CHAPTER XXIII

ecouldn’tsleep.” “Poorfellow!” “Poorfiddlesticks!”saidMr.Wilcox,joiningthem.“Hehadtheimpudencetoputupnotice-boardswithoutasmuchassayingwithyourleaveorbyyourleave.Charlesflungthemdown.” “Yes,Iflungthemdown,”saidCharlesmodestly. “I’vesentatelegramafterhim,andaprettysharpone,too.He,andheinperson,isresponsiblefortheupkeepofthathouseforthenextthreeyears.” “Thekeysareatthefarmwewouldn’thavethekeys.” “Quiteright.” “Dollywouldhavetakenthem,butIwasin,fortunately.” “What’sMr.Brycelike?”askedMargaret. Butnobodycared.Mr.Brycewasthetenant,whohadnorighttosublettohavedefinedhimfurtherwasawasteoftime.Onhismisdeedstheydescantedprofusely,untilthegirlwhohadbeentypingthestronglettercameoutwithit.Mr.Wilcoxaddedhissignature.“Nowwe’llbeoff,”saidhe. Amotor-drive,aformoffelicitydetestedbyMargaret,awaitedher.Charlessawthemin,civiltothelast,andinamomenttheofficesoftheImperialandWestAfricanRubberCompanyfadedaway.Butitwasnotanimpressivedrive.Perhapstheweatherwastoblame,beinggreyandbankedhighwithwearyclouds.PerhapsHertfordshireisscarcelyintendedformotorists.DidnotagentlemanoncemotorsoquicklythroughWestmorelandthathemissedit?andifWestmorelandcanbemissed,itwillfareillwithacountywhosedelicatestructureparticularlyneedstheattentiveeye.HertfordshireisEnglandatitsquietest,withlittleemphasisofriverandhillitisEnglandmeditative.IfDraytonwerewithusagaintowriteaneweditionofhisincomparablepoem,hewouldsingthenymphsofHertfordshireasindeterminateoffeature,withhairobfuscatedbytheLondonsmoke.Theireyeswouldbesad,andavertedfromtheirfatetowardstheNorthernflats,theirleadernotIsisorSabrina,buttheslowlyflowingLea.Nogloryofraimentwouldbetheirs,nourgencyofdancebuttheywouldberealnymphs. Thechauffeurcouldnottravelasquicklyashehadhoped,fortheGreatNorthRoadwasfullofEastertraffic.ButhewentquitequickenoughforMargaret,apoor-spiritedcreature,whohadchickensandchildrenonthebrain. “They’reallright,”saidMr.Wilcox.“They’lllearn—liketheswallowsandthetelegraph-wires.” “Yes,but,whilethey’relearning—” “Themotor’scometostay,”heanswered.“Onemustgetabout.There’saprettychurch—oh,youaren’tsharpenough.Well,lookout,iftheroadworriesyou—rightoutwardatthescenery.” Shelookedatthescenery.Itheavedandmergedlikeporridge.Presentlyitcongealed.Theyhadarrived. Charles’shouseontheleftontherighttheswellingformsoftheSixHills.Theirappearanceinsuchaneighbourhoodsurprisedher.TheyinterruptedthestreamofresidencesthatwasthickeninguptowardsHilton.Beyondthemshesawmeadowsandawood,andbeneaththemshesettledthatsoldiersofthebestkindlayburied.Shehatedwarandlikedsoldiers—itwasoneofheramiableinconsistencies. ButherewasDolly,dresseduptothenines,standingatthedoortogreetthem,andherewerethefirstdropsoftherain.Theyraningaily,andafteralongwaitinthedrawing-r