Mary Westmacott - Giant's Bread

‘And I’ve got a missus and two kids,’ went on the other. ‘What’s the rot that was talked about a country fit for heroes? No, if you’ve got a job – any kind of a job – it’s better to freeze on to it in 1920.’

He was silent for a minute, and then went on.

‘Funny business – the war. I was hit twice – shrapnel. Makes you go a bit queer afterwards. My missus says I frighten her – go quite batty sometimes. Wake up in the middle of the night hollering and not knowing where I am.’

‘I know,’ said Green. ‘I’m the same. When my guvnor picked me up – in Holland that was – I couldn’t remember a thing about myself except my name.’

‘When was that? After the war?’

‘Six months after the armistice. I was working in a garage there. Some chaps who were drunk ran me down one night in a lorry. Fairly scared ’em sober. They picked me up and took me along with them. I’d got a whacking great bash on the head. They looked after me and got me a job. Good chaps they were. I’d been working there two years when Mr Bleibner came along. He hired a car from our place once or twice and I drove him. He talked to me a good bit and finally he offered to take me on as chauffeur.’

‘Mean to say you never thought of getting back home before that?’

‘No – I didn’t want to somehow. I’d no folks there as far as I could remember and I’ve an idea I’d had a bit of trouble there of some kind.’

‘I shouldn’t associate trouble with you, mate,’ said Evans with a laugh.

George Green laughed too. He was indeed a most cheerful-looking young man, tall and dark with broad shoulders and an ever ready smile.

‘Nothing much ever worries me,’ he boasted. ‘I was born the happy-go-lucky kind, I guess.’

He moved away smiling happily. A few minutes later he was reporting to his employer that the Daimler was ready for the road.

Mr Bleibner was a tall thin dyspeptic-looking American with very pure speech.

‘Very good. Now, Green, I am going to Lord Datchet’s for luncheon. Abingworth Friars. It’s about six miles from here.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘After luncheon I am going to a place called Abbots Puissants. Abbotsford is the village. Do you know it?’

‘I’ve heard of it, I think, sir. But I don’t know exactly where it is. I’ll look it up on the map.’

‘Yes, please do so. It cannot, I think, be more than twenty miles – in the direction of Ringwood, I fancy.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Green touched his cap and withdrew.

Nell Chetwynd stepped through the french window of the drawing-room and came out upon the terrace at Abbots Puissants.

It was one of those still early autumn days when there seems no stirring of life anywhere, as though Nature herself feigned unconsciousness. The sky was a pale, not a deep, blue and there was a very faint haze in the atmosphere.

Nell leaned against a big stone urn and gazed out over the silent prospect. Everything was very beautiful and very English. The formal gardens were exquisitely kept. The house itself had been very judiciously and carefully repaired.

Not habitually given to emotion, as Nell looked up at the rose-red brick of the walls, she felt a sudden swelling of the heart. It was all so perfect. She wished that Vernon could know – could see.

Four years of marriage had dealt kindly with Nell, but they had changed her. There was no suggestion of the nymph about her now. She was a beautiful woman instead of a lovely girl. She was poised – assured. Her beauty was a very definite kind of beauty – it never varied or altered. Her movements were more deliberate than of old, she had filled out a little – there was no suggestion of immaturity. She was the perfect full-blown rose.

A voice called her from the house.

‘Nell!’

‘I’m here, George, on the terrace.’

‘Right. I’ll be out in a minute.’

What a dear George was! A little smile creased her lips. The perfect husband! Perhaps that was because he was an American. You always heard that Americans made perfect husbands. Certainly, George had been one to her. The marriage had been a complete success. It was true that she had never felt for George what she had felt for Vernon – but almost reluctantly she had admitted that perhaps that was a good thing. These tempestuous emotions that tore and rent one – they couldn’t last. Every day you had evidence that they didn’t last.

All her old revolt was quelled now. She no longer questioned passionately the reason why Vernon should have been taken from her. God knew best. One rebelled at the time, but one came at last to realize that whatever happened was really for the best.

They had known supreme happiness, she and Vernon, and nothing could ever mar or take away from it. It was there for ever – a precious secret possession – a hidden jewel. She could think of him now without regret or longing. They had loved each other and had risked everything to be together. Then had come that awful pain of separation – and then – peace.

Yes, that was the predominant factor in her life now – peace. George had given her that. He had wrapped her round with comfort, with luxury, with tenderness. She hoped that she was a good wife to him, even if she didn’t care like she had cared for Vernon. But she was fond of him – of course she was! The quiet affectionate feeling she had for him was by far the safest emotion to go through life with.

Yes, that expressed exactly what she felt – safe and happy. She wished that Vernon knew. He would be glad, she was sure.

George Chetwynd came out and joined her. He wore English country clothes and looked very much the country squire. He had not aged at all – indeed he looked younger. In his hand he held some letters.

‘I’ve agreed to share that shooting with Drummond. I think we’ll enjoy it.’

‘I’m so glad.’

‘We must decide who we want to ask.’

‘Yes, we’ll talk about it tonight. I’m rather glad the Hays couldn’t come and dine. It will be nice to have an evening to ourselves.’

‘I was afraid you were overdoing it in town, Nell.’

‘We did rush about rather. But I think it’s good for one really. And anyway it’s been splendidly peaceful down here.’

‘It’s wonderful.’ George threw an appreciative glance over the landscape. ‘I’d rather have Abbots Puissants than any place in England. It’s got an atmosphere.’

Nell nodded.

‘I know what you mean.’

‘I should hate to think of it in the hands of – well, people like the Levinnes, for instance.’

‘I know. One would resent it. And yet Sebastian is a dear – and his taste at anyrate is perfect.’

‘He knows the taste of the public all right,’ said George drily. ‘One success after another – with occasionally a succès d’estime just to show he’s not a mere money maker. He’s beginning to look the part though – getting not exactly fat, but sleek. Adopting all sorts of mannerisms. There’s a caricature of him in Punch this week. Very clever.’

‘Sebastian would lend himself to caricaturing,’ said Nell, smiling. ‘Those enormous ears, and those funny high cheekbones. He was an extraordinary-looking boy.’

‘It’s odd to think of you all playing together as children. By the way, I’ve got a surprise for you. A friend you haven’t seen for some time is coming to lunch today.’

‘Not Josephine?’

‘No. Jane Harding.’

‘Jane Harding! But how on earth –?’

‘I ran into her at Wiltsbury yesterday. She’s on tour, acting in some company or other.’

‘Jane! Why, George, I didn’t even realize you knew her?’