He walked back to Holme Ottery, thinking a little about the Strike, but, strangely enough, not very much. He was thinking more about Joyce. Something had stirred his senses, this breath of spring, this countryside, this scent of lilac and apple-blossom and wet earth. The memory of his love-making, here, a year ago, recalled to his mind and heart the joy of it, and his boyish ardour. London had put his nerves on edge, and made him impatient, irritable, moody. Perhaps Joyce had suffered too, in the same way, from the artificial life, the depressing and lowering atmosphere of London after war. It was better here. They might put themselves straight again, recapture their former gladness in each other, thrill again to the touch of each other’s hands, and lips, to the warmth of body and soul. He would talk to Joyce and woo her here back again.
Holme Ottery was wonderful in the dusk of this April day, with a silver streak, through a pile of dark clouds, above its many gables and high chimneys, and shadows closing about its grey walls. Through some of the windows in the west wing, lights were gleaming, in a homely way. Joyce was in one of those rooms, with her gold-spun hair, and slim body, and all the beauty of the Bellairs women—like that Joyce whom Steele had loved—and all their pride and quality.
A pity the old house was up for sale, but Joyce’s beauty belonged to him.
XXVI
It was impossible to get a private word with Joyce before dinner. Her “palaver” with Alban was still in progress when Bertram returned, as he found when he went searching for her in the morning-room, her bedroom, at the end of the gallery, and at last in Alban’s little room on the other side of the great stairway.
Alban called “Come!” sharply in answer to his tap at the door, and did not look friendly when Bertram went in, smiled at Joyce, and said, “Any chair for a mere husband?”
Joyce’s face was flushed. She and Alban were seated at the table, which was strewn with papers. The brother and sister were wonderfully alike, Bertram thought, as they sat together, side by side. Joyce had the same profile as Alban, though softened and more delicate, the same line of forehead and nose, finely cut, like a Greek cameo. She took no notice of Bertram’s entry, but went on talking to her brother.
“Then it comes to this: You insist on bleeding father to the extent of four thousand a year, and Holme Ottery must go to some horrible Profiteer!”
“That’s the position, apart from the word ‘bleeding,’ ” answered Alban irritably. “You can see for yourself. The Governor is paying taxes out of capital, borrowing for upkeep, wages, and interest on mortgages, and breaking into capital again for my little bit, and yours. When he pegs out, death duties will swallow most of what’s left.”
“It’s disgraceful!” said Joyce. “It’s a damned disgrace!”