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By John Galsworthy
“Liberty’s a glorious feast.”–Burns.
One early April afternoon, in a Worcestershire field, the only field in that immediate landscape which was not down in grass, a man moved slowly athwart the furrows, sowing–a big man of heavy build, swinging his hairy brown arm with the grace of strength. He wore no coat or hat; a waistcoat, open over a blue-checked cotton shirt, flapped against belted corduroys that were somewhat the color of his square, pale-brown face and dusty hair. His eyes were sad, with the swimming yet fixed stare of epileptics; his mouth heavy-lipped, so that, but for the yearning eyes, the face would have been almost brutal. He looked as if he suffered from silence. The elm-trees bordering the field, though only just in leaf, showed dark against a white sky. A light wind blew, carrying already a scent from the earth and growth pushing up, for the year was early. The green Malvern hills rose in the west; and not far away, shrouded by trees, a long country house of weathered brick faced to the south. Save for the man sowing, and some rooks crossing from elm to elm, no life was visible in all the green land. And it was quiet–with a strange, a brooding tranquillity. The fields and hills seemed to mock the scars of road and ditch and furrow scraped on them, to mock at barriers of hedge and wall–between the green land and white sky was a conspiracy to disregard those small activities. So lonely was it, so plunged in a ground-bass of silence; so much too big and permanent for any figure of man.
Across and across the brown loam the laborer doggedly finished out his task; scattered the few last seeds into a corner, and stood still. Thrushes and blackbirds were just beginning that even-song whose blitheness, as nothing else on earth, seems to promise youth forever to the land. He picked up his coat, slung it on, and, heaving a straw bag over his shoulder, walked out on to the grass- bordered road between the elms.
“Tryst! Bob Tryst!”
At the gate of a creepered cottage amongst fruit-trees, high above the road, a youth with black hair and pale-brown face stood beside a girl with frizzy brown hair and cheeks like poppies.
“Have you had that notice?”
The laborer answered slowly:
“Yes, Mr. Derek. If she don’t go, I’ve got to.”
“What a d–d shame!”
The laborer moved his head, as though he would have spoken, but no words came.
“Don’t do anything, Bob. We’ll see about that.”
“Evenin’, Mr. Derek. Evenin’, Miss Sheila,” and the laborer moved on.
The two at the wicket gate also turned away. A black-haired woman dressed in blue came to the wicket gate in their place. There seemed no purpose in her standing there; it was perhaps an evening custom, some ceremony such as Moslems observe at the muezzin-call. And any one who saw her would have wondered what on earth she might be seeing, gazing out with her dark glowing eyes above the white, grass-bordered roads stretching empty this way and that between the elm-trees and green fields; while the blackbirds and thrushes shouted out their hearts, calling all to witness how hopeful and young was life in this English countryside. . . .
Mayday afternoon in Oxford Street, and Felix Freeland, a little late, on his way from Hampstead to his brother John’s house in Porchester Gardens. Felix Freeland, author, wearing the very first gray top hat of the season. A compromise, that–like many other things in his life and works–between individuality and the accepted view of things, aestheticism and fashion, the critical sense and authority. After the meeting at John’s, to discuss the doings of the family of his brother Morton Freeland–better known as Tod–he would perhaps look in on the caricatures at the English Gallery, and visit one duchess in Mayfair, concerning the George Richard Memorial. And so, not the soft felt hat which really suited authorship, nor the black top hat which obliterated personality to the point of pain, but this gray thing with narrowish black band, very suitable, in truth, to a face of a pale buff color, to a moustache of a deep buff color streaked with a few gray hairs, to a black braided coat cut away from a buff-colored waistcoat, to his neat boots–not patent leather–faintly buffed with May-day dust. Even his eyes, Freeland gray, were a little buffed over by sedentary habit, and the number of things that he was conscious of. For instance, that the people passing him were distressingly plain, both men and women; plain with the particular plainness of those quite unaware of it. It struck him forcibly, while he went along, how very queer it was that with so many plain people in the country, the population managed to keep up even as well as it did. To his wonderfully keen sense of defect, it seemed little short of marvellous. A shambling, shoddy crew, this crowd of shoppers and labor demonstrators! A conglomeration of hopelessly mediocre visages! What was to be done about it? Ah! what indeed!–since they were evidently not aware of their own dismal mediocrity. Hardly a beautiful or a vivid face, hardly a wicked one, never anything transfigured, passionate, terrible, or grand. Nothing Greek, early Italian, Elizabethan, not even beefy, beery, broad old Georgian. Something clutched-in, and squashed-out about it all–on that collective face something of the look of a man almost comfortably and warmly wrapped round by a snake at the very beginning of its squeeze. It gave Felix Freeland a sort of faint excitement and pleasure to notice this. For it was his business to notice things, and embalm them afterward in ink. And he believed that not many people noticed it, so that it contributed in his mind to his own distinction, which was precious to him. Precious, and encouraged to be so by the press, which–as he well knew–must print his name several thousand times a year. And yet, as a man of culture and of principle, how he despised that kind of fame, and theoretically believed that a man’s real distinction lay in his oblivion of the world’s opinion, particularly as expressed by that flighty creature, the Fourth Estate. But here again, as in the matter of the gray top hat, he had instinctively compromised, taking in press cuttings which described himself and his works, while he never failed to describe those descriptions–good, bad, and indifferent–as ‘that stuff,’ and their writers as ‘those fellows.’
