Honeybath’s stroll through the park by which Mullion Castle was now surrounded prolonged itself beyond his first intention, but he felt that his time was his own until the moment came to think of that black tie. After the rain it was a flawless late afternoon to which the earlier downpour had lent the enchantment of a sparkle of moisture scattered like Constable’s snow over the scene. Francis Kilvert, he felt, that superb landscape painter manqué, might have done justice to it in his incomparable diary. Many of Kilvert’s favourite effects were on view: in the distance bluish hills; nearer at hand the shadows of great trees elongating themselves on the grass; numerous contented kine; here and there less numerous rustics making their unassuming way home after the labours of the day; the glint and murmur of a half-hidden stream. Presently would come still Evening on, and Twilight gray would in her sober livery all things clothe. All in all, it was a peaceful scene, admirably adapted to mild literary musings of this sort.
Honeybath paused to admire a noble barn. It stood on a spot, some hundred yards ahead, on the verge of arable land into which the park here merged without any notable boundary. It was an antique barn, speaking perhaps of monastic opulence long ago. Now, no doubt, it was Lord Mullion’s property. Honeybath advanced again, resolved to take a closer view of this venerable pile in its spacious and tranquil setting. Then, abruptly, he came once more to a halt, for the general decorum of the scene had been suddenly and most hideously disturbed. Moments before, the air had held nothing but a solemn stillness tempered by the soft susurration of the wind in the trees. Now from the interior of the barn there was issuing a howling and wailing as of some living creature in atrocious pain. And it was accompanied by a sound, metronomic in its regularity, which powerfully rekindled in Honeybath his worst memories of Draconian prefectorial attentions during his earlier years at school. In short, within the barn somebody was receiving an uncommonly vigorous walloping.
Charles Honeybath was not the man hastily to intrude upon any episode of unseemly violence. If an irate farmer were chastising some urchin caught stealing turnips the incident, although distressing and contrary to the liberal and humanitarian spirit of the age, was no business of his. But it was clearly not an urchin that was involved. The dire screeching and yelling – perhaps, as often in such cases, pitched a little in excess of actual need – was issuing, he felt sure, from a female throat. Chivalrously aroused, Honeybath hastened into the barn. A shocking spectacle met his eyes. On a bale of hay there was sitting a powerful male character belonging obviously to the lower reaches of rustic society. Across his knees he held down a young female who was not precisely a child. And he was at choice intervals belabouring her person, appropriately exposed, not indeed with any instrument of correction whether improvised or other, but with a bare hand as large and heavy as a ham.
‘You scoundrel, stop that instantly!’ Honeybath, although profoundly shocked, found himself adequately articulate at once. ‘Desist!’ he added, as if to make his meaning more abundantly clear.
The rural executioner, thus adjured, raised his arm again in air – and there maintained it immobile for a moment, as if himself poised between astonishment and augmented rage. Whereupon his victim, profiting smartly from this brief indecision, wriggled free and made a dash past Honeybath for liberty, pulling a scanty skirt down to her knees as she ran. Although but briefly glimpsed, she was revealed to Honeybath as an ungainly trollop in her latest teens, or possibly even a little older than that. This circumstance, although it perhaps enhanced the high impropriety of what had been going on, in fact a little relieved Honeybath’s mind. Even as the man jumped to his feet and pursued the escaping young woman with a shout of rage, he arrived at the swift perception that this was a family affair. It was a father who had thus been so vigorously correcting his child. Perhaps he even had some legal entitlement to such drastic behaviour: it must depend on his daughter’s actual age. Both of them were now half-way across the nearest field, and the man was waving his arms less with a suggestion of further castigation than of a labourer herding an escaped heifer in some desired direction. Parent and child were in fact on their way home.
Honeybath, who had at least a reading man’s knowledge of the mores of rural society, felt little doubt as to the prompting occasion of what he had interrupted. So clear was he about this that he looked about him for a second and probably younger man. Even as he did so he heard a sound behind him, turned round, and found himself confronting Swithin Gore. Where Swithin had bobbed up from he didn’t know, but it seemed a rational inference that it was from some hastily achieved hiding place under the hay at the other end of the barn. What Honeybath had stumbled upon – or what the outraged parent had stumbled upon perhaps only minutes before – was an episode of youthful incontinence somewhat in the spirit of Tom Jones.
