The Mysterious Affair at Styles | Page 2

down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly
announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must be at
least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply bare-faced fortune
hunting; but there you are--she is her own mistress, and she's married
him."
"It must be a difficult situation for you all."
"Difficult! It's damnable!"
Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at
Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for
existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes.
John Cavendish was waiting on the platform, and piloted me out to the
car.
"Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked. "Mainly
owing to the mater's activities."
The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the
little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a
still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex
country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed
almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was
running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another
world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said:
"I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings."

"My dear fellow, that's just what I want."
"Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the
volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works
regularly 'on the land'. She is up at five every morning to milk, and
keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking it all
round--if it weren't for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!" He checked the
car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. "I wonder if we've time to pick
up Cynthia. No, she'll have started from the hospital by now."
"Cynthia! That's not your wife?"
"No, Cynthia is a protegee of my mother's, the daughter of an old
schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a
cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came
to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She
works in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away."
As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A
lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed,
straightened herself at our approach.
"Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings--Miss Howard."
Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an
impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a
pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost
manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible square body, with
feet to match--these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation,
I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style.
"Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall press
you in. Better be careful."
"I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I
responded.
"Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later."

"You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing. "Where's tea to-day--inside
or out?"
"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house."
"Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day. 'The
labourer is worthy of his hire', you know. Come and be refreshed."
"Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm
inclined to agree with you."
She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the
shade of a large sycamore.
A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to
meet us.
"My wife, Hastings," said John.
I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender
form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering
fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes
of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other woman's that I have
ever known; the intense power of stillness she possessed, which
nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an
exquisitely civilised body--all these things are burnt into my memory. I
shall never forget them.
She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear
voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had
accepted John's invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her
few quiet remarks heightened my first impression of her as a
thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener is always
stimulating, and I described, in a humorous