But then again, what is the purpose in endlessly speculating as to Miss Kenton’s present wishes when I will be able to ascertain these from her own person tomorrow? And in any case, I have drifted considerably from the account I was giving of this evening’s events. These last few hours, let me say it, have proved unreasonably taxing ones. One would have thought that having to abandon the Ford on some lonely hill, having to walk down to this village in near-darkness by the unorthodox route one did, would be sufficient inconvenience to befall one for a single evening. And my kind hosts, Mr and Mrs Taylor, would never, I am certain, have knowingly put me through what I have just endured. But the fact is, once I had sat down to supper at their table, once a number of their neighbours had come calling, a most discomforting set of events began to unfold around me.
The room downstairs at the front of this cottage would appear to serve Mr and Mrs Taylor as both dining room and general living quarters. It is a rather cosy room, dominated by a large, roughly hewn table of the sort one might expect to see in a farmhouse kitchen, its surface unvarnished and bearing many small marks left by choppers and bread-knives. These latter I could see quite clearly despite the fact that we were sitting in a low yellow light cast by an oil lamp on a shelf in one corner.
‘It’s not as though we don’t have electricity out here, sir,’ Mr Taylor remarked to me at one point, nodding towards the lamp. ‘But something went wrong with the circuit and we’ve been without it now for almost two months. To tell you the truth, we don’t miss it so much. There’s a few houses in the village that’s never had electricity at all. Oil gives a warmer light.’
Mrs Taylor had served us with a good broth, which we had eaten with helpings of crusty bread, and at that point, there had been little to suggest the evening held for me anything more daunting than an hour or so of pleasant conversation before retiring to bed. However, just as we had finished supper and Mr Taylor was pouring for me a glass of ale brewed by a neighbour, we heard footsteps approaching on the gravel outside. To my ears, there was something a little sinister in the sound of feet coming ever closer in the darkness up to an isolated cottage, but neither my host nor hostess seemed to anticipate any menace. For it was with curiosity and nothing else in his voice that Mr Taylor said:
‘Hello, now who could this be?’
He had said this more or less to himself, but then we heard, as though in reply, a voice call outside:
‘It’s George Andrews. Just happened to be walking by.’
The next moment, Mrs Taylor was showing in a well-built man, perhaps in his fifties, who judging from his dress had spent the day engaged in agricultural work. With a familiarity which suggested he was a regular visitor, he placed himself on a small stool by the entrance and removed his Wellington boots with some effort, exchanging a few casual remarks with Mrs Taylor as he did so. Then he came towards the table and stopped, standing to attention before me as though reporting to an officer in the army.
‘The name’s Andrews, sir,’ he said. ‘A very good evening to you. I’m very sorry to hear about your mishap, but I hope you’re not too put out to be spending the night here in Moscombe.’
I was a little puzzled as to how this Mr Andrews had come to hear of my ‘mishap’, as he termed it. In any case, I replied with a smile that far from being ‘put out’, I felt extremely indebted for the hospitality I was receiving. By this I had of course been referring to Mr and Mrs Taylor’s kindness, but Mr Andrews seemed to believe himself included by my expression of gratitude, for he said immediately, holding up defensively his two large hands:
‘Oh no, sir, you’re most welcome. We’re very pleased to have you. It’s not often the likes of yourself comes through here. We’re all very pleased you could stop by.’
The way he said this seemed to suggest the whole village was aware of my ‘mishap’ and subsequent arrival at this cottage. In fact, as I was soon to discover, this was very close to being the case; I can only imagine that in the several minutes after I had first been shown up to this bedroom – while I was washing my hands and doing what I could to make good the damage inflicted upon my jacket and trouser turn-ups – Mr and Mrs Taylor had conveyed news of me to passers-by. In any case, the next few minutes saw the arrival of another visitor, a man with an appearance much like that of Mr Andrews – that is to say, somewhat broad and agricultural, and wearing muddy Wellington boots, which he proceeded to remove in much the way Mr Andrews had just done. Indeed, their similarity was such that I supposed them to be brothers, until the newcomer introduced himself to me as,
‘Morgan, sir, Trevor Morgan.’
Mr Morgan expressed regret concerning my ‘misfortune’, assuring me all would be well in the morning, before going on to say how welcome I was in the village. Of course, I had already heard similar sentiments a few moments earlier, but Mr Morgan actually said:
‘It’s a privilege to have a gentleman like yourself here in Moscombe, sir.’
