark, and grope my way along the passage to his room. How dark it is! It must be about midnight, for dawn comes early in these latitudes.

Guthrie is fast asleep, but he wakes quickly, and takes in the situation without loss of time.

‘Gosh!' he exclaims excitedly. ‘They've come to the wrong house this time. I must put on my boots – you can't go after burglars without boots.'