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"Queer chap Hyde," said Bendish to Val as they waited on the grass for the music to finish. "Can't think what he's stopping on for." "Oh, Jack, for heaven's sake don't you begin on that subject!" "Hey? Oh! No, by Jove. Seems a shame, doesn't it?" returned Bendish, taking the point with that rapid effortless readiness of his class which made him more soothing to Val than many a cleverer man.
He dived amongst them for one José Medina. "Yes," he replied at last, "there was a José Medina. He was a young peasant of Mallorca. He always said jo for yo." Graham's eyes brightened and his lips twitched to a smile. He glanced aside to his bureau, whereon lay a letter written by Paul Bendish at Oxford.
In 1770 Lady Huntingdon writes: ‘Success has crowned our labours in that wicked place, Yarmouth.’ Mrs. Bendish, in whom the Protector was said to have lived again, was quite a character in Yarmouth society. Bridget Ireton, the granddaughter of the Protector, married in 1669 Mr. Thomas Bendish, a descendant of Sir Thomas Bendish, baronet, Ambassador from Charles I. to the Sultan.
Homespun virtues: unselfishness, indifference to money values, the constant sense of filial, fraternal, social responsibility . . . the glow in Jack's eyes when they rested on his wife: Verney's war on cesspools: Leverton Morley as scoutmaster: the Chinese lecture: rosebushes in the churchyard, by the great stone cross with its list of names beginning "George Potts, Wiltshire Rifles, aged 49," and ending "Robert Denis Bendish, Grenadier Guards, aged 19: Into Thy Hands, O Lord": old, old feudal England, closeknit, no pastoral of easy virtues, yet holding together in a fellowship which underlies class disunion: whose sons, from days long before the Conquest, have always desired to go to sea when the cuckoo sang, and to come home again when they were tired of the hail and salt showers, because they could not bear to be landless and lordless men. . . .
Don't you know" an infinitesimal hesitation marked the conscious forcing of a barrier: cynically frank as she was on most points, Mrs. Bendish had always left her sister's married life alone: "that that's what's wrong with Bernard? Oh! Laura! Simpleton that you are. . . I'm often frightfully sorry for Bernard. It has thrown him clean off the rails.
"Yes, my expedition was really ended when the message reached me," Hillyard was forced to admit. "That's good," said the indifferent gentleman, brightening. "You will see Bendish, of course, in England. By what ship do you sail? It's not very pleasant here, is it?" "I shall sail on the Himalaya in a week's time."
"I don't owe him any grudge. I'm not Bernard's dry-nurse!" Val turned a leaf of his paper, but he was not reading it. "I rather wish you hadn't said all this, Rowsley. It does no good: not even if it were true." "Val, if it weren't such a warm evening I'd get up and punch your head. You're a little too bright and good, aren't you? Yvonne Bendish says it, and she's Laura's sister."
He's thick with all that beastly Labour crowd, and I believe Thurlow's right about his goings on with Warner's wife, though I wasn't going to say so to Thurlow. I do wish he'd do something, then we could fire him. But we don't want a row with the N.U.T." "You can't fire a man for his political opinions." "Why not, if they're wrong?" said Bendish placidly.
Midnight: the church clock had begun to strike in a deep whirring chime, muffled among the million leaves of the wood. That trio were in the train now, Isabel probably fast falling asleep, Hyde and Laura virtually alone for the run from Waterloo to Chilmark. A handsome man, Hyde, and attractive to women, or so rumour and Yvonne Bendish affirmed.
Her sister Yvonne had met Jack Bendish at a race-meeting and he had fallen madly in love with her and married her in a month in the teeth of opposition.
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