strolled along not too briskly. The air was pleasant. It was hot, but not too hot. A thermometer, she thought, would have registered seventy. And there was a faint, a very faint breeze.
She walked for about ten minutes before turning her head.
The rest house and its sordid accompaniments had receded in a very accommodating manner. From here it looked quite pleasant. Beyond it, the station looked like a little cairn of stones.
Joan smiled and strolled on. Really the air was delicious! There was a purity in it, a freshness. No staleness here, no taint of humanity or civilization. Sun and sky and sandy earth, that was all. Something a little intoxicating in its quality. Joan took deep breaths into her lungs. She was enjoying herself. Really this was quite an adventure! A most welcome break in the monotony of existence. She was quite glad she had missed the train. Twenty-four hours of absolute quiet and peace would be good for her. It was not as though there were any absolute urgency in her return. She could wire to Rodney from Stamboul explaining the delay.
Dear old Rodney! She wondered what he was doing now. Not, really, that there was anything to wonder about, because she knew. He would be sitting in his office at Alderman, Scudamore and Witney’s—quite a nice room on the first floor looking out over the Market Square. He had moved into it when old Mr Witney died. He liked that room—She remembered how she had come in one day to see him and had found him standing by the window staring out at the market (it was market day) and at a herd of cattle that was being driven in. ‘Nice lot of shorthorns—those,’ he had said. (Or perhaps it wasn’t shorthorns—Joan wasn’t very good at farming terms—but something like that, anyway.) And she had said, ‘About the new boiler for the central heating, I think Galbraith’s estimate is far too high. Shall I see what Chamberlain would charge?’
She remembered the slow way Rodney had turned, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes and looking at her in an absent faraway manner as though he didn’t really see her, and the way he had said ‘boiler?’ as though it was some difficult and remote subject he had never heard of, and then saying—really rather stupidly, ‘I believe Hoddesdon’s selling that young bull of his. Wants the money, I suppose.’
She thought it was very nice of Rodney to be so interested in old Hoddesdon at Lower Mead farm. Poor old man, everyone knew he was going down the hill. But she did wish Rodney would be a little quicker at listening to what was said to him. Because, after all, people expected a lawyer to be sharp and alert, and if Rodney was to look at clients in that vague way it might create quite a bad impression.
So she had said with quick, affectionate impatience:
‘Don’t wool-gather, Rodney. It’s the boiler I’m talking about for the central heating.’ And Rodney had said certainly have a second estimate but that costs were bound to be higher and they must just make up their minds to it. And then he had glanced at the papers piled up on his desk and she had said that she mustn’t keep him—it looked as though he had a lot of work to do.
Rodney smiled and said that as a matter of fact he had got a lot of work piled up—and he’d been wasting time already watching the market. ‘That’s why I like this room,’ he said. ‘I look forward to Fridays. Listen to ’em now.’
And he had held up his hand, and she had listened and heard a good deal of mooing and lowing—really a very confused and rather ugly noise of cattle and sheep—but Rodney, funnily enough, seemed to like it. He stood there, his head a little on one side, smiling …
Oh well, it would not be market day today. Rodney would be at his desk with no distractions. And her fears about clients thinking Rodney vague had been quite unfounded. He was by far the most popular member of the firm. Everyone liked him which was half the battle in a country solicitor’s practice.
And but for me, thought Joan proudly, he’d have turned the whole thing down!
Her thoughts went to that day when Rodney had told her about his uncle’s offer.
It was an old-fashioned flourishing family business and it had always been understood that Rodney should go into it after he had passed his law exams. But Uncle Harry’s offer of a partnership and on such excellent terms was an unexpectedly happy occurrence.
Joan had expressed her own delight and surprise and had congratulated Rodney warmly before she noticed that Rodney didn’t seem to be sharing in her sentiments. He had actually uttered the incredible words, ‘If I accept—’
She had exclaimed dismayed, ‘But Rodney!’
Clearly she remembered the white set face he had turned to her. She hadn’t realized before what a nervous person Rodney was. His hands picking up blades of turf were trembling. There was a curious pleading look in his dark eyes. He said:
‘I hate office life. I hate it.’
Joan was quick to sympathize.
‘Oh I know, darling. It’s been awfully stuffy and hard work and just sheer grind—not even interesting. But a partnership is different—I mean you’ll have an interest in the whole thing.’
‘In contracts, leases, messuages, covenants, whereas, insomuch as heretofore—’
Some absurd legal rigmarole he had trotted out, his mouth laughing, his eyes sad and pleading—pleading so hard with her. And she loved Rodney so much!
‘But it’s always been understood that you’d go into the firm.’
‘Oh I know, I know. But how was I to guess I’d hate it so?’
‘But—I mean—what else—what do you want to do?’
And he had said, very quickly and eagerly, the words pouring out in a rush:
‘I want to farm. There’s Little Mead coming into the market. It’s in a bad state—Horley’s neglected it—but that’s why one could get it cheap—and it’s good land, mark you …’
And he had hurried on, outlining plans, talking in such technical terms that she had felt quite bewildered for she herself knew nothing of wheat or barley or the rotation of crops, or of pedigreed stocks or dairy herds.
She could only say in a dismayed voice:
‘Little Mead—but that’s right out under Asheldown—miles from anywhere.’
‘It’s good land, Joan—and a good position …’
He was off again. She’d had no idea that Rodney could be so enthusiastic, could talk so much and with such eagerness.
She said doubtfully, ‘But darling, would you ever make a living out of it?’
‘A living? Oh yes—a bare living anyway.’
‘That’s what I mean. People always say there’s no money in farming.’
‘Oh, there isn’t. Not unless you’re damned lucky—or unless you’ve got a lot of capital.’
‘Well, you see—I mean, it isn’t practical.’
‘Oh, but it is, Joan. I’ve got a little money of my own, remember, and with the farm paying its way and making a bit over we’d be all right. And think of the wonderful life we’d have! It’s grand, living on a farm!’
