Halfhyde had had her photograph pressed upon him before he had come north to Liverpool and it was in his baggage at his proper lodging; he grimaced at the thought of it. Mildred was ill-favoured as to face and figure, closely resembling the horses that were her life’s interest. All her talk was of the Row in Hyde Park, of Ripon, of Newmarket and of little else except of course of the dear Queen. Her God was bloodstock…Halfhyde savagely cursed the whisky bottle that had led him to a proposal, as much to stop the wagging of her tongue as anything else. As a man of some honour, he had felt unable to withdraw when sober. There was another aspect too: at that time unaware that he was to be placed on the half-pay list, as a result of censure in regard to the untimely death of the extraordinary Captain Watkiss, who in fact had virtually committed suicide by his remarkable behaviour towards the Japanese and Russians, Halfhyde had felt impelled to keep on the right side of Sir John Willard and no less of Her Ladyship, the admiral’s personal prod.
The preliminaries leading to the wedding at St Thomas’ church had been torture. A prospective son-in-law having been taken like a prize, Lady Willard had lost no time. Halfhyde was trapped like a man undergoing cell punishment in Detention Quarters. There had been one bright spot: Sir John’s brother, Henry Willard, squire of a village in Hampshire. Hunting, shooting and fishing his interests might be; conventional—but Henry Willard was very human and detested his brother and sister-in-law. He and Halfhyde found much in common in that regard.
“Pompous bore,” Henry Willard remarked one day. “Dreadful wife, just like a hen’s backside—her mouth I’m referring to, my boy. Mildred’s worse, though I shouldn’t be saying this to her fiancé, of course. You’ll forgive me?”
“Indeed I will, sir.”
Henry gave him a shrewd look. “Well, now, that speaks volumes. You’re being a bloody fool, y’know. Get out of it while you can.”
“I’m bespoke, sir—”
“Yes, yes, I know that. By God, you’ll regret it! A breach of promise action’s a better thing by far than a lifetime of regret, Halfhyde.”
They were walking one of Henry Willard’s fields. Halfhyde navigated round a cowpat. “As a man of honour—”
“Oh, quite. I understand, naturally, and your attitude does you great credit, my boy. But as someone who seems about to become your uncle-in-law, if there’s such a title—well, I’m entitled to speak my mind, I think—hey?”
“Certainly.”
“For the last time, then—after the marriage it’ll become an impertinence, and you’d be entitled to knock me down. But that girl has me beat. Even I can’t stomach horse talk morning, noon and night, I realize there are other things in life. I dare say you do, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then go and enjoy ’em while you can,” Uncle Henry said energetically, waving his walking-stick.
After Halfhyde’s visit to the Admiralty the world had seemed a place of woe and gloom, the sunshine gone for at least a year. He had been interviewed by the Second Sea Lord himself, and that high-ranking officer had seemed disinclined ever to recommend Halfhyde for the full-pay list again. Too many times in the past he had proved, however efficient and loyal, to be a thorn in the sides of Their Lordships of the Admiralty. His habit of outspokenness was held against him; so was his habit of running counter to the orders of his seniors when he saw those orders as either ludicrous or downright dangerous. Halfhyde had never been tactful, had never been inclined to suffer fools, had never shrunk from a head-on collision with brass-bound authority; and he had suffered previous periods of unemployment on the half-pay list, residing in Camden Town with the good Mrs Mavitty, his landlady, his clothes growing seedier and more frayed, his footsteps taking him past the London clubs where ultimately he could no longer afford to repay hospitality and therefore refrained from entering. But this time there was to be no Mrs Mavitty. The
