XXX
THEY went across to the Corfield Arms. It was an old, romantic looking inn, spoiled a little in these later days by contiguity to a great hive of commerce. But there were occasions, even now, when it retained something of the halo of ancient peace it was wont to bear; and the afternoon being Friday was an off day for visitors. When Bill and Melia passed through the bowling green at the back of the house to the arbor where last they had sat in the days of their courtship they found it empty.
In the garden by the arbor an old man was plucking raspberries. He turned out to be the landlord, and to the secret gratification of Melia he addressed Bill as “sir,” out of deference to his uniform. Upon receiving the Corporal’s commands he called loudly for “Polly.”
In two shakes of a duck’s tail Polly appeared: a blithe beauty in a clean lilac print dress, a little shrunk in the wash, which showed to advantage the lovely lines of her shape and the slender stem of a brown but classic neck in which a nest of red-gold hair hung loose. The Corporal ordered a royal repast for two persons; a pot of tea, boiled eggs, bread and butter, cake, and a little of the honey for which the house used to be famous.
While they waited for the tea, the Corporal gave the old chap a hand with the raspberries. “Happen you remember Torrington, the artist who lived up at Dibley?”
“Aye.” The old man remembered him without difficulty. “Knew him well when I was young. Soft Jack we used to call him; an old man and just a bit touched like as I remember him. Long beard he had and blue eyes—wonderful blue eyes had that old feller. Out painting in the open all day long, in all weathers. I used to stand for hours and watch him. He’d paint a bit, and then he’d paint it out, and then he’d paint it in again. ’Course he was clever, you know, in a manner of speaking. Nobody thought much of him then, but in these days, if you’ll believe me, I’ve known people come specially from London to ask about him.”
The Corporal turned to Melia with an air of discreet triumph. But Melia was so drowsy that she said she would go into the arbor until the tea came. She was encouraged to do so while the landlord went on, “I was a bit of a favorite with old Soft Jack. Many’s the boy I’ve lammoxed for throwing stones at his easel. Of course, at the time I speak of, the old chap had got a bit tottery; he lived to be tight on ninety. But as I say nobody thought much of him, yet if you’ll believe me it’s only last year, or the year before last—I’m getting on myself—that a college gentleman came down here to write a book about him. A very nice civil-spoken gentleman; but fancy writing a book about old Soft Jack!”
“Ever buy any of his pictures?”