‘I am half Spanish. My mother was English. That is why I talk English so well.’
‘What about this war business?’ asked Stephen.
‘It is very terrible, yes-very sad. There has been damage done, quite a lot-yes.’
‘Which side are you on?’
Pilar’s politics seemed to be rather vague. In the village where she came from, she explained, nobody had paid very much attention to the war. ‘It has not been near us, you understand. The Mayor, he is, of course, an officer of the Government, so he is for the Government, and the priest is for General Franco-but most of the people are busy with the vines and the land, they have not time to go into these questions.’
‘So there wasn’t any fighting round you?’
Pilar said that there had not been. ‘But then I drove in a car,’ she explained, ‘all across the country and there was much destruction. And I saw a bomb drop and it blew up a car-yes, and another destroyed a house. It was very exciting!’
Stephen Farr smiled a faintly twisted smile.
‘So that’s how it seemed to you?’
‘It was a nuisance, too,’ explained Pilar. ‘Because I wanted to get on, and the driver of my car, he was killed.’
Stephen said, watching her:
‘That didn’t upset you?’
Pilar’s great dark eyes opened very wide.
‘Everyone must die! That is so, is it not? If it comes quickly from the sky-bouff-like that, it is as well as any other way. One is alive for a time-yes, and then one is dead. That is what happens in this world.’
Stephen Farr laughed.
‘I don’t think you are a pacifist.’
‘You do not think I am what?’ Pilar seemed puzzled by a word which had not previously entered her vocabulary.
‘Do you forgive your enemies, senorita?’
Pilar shook her head.
‘I have no enemies. But if I had-’
‘Well?’
He was watching her, fascinated anew by the sweet, cruel upward-curving mouth.
Pilar said gravely:
‘If I had an enemy-if anyone hated me and I hated them-then I would cut my enemy’s throat likethis…’
She made a graphic gesture.
It was so swift and so crude that Stephen Farr was momentarily taken aback. He said:
‘You are a bloodthirsty young woman!’
Pilar asked in a matter-of-fact tone:
‘What would you do to your enemy?’
He started-stared at her, then laughed aloud.
‘I wonder-’ he said. ‘I wonder!’
Pilar said disapprovingly:
‘But surely-you know.’
He checked his laughter, drew in his breath and said in a low voice:
‘Yes. I know…’
Then with a rapid change of manner, he asked:
‘What made you come to England?’
Pilar replied with a certain demureness.
‘I am going to stay with my relations-with my English relations.’
‘I see.’
He leaned back in his seat, studying her-wondering what these English relations of whom she spoke were like-wondering what they would make of this Spanish stranger…trying to picture her in the midst of some sober British family at Christmas time.
Pilar asked: ‘Is it nice, South Africa, yes?’
He began to talk to her about South Africa. She listened with the pleased attention of a child hearing a story. He enjoyed her naive but shrewd questions and amused himself by making a kind of exaggerated fairy story of it all.
The return of the proper occupants of the carriage put an end to this diversion. He rose, smiled into her eyes, and made his way out again into the corridor.
As he stood back for a minute in the doorway, to allow an elderly lady to come in, his eyes fell on the label of Pilar’s obviously foreign straw case. He read the name with interest-Miss Pilar Estravados-then as his eye caught the address it widened to incredulity and some other feeling-Gorston Hall, Longdale, Addlesfield.
He half turned, staring at the girl with a new expression-puzzled, resentful, suspicious…He went out into the corridor and stood there smoking a cigarette and frowning to himself…
In the big blue and gold drawing-room at Gorston Hall Alfred Lee and Lydia, his wife, sat discussing their plans for Christmas. Alfred was a squarely built man of middle age with a gentle face and mild brown eyes. His voice when he spoke was quiet and precise with a very clear enunciation. His head was sunk into his shoulders and he gave a curious impression of inertia. Lydia, his wife, was an energetic, lean greyhound of a woman. She was amazingly thin, but all her movements had a swift, startled grace about them.
There was no beauty in her careless, haggard face, but it had distinction. Her voice was charming.
Alfred said:
‘Father insists! There’s nothing else to it.’
Lydia controlled a sudden impatient movement. She said:
‘Must you always give in to him?’
‘He’s a very old man, my dear-’
‘Oh, I know-I know!’
‘He expects to have his own way.’
Lydia said dryly:
‘Naturally, since he has always had it! But some time or other, Alfred, you will have to make a stand.’
‘What do you mean, Lydia?’
He stared at her, so palpably upset and startled, that for a moment she bit her lip and seemed doubtful whether to go on.
Alfred Lee repeated:
‘What do you mean, Lydia?’
She shrugged her thin, graceful shoulders.
She said, trying to choose her words cautiously:
‘Your father is-inclined to be-tyrannical-’
‘He’s old.’
‘And will grow older. And consequently more tyrannical. Where will it end? Already he dictates our lives to us completely. We can’t make a plan of our own! If we do, it is always liable to be upset.’
Alfred said:
‘Father expects to come first. He is very good to us, remember.’
‘Oh! good to us!’
‘Verygood to us.’
Alfred spoke with a trace of sternness.
‘Lydia said calmly:
‘You mean financially?’
‘Yes. His own wants are very simple. But he never grudges us money. You can spend what you like on dress and on this house, and the bills are paid without a murmur. He gave us a new car only last week.’
‘As far as money goes, your father is very generous, I admit,’ said Lydia. ‘But in return he expects us to behave like slaves.’
‘Slaves?’
‘That’s the word I used. Youare his slave, Alfred. If we have planned to go away and Father suddenly wishes us not to go, you cancel your arrangements and remain without a murmur! If the whim takes him to send us away, we go…We have no lives of our own-no independence.’
Her husband said distressfully:
‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like this, Lydia. It is very ungrateful. My father has done everything for us…’
She bit off a retort that was on her lips. She shrugged those thin, graceful shoulders once more.
Alfred said:
‘You know, Lydia, the old man is very fond of you-’
His wife said clearly and distinctly:
‘I am not at all fond of him.’
‘Lydia, it distresses me to hear you say things like that. It is so unkind-’
‘Perhaps. But sometimes a compulsion comes over one to speak the truth.’
‘If Father guessed-’
‘Your father knows perfectly well that I do not like him! It amuses him, I think.’
‘Really, Lydia, I am sure you are wrong there. He has often told me how charming your manner to him is.’
‘Naturally I’ve always been polite. I always shall be. I’m just letting you know what my real feelings are. I dislike your father, Alfred. I think he is a malicious and tyrannical old man. He bullies you and presumes on your affection for him. You ought to have stood up to him years ago.’
Alfred said sharply:
‘That will do, Lydia. Please don’t say any more.’
She sighed.
‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I was wrong…Let’s talk of our Christmas arrangements. Do you think your brother David will really come?’
‘Why not?’
She shook her head doubtfully.
‘David is-queer. He’s not been inside the house for years, remember. He was so devoted to your mother-he’s got some feeling about this place.’
‘David always got on Father’s nerves,’ said Alfred, ‘with his music and his dreamy ways. Father was, perhaps, a bit hard on him sometimes. But I think David and Hilda will come all right. Christmas time, you know.’
‘Peace and goodwill,’ said Lydia. Her delicate mouth curved ironically. ‘I wonder! George and Magdalene are coming. They said they would probably arrive tomorrow. I’m afraid Magdalene will be frightfully bored.’
Alfred said with some slight annoyance:
‘Why my brother George ever married a girl twenty years younger than himself I can’t think! George was always a fool!’
‘He’s very successful in his career,’ said Lydia. ‘His constituents like him. I believe Magdalene works quite hard politically for him.’