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Updated: May 5, 2025
There was something tragic in the sudden contrast between the vigour and youth and pride of life that Yeovil had seen crystallised in those dancing, high-stepping horses, scampering dogs, and alert, clean-limbed young men-servants, and the age-frail woman who came forward to meet him. Eleanor, Dowager Lady Greymarten, had for more than half a century been the ruling spirit at Torywood.
One in the S. transept carries a crest with a ludicrous resemblance to a well-known advertisement. On the N. side of the churchyard is an old building, once the grammar school, founded 1499. Some spacious new buildings for the school have now been erected outside the town, on the Yeovil road.
Their musical performance was not without merit, but their comic "business" seemed to have been invented long ago by some man who had patented a monopoly of all music-hall humour and forthwith retired from the trade. Some day, Yeovil reflected, the rights of the monopoly might expire and new "business" become available for the knockabout profession.
And with that parting shot he left the carriage and lounged heavily down the platform, a patriot who had never handled a rifle or mounted a horse or pulled an oar, but who had never flinched from demolishing his country's enemies with his tongue. "England has never had any lack of patriots of that type," thought Yeovil sadly; "so many patriots and so little patriotism."
Here, installed under his own roof-tree, with as good horseflesh in his stable as man could desire, with sport lying almost at his door, with his wife ready to come down and help him to entertain his neighbours, Murrey Yeovil had found the life that he wanted and was accursed in his own eyes.
Such things they might only guess at, or see on a cinema film, darkly; they belonged to the civilian nation. The function of afternoon tea was still being languidly observed in the big drawing-room when Yeovil returned to Berkshire Street.
He made two mistakes, only two, but they were very bad ones; the Millennium hadn't arrived, and it was not a lamb that he was lying down with." "You do not like the English, I gather," said Yeovil, as the Hungarian went off into a short burst of satirical laughter. "I have always liked them," he answered, "but now I am angry with them for being soft.
Cicely changed the drift of the conversation; she had only introduced the argument for the purpose of defining her point of view and accustoming Yeovil to it, as one leads a nervous horse up to an unfamiliar barrier that he is required eventually to jump.
The temptation to experiment was, however, removed by the arrival of a young groom, with brown eyes and a friendly smile, who hurried into the station and took Yeovil once more into a world where he was of fleeting importance. In the roadway outside was a four-wheeled dogcart with a pair of the famous Torywood blue roans.
You could go to Norway for fishing in the summer and hunt the East Wessex in the winter. I'll come down and do a bit of hunting too, and we'll have house-parties, and get a little golf in between whiles. It will be like old times." Yeovil looked at his wife and laughed. "Who was that old fellow who used to hunt his hounds regularly through the fiercest times of the great Civil War?
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