‘Just what have you been up to?’ Honeybath demanded. Being extremely displeased, he spoke with a sternness wholly unwarranted by his standing in the affair. He had, after all, no title whatever to set himself up as a censor of this youth’s morals, however deplorable they might have revealed themselves to be. But earlier that day he had taken a liking to his highly competent rescuer, and now he was oddly disappointed in the estimate he had formed of him.
‘Up to?’ Swithin repeated coldly. ‘I was walking past. I don’t say I didn’t know what was going on, or liked what followed. But I have to keep my place.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ Honeybath must have been very upset to make this rash remark. And Swithin was very upset too; in fact he was angry, confused, and humiliated. And now he said nothing more. He gave Honeybath a single brief icy look which the painter was to remember. And then he walked away.
In this uncomfortable moment Honeybath again became aware that he was not alone. With much the same effect that Swithin had given of appearing from nowhere, a middle-aged man was now standing just inside the barn door. His complexion was sanguine – so brilliantly so, indeed, that Honeybath’s first confused impression had been of some threatening incendiary disaster within the building. For a brief instant the newcomer appeared disconcerted and uncertain of his ground. Then, hard upon this, he rapidly disposed his features on lines of the most theatrically emphatic ferocity.
‘Who the devil are you?’ he bellowed.
Not unnaturally, Honeybath was disconcerted in his turn – and not the less so from an immediate conviction that here was another Wyndowe. The resemblance, indeed, to the members of the family already known to him was subtle, almost fugitive, rather than pronounced. But here was territory to which Honeybath carried a professional eye, and he had no doubt about the matter whatever. At the same time he was fleetingly aware of an elusive element of déjà vu in the perception, and this he might have identified had not another idea instantly occurred to him. The violent character had bellowed. In fact, he had roared. He must be Henry’s younger brother, Sylvanus Wyndowe.
‘Too much damned trespassing around these days,’ Mr Wyndowe continued in a voice still pitched as if to carry across a parade ground. ‘Snooping, as well. A confounded little Paul Pry. No bloody business of yours, what local people may be up to.’
Honeybath might have said something chilling like ‘I happen, sir, to be Lord Mullion’s guest.’ But for the moment he said nothing at all, being entirely occupied in essaying some interpretation of Sylvanus Wyndowe’s behaviour and comportment. Sylvanus might have been said to be blustering – except that he couldn’t be felt as subject to the sort of failure in self-confidence which is the common prompting to anything of the kind. While offering his string of disobliging remarks he had been engaged, with gestures perfectly composed, in brushing down his well-worn tweeds and removing straws from his hair. Yes, actually that! And what he was flicking from those Savile Row garments was nothing more nor less than hay seeds! Upon this there could be only one rational conclusion. It was Sylvanus Wyndowe, and not his brother’s gardener’s boy, who had been constrained to dive into ignominious hiding when interrupted by that outraged parent in the prosecution of a low amour. Honeybath knew that he ought to be very shocked by this discovery. But it was a state of affairs so ludicrous that he quite failed for the moment to conjure up this correct response. He was chiefly conscious of dismay that he had done Swithin Gore wrong.
‘Sir,’ he managed to say with dignity, ‘it may well be that I have intruded. But I am happy to say that my intervention at least cut short the most barbarous behaviour to a young woman on the part of one of those “local people” you have referred to.’
‘Belting the little bitch, wasn’t he?’ With disconcerting abruptness, Sylvanus had switched from fury to merriment. The effect was of a wild hilarity caught up and magnified by some public address system. ‘Good heavens, man, you can’t stop that sort of thing! It’s immemorial in a peasantry. You can have a fellow up before a whole bench of beaks who are your own best neighbours, and complain that he has been larruping his brats like hell within the hearing of your maiden aunt. They’ll do no more than admonish the brute – and for your pains you’ll find yourself ill-regarded in half a dozen villages around you. Did you ever read Kilvert’s Diary?’
‘More than once, most certainly.’ Honeybath was startled by this telepathic cropping up of a work that had been in his own head not half an hour before.
‘Milk-and-water sort of parson, although damned agreeable in his own way. But he quite takes for granted his parishioners lamming into their brats like mad. Even offers to lend a hand once, if I remember aright.’
