Mr. Drybeck could believe it. The mere recollection of the outrage caused Mrs. Midgeholme's ample bosom to swell, and her rather florid complexion to assume an alarmingly high colour. He made soothing noises.
“I should have said a great deal more than I did if I hadn't been sorry for poor little Mavis!” declared Mrs. Midgeholme. “It wasn't her fault; though, if you were to ask me, I should say that she's a perfect fool not to put her foot down! However, if she likes to make a doormat of herself it's no concern of mine. But when it comes to ill-treating one of my Peekies it's a very different matter! Not one word will I speak to him until he's apologised, and so I told him. And if I were to go to The Cedars and find him there I should tell him exactly what I think of him, which would make things uncomfortable for Mrs. Haswell. So I'm not going.” She gave Ursula a hitch, tucking her more securely under her arm, and added: “What's more, it will serve him right if Mavis runs off with that Pole—not that I think she would, and I hope very much she won't do anything silly, because he hasn't got any prospects that I know of, besides being a foreigner. But there it is!”
“Pole?” repeated Mr. Drybeck blankly.
“Oh, don't you know him? He works at Bebside's, and lives in one of the row of cottages beyond you,” said Mrs. Midgeholme. “At least, he lodges there. Old Mrs. Dockray,” she added, for his further enlightenment.
“I fancy I have not met the young man,” said Mr. Drybeck, in a tone that gave little indication of his wishing to do so.
“Well, I daresay you wouldn't have. He hasn't been here long, and though I believe he's quite all right—I mean, his father is supposed to have had estates in Poland, and that sort of thing—one never knows with foreigners, does one? Actually, I met him at the Lindales', but, of course, he isn't generally received. I don't know how Mavis came to know him, but I'm sure I don't grudge her a little fun, for it's not much she gets. He's very attractive. So good-looking, and such lovely manners! I'm not surprised poor Mavis is a bit smitten.”
“Are you perhaps referring to a dark youth who rides a particularly noisy motor-bicycle?” enquired Mr. Drybeck, in repulsive accents.
“Yes, that's the one. Ladislas Zama-something-or-other: I never can get my tongue round it. There's Lion! Look who's coming, Peekies! Run and meet Father!”
They had by this time reached the cross-road. To the left could be seen the unimpressive figure of Major Midgeholme, trying to preserve his white flannels from the excited advances of the Ultimas, who were barking and jumping at him; to the right the village street led, past the Church and the Vicarage, to the lane winding up to the front drive of The Cedars. Beyond this lane, the street continued serving a few small shops and picturesque cottages, and Mr. Gavin Plenmeller's Queen Anne house, which was set back from it in a walled garden. It then ran between hedges through open country until it came to an end at the imposing, though sadly worn gates of Old Place, the Squire's home.
Thornden could boast of no village green, or ancient stocks, but it contained, in addition to several houses built in more elegant ages, which any house-agent would have described as gentlemen's residences, a good many half-timbered cottages of honest antiquity, and a Perpendicular Church with a Jacobean rood screen, photographs of which had been reproduced in at least three books on Ecclesiastical Architecture. The Vicarage was of Victorian date, and had apparently been designed to accommodate a large family; but besides Old Place, which had all the charm of a house built in the sixteenth century and enlarged by succeeding generations, there was Gavin Plenmeller's rose-red gem in the High Street; Mr. Henry Haswell's solid Georgian mansion at the end of Wood Lane; the rather older but less important house inhabited by Sampson Warrenby, in Fox Lane; and Mr. Drybeck's unpretentious but seemly residence on the Trindale-Bellingham road. The village, which included Old Place, with its wide domain, lay in the broad half of the triangle of the roads connecting Bellingham with Trindale, on the south, and Hawkshead, on the north, the narrow part of the triangle being occupied by common-land, which was, in fact intersected by the northern road. Miss Patterdale's old-world and extremely inconvenient cottage faced on to his; and also Mr. Warrenby's Fox House. It was a gravel common, with one or two pits, and a great many gorse-bushes; and it provided the youth of the village with football grounds and cricket pitches, and Miss Patterdale with grazing for her two goats.
Major Midgeholme, having repelled the Pekes, joined his helpmate and Mr. Drybeck, as they stood together at the corner of the street. He was a slight man of medium height, with grizzled hair, and a toothbrush moustache. It was tacitly assumed, since he had been retired with the rank of Major, that his military career had been undistinguished, but when the Local Defence Volunteer organisation had been formed in the second year of the War he had surprised his neighbours by disclosing unsuspected talents. As the only military man in the district who was not of fighting age it had fallen to him to raise and train the first recruits. This he had done with conspicuous success, even inducing the two most noted poachers in the neighbourhood not only to join the force, but to present themselves occasionally at drill-parades. There was no doubt that he had been in his element, and had enjoyed the War very much. With the peace he had sunk back into the position of playing second fiddle to his wife, who, ironically enough, never ceased to regale her acquaintance with tales of his military efficiency, sage civil judgement, and general competence to deal brilliantly with any situation that might arise.
She greeted him now with bright affection. “Well met, Lion! Just going to The Cedars? Give my love to Mrs. Haswell. Any news?”
This question was uttered rather tensely. The Major, bestowing a nod and a small, perfunctory smile upon Mr. Drybeck, replied undramatically: “No, I don't think so.”
“Thank God!” uttered Mrs. Midgeholme, supplying all that was lurking in her husband's tone. “I was of two minds about leaving the house, for I thought she seemed the wee-est bit restless.” She directed a conspiratorial smile at Mr. Drybeck, and admitted him into the mystery, saying archly: “A Happy Event! My treasured Ullapool's first litter!”
Mr. Drybeck could think of nothing better to say than: “Indeed!” and the Major, whose consciousness of his wife's absurdities impelled him to do what he could to justify them, said apologetically: “Delicate little beggars, you know!”
“No, Lion! Not delicate!” said Mrs. Midgeholme. “But with a first litter one can't be too careful. Ullapool will be looking for Mother to come and hold her paw. I must away! Play well, both of you! Come, Peekies! Come to Mother!”
With these words, and a wave of one hand, she set off down the street, leaving the two men to proceed in the opposite direction, towards Wood Lane.
“Extraordinarily intelligent, those Pekes,” said the Major, in a confidential tone. “Sporting, too. You wouldn't think it to look at them, but if you take them on the common they're down every rabbit-hole.”
Mr. Drybeck, schooling his features to an expression of spurious interest, said: “Really?” and tried unavailingly to think of something to add to this unencouraging response. Fortunately, they had reached the first of the shops, which combined groceries with haberdashery and stationery, and also harboured the Post Office, and a diversion was created by the emergence from its portals of Miss Miriam Patterdale, vigorously affixing a stamp to a postcard. She accorded them a curt nod, and thrust the card into the letter-box, saying cryptically: “That's to the laundry! We shall see what excuse they can think up this time. I suppose you're going to the Haswells'? You'll find Abby there. I'm told she plays quite a good game.”
“Very creditable indeed,” agreed Mr. Drybeck. “A strong backhand, unusual in one of her sex.”
“Nonsense!” said Miss Patterdale, disposing of this without compunction. “Time you stopped talking like an Edwardian, Thaddeus. No patience with it!”