Before I had had any time to think of a reply to this, there came the sound of more footsteps on the path outside. Soon, a middle-aged couple were shown in, who were introduced to me as Mr and Mrs Harry Smith. These people did not look at all agricultural; she was a large, matronly woman who rather reminded me of Mrs Mortimer, the cook at Darlington Hall through much of the twenties and thirties. In contrast, Mr Harry Smith was a small man with a rather intense expression that furrowed his brow. As they took their places around the table, he said to me:
‘Your car would be the vintage Ford up there on Thornley Bush Hill, sir?’
‘If that is the hill road overlooking this village,’ I said. ‘But I’m surprised to hear you’ve seen it.’
‘I’ve not seen it myself, sir. But Dave Thornton passed it on his tractor a short while ago as he was coming home. He was so surprised to see it sitting there, he actually stopped and got out.’ At this point, Mr Harry Smith turned to address the others around the table. ‘Absolute beauty, it is. Said he’d never seen anything like it. Put the car Mr Lindsay used to drive completely in the shade!’
This caused laughter around the table, which Mr Taylor next to me explained by saying:
‘That was a gent used to live in the big house not far from here, sir. He did one or two odd things and wasn’t appreciated around here.’
This brought a general murmur of assent. Then someone said:
‘Your health, sir,’
lifting one of the tankards of ale Mrs Taylor had just finished distributing, and the next moment I was being toasted by the whole company.
I smiled and said: ‘I assure you the privilege is all mine.’
‘You’re very kind, sir,’ Mrs Smith said. ‘That’s the way a real gentleman is. That Mr Lindsay was no gentleman. He may have had a lot of money, but he was never a gentleman.’
Again, there was agreement all round. Then Mrs Taylor whispered something in Mrs Smith’s ear, causing the latter to reply:
‘He said he’d try to be along as soon as he could.’
They both turned towards me with a self-conscious air, then Mrs Smith said:
‘We told Dr Carlisle you were here, sir. The doctor would be very pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘I expect he has patients to see,’ Mrs Taylor added apologetically. ‘I’m afraid we can’t say for certain he’ll be able to call in before you’d be wanting to retire, sir.’
It was then that Mr Harry Smith, the little man with the furrowed brow, leaned forward again and said:
‘That Mr Lindsay, he had it all wrong, see? Acting the way he did. Thought he was so much better than us, and he took us all for fools. Well, I can tell you, sir, he soon learnt otherwise. A lot of hard thinking and talking goes on in this place. There’s plenty of good strong opinion around and people here aren’t shy about expressing it. That’s something your Mr Lindsay learnt quickly enough.’
‘He was no gentleman,’ Mr Taylor said quietly. ‘He was no gentleman, that Mr Lindsay.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ Mr Harry Smith said. ‘You could tell just watching him he was no gentleman. All right, he had a fine house and good suits, but somehow you just knew. And so it proved in good time.’
There was a murmur of agreement, and for a moment all present seemed to be considering whether or not it would be proper to divulge to me the tale concerning this local personage. Then Mr Taylor broke the silence by saying:
That’s true what Harry says. You can tell a true gentleman from a false one that’s just dressed in finery. Take yourself, sir. It’s not just the cut of your clothes, nor is it even the fine way you’ve got of speaking. There’s something else that marks you out as a gentleman. Hard to put your finger on it, but it’s plain for all to see that’s got eyes.’
This brought more sounds of agreement around the table.
‘Dr Carlisle shouldn’t be long now, sir,’ Mrs Taylor put in. ‘You’ll enjoy talking with him.’
‘Dr Carlisle’s got it too,’ Mr Taylor said. ‘He’s got it. He’s a true gent, that one.’
Mr Morgan, who had said little since his arrival, bent forward and said to me:
‘What do you suppose it is, sir? Maybe one that’s got it can better say what it is. Here we are all talking about who’s got it and who hasn’t, and we’re none the wiser about what we’re talking about. Perhaps you could enlighten us a bit, sir.’
A silence fell around the table and I could sense all the faces turn to me. I gave a small cough and said:
‘It is hardly for me to pronounce upon qualities I may or may not possess However, as far as this particular question is concerned, one would suspect that the quality being referred to might be most usefully termed “dignity”.’