‘There was a slight strain of morbidity in Kilvert, no doubt.’ Honeybath, although much displeased by this brazen talk on the part of a profligate wretch such as he judged Sylvanus Wyndowe to be, had to acknowledge that he was a man of education. ‘But common decency,’ he added grimly, ‘requires that we shouldn’t ourselves precipitate such behaviour.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ It was quite clear that Sylvanus in fact did. Indeed, it was possible to suspect that he might have been detected as blushing, had his customary hue not been such as to render anything of the sort indetectable. ‘And confound your impudence,’ Sylvanus added, with a return to his earlier manner.
‘Confound your own, sir!’ It was with a not unreasonable warmth that Honeybath delivered this just retort. But he recalled that here was his host’s brother, whom it was very possible that he would later be constrained to meet within a family circle. It seemed judicious, therefore, to try to conclude this unfortunate encounter on some note of tolerable amenity. ‘But I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘Only you wouldn’t, would you, think to treat your own children in that fashion?’
‘God damn it, sir, I’d touch up my own boy from time to time on due occasion given – supposing I had a boy, that is. Nothing but womenfolk in my house, curse it. A wife and three daughters, sir! Admirable, all of them. Delightful in every way. But the bloody place is Petticoat Hall, all the same.’
Honeybath was not quite sure how to receive this extraordinary communication. It revealed, he reflected, a morbidity precisely opposite to that attributable to Francis Kilvert, who had been for petticoats all the time, and the younger the better. In an odd way he was beginning to find Sylvanus Wyndowe, the Mullion roarer, not unattractive. If he had a tendency to make culpable assignations with rustic wenches in barns, it was perhaps prompted by a dumb desire to provide himself with a belated male issue even on the wrong side of the blanket – or the tump of hay. This, although undeniably flagitious, was something human in its way. Sylvanus, as a younger brother, had presumably no broad acres to be inherited. But his sense of the grievousness of being denied a son and heir was demonstrably genuine and burdensome, all the same. Honeybath, in fact, felt for him, and wished that their first encounter had not been of so signally unfortunate a character.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you must be Mr Sylvanus Wyndowe? If so, perhaps I may be permitted to introduce myself, as I am at present your brother’s guest. Henry and I were schoolfellows. My name is Charles Honeybath.’
‘My dear Sir Charles, I am absolutely delighted to meet you!’ Sylvanus produced this as a shout, and at once shook hands with the enthusiasm of one who believes himself at last to have found a long-hoped-for boon companion.
‘Not Sir Charles, Mr Wyndowe. Plain Mr Honeybath.’
‘Good God!’ Sylvanus appeared appalled. ‘Crooners and footballers and low comedians honoured on every hand, and fellows eminent in literature and the arts and so forth ignored. It must distress the Queen very much. But what can the poor lady do? Has nothing at all in her own pocket, they say. Shocking times, Mr Honeybath. Bloody awful times, in fact.’
Honeybath, although he doubted the validity of at least some of these propositions, was rather gratified by such enthusiasm from an unexpected quarter. He also felt instructed, although not exactly edified, by the manner in which any element of embarrassment inherent in the initial phase of this encounter had been cast into oblivion in his new acquaintance’s mind. It was now possible to advance upon a little civil conversation about the proposed portrait of Lady Mullion – in the course of which Sylvanus Wyndowe did not hesitate to avow that he had been a strong proponent of the idea in the first place, and indeed of his having been convinced that Honeybath was the ideal choice for the job. He had been much impressed by Honeybath’s treatment – particularly of the horse – in a recent effort commemorating the long services to fox hunting of a fellow MFH in the next county. If he had a bean of his own, he said, or could whip up a sufficient number of chums prepared to come forward with the ready, he would be on Honeybath’s doorstep any day himself – and damned-well leading one of his own nags by the bridle.
Having delivered himself of this fond thought, Mr Wyndowe was prompted to glance at his watch – and to announce (with the first hint of perturbation he had betrayed during this peculiar meeting) that if he didn’t stir his stumps he would be late for the trough, which was something his wife and daughters particularly disapproved of. But at least he would have the pleasure of seeing Honeybath again soon, since it was his intention to drop into the castle with his family sometime within the next few days.
With this encouraging thought, Sylvanus again shook hands vigorously, and then walked off hurriedly in what was presumably the direction of the Mullion dower house. Honeybath, remembering the black tie, hurried too.