That sent him to the other side of the carriage, moodily, and he sat staring out of the train at the passing meadows, all silver and gold and green, on this day of Eastertide. The sunlight of an April sky chased across the thatched roofs of little old cottages, touched their tall twisted chimneys, gleamed on church spires, chased the shadows in feathery woods. Little old England! So snug, and ancient, and sheltered, and peaceful. He’d only learnt to love England properly when he was out of it, fighting for it,—with only a thin chance of getting back to it. Ireland was his father’s country, his own birthplace. England was his mother’s land, and it was England, not Ireland to which his soul gave allegiance.
Lying in the earth of France, he had thought back to England, yearned for it. Not only and always for London, its mighty heart, which he’d loved, but for the smell of fields like this, for the sight again—once again—of an old village like one of those, with a square church tower, and walled gardens, and orchards white, as now, with blossom. He had tried to get something of that into his book—the inarticulate, half-conscious love of England which had come to country boys, Cockneys, young louts in khaki, so that some instinct in them, some strain of blood, some heritage of spirit, had steeled them to stand fast in the dirty ditches of death, whatever their fear.
Perhaps in a few days the safety of England would be threatened again by social conflict. As the train crawled slowly through Robertsbridge, he saw the newspaper placards, “Strike Certain. Notices Issued.” Bad, that. Perhaps the railways might close down. They’d have to motor back from Holme Ottery. Christy had just got away in time. He wondered if his article on “The Mind of the Men” would attract any kind of notice. It might do some good. He’d been fair to the men, tried to make people understand their point of view, their reasonable claim for a living wage.
Joyce spoke for the first time from her corner.
“I’m going to give father hell. He ought to have consulted me.”
Bertram suggested that perhaps his father-in-law had wanted to save her from the worry of it, while she was unwell.
“Nonsense!” she said, impatiently. “It was just cowardice. He hadn’t the pluck to tell me.”
Probably Joyce was right. So Bertram thought when they met Lord Ottery, beyond the lodge gates, strolling towards them, with a little white dog at his heels. He’d come to meet his daughter in answer to a telegram she had sent from Victoria station.
“Well, Joyce!” he said, holding out his hairy cheek for her to kiss. “Glad to see you looking so strong again.”
He was obviously ill at ease. He pretended not to be aware that Joyce had failed to kiss him, and that her answer of “Well, father!” to his “Well, Joyce,” was decidedly hostile and challenging.