Not that it was new to him to feel that the country was in a bad way. On the contrary, it was his established belief, and one for which he was prepared to furnish due and proper reasons. In the first place he traced it to the horrible hold Industrialism had in the last hundred years laid on the nation, draining the peasantry from ‘the Land’; and in the second place to the influence of a narrow and insidious Officialism, sapping the independence of the People.
This was why, in going to a conclave with his brother John, high in Government employ, and his brother Stanley, a captain of industry, possessor of the Morton Plough Works, he was conscious of a certain superiority in that he, at all events, had no hand in this paralysis which was creeping on the country.
And getting more buff-colored every minute, he threaded his way on, till, past the Marble Arch, he secured the elbow-room of Hyde Park. Here groups of young men, with chivalrous idealism, were jeering at and chivying the broken remnants of a suffrage meeting. Felix debated whether he should oppose his body to their bodies, his tongue to theirs, or whether he should avert his consciousness and hurry on; but, that instinct which moved him to wear the gray top hat prevailing, he did neither, and stood instead, looking at them in silent anger, which quickly provoked endearments–such as: “Take it off,” or “Keep it on,” or “What cheer, Toppy!” but nothing more acute. And he meditated: Culture! Could culture ever make headway among the blind partisanships, the hand-to-mouth mentality, the cheap excitements of this town life? The faces of these youths, the tone of their voices, the very look of their bowler hats, said: No! You could not culturalize the impermeable texture of their vulgarity. And they were the coming manhood of the nation–this inexpressibly distasteful lot of youths! The country had indeed got too far away from ‘the Land.’ And this essential towny commonness was not confined to the classes from which these youths were drawn. He had even remarked it among his own son’s school and college friends–an impatience of discipline, an insensibility to everything but excitement and having a good time, a permanent mental indigestion due to a permanent diet of tit-bits. What aspiration they possessed seemed devoted to securing for themselves the plums of official or industrial life. His boy Alan, even, was infected, in spite of home influences and the atmosphere of art in which he had been so sedulously soaked. He wished to enter his Uncle Stanley’s plough works, seeing in it a ‘soft thing.’
But the last of the woman-baiters had passed by now, and, conscious that he was really behind time, Felix hurried on. . . .
In his study–a pleasant room, if rather tidy–John Freeland was standing before the fire smoking a pipe and looking thoughtfully at nothing. He was, in fact, thinking, with that continuity characteristic of a man who at fifty has won for himself a place of permanent importance in the Home Office. Starting life in the Royal Engineers, he still preserved something of a military look about his figure, and grave visage with steady eyes and drooping moustache (both a shade grayer than those of Felix), and a forehead bald from justness and knowing where to lay his hand on papers. His face was thinner, his head narrower, than his brother’s, and he had acquired a way of making those he looked at doubt themselves and feel the sudden instability of all their facts. He was–as has been said–thinking. His brother Stanley had wired to him that morning: “Am motoring up to-day on business; can you get Felix to come at six o’clock and talk over the position at Tod’s?” What position at Tod’s? He had indeed heard something vague–of those youngsters of Tod’s, and some fuss they were making about the laborers down there. He had not liked it. Too much of a piece with the general unrest, and these new democratic ideas that were playing old Harry with the country! For in his opinion the country was in a bad way, partly owing to Industrialism, with its rotting effect upon physique; partly to this modern analytic Intellectualism, with its destructive and anarchic influence on morals. It was difficult to overestimate the mischief of those two factors; and in the approaching conference with his brothers, one of whom was the head of an industrial undertaking, and the other a writer, whose books, extremely modern, he never read, he was perhaps vaguely conscious of his own cleaner hands. Hearing a car come to a halt outside, he went to the window and looked out. Yes, it was Stanley! . . .
Stanley Freeland, who had motored up from Becket–his country place, close to his plough works in Worcestershire–stood a moment on the pavement, stretching his long legs and giving directions to his chauffeur. He had been stopped twice on the road for not- exceeding the limit as he believed, and was still a little ruffled. Was it not his invariable principle to be moderate in speed as in all other things? And his feeling at the moment was stronger even than usual, that the country was in a bad way, eaten up by officialism, with its absurd limitations of speed and the liberty of the subject, and the advanced ideas of these new writers and intellectuals, always talking about the rights and sufferings of the poor. There was no progress along either of those roads. He had it in his heart, as he stood there on the pavement, to say something pretty definite to John about interference with the liberty of the subject, and he wouldn’t mind giving old Felix a rap about his precious destructive doctrines, and continual girding at the upper classes, vested interests, and all the rest of it. If he had something to put in their place that would be another matter. Capital and those who controlled it were the backbone of the country–what there was left of the country, apart from these d–d officials and aesthetic fellows! And with a contraction of his straight eyebrows above his straight gray eyes, straight blunt nose, blunter moustaches, and blunt chin, he kept a tight rein on his blunt tongue, not choosing to give way even to his own anger.
Then, perceiving Felix coming–‘in a white topper, by Jove!’–he crossed the pavement to the door; and, tall, square, personable, rang the bell.
“Well, what’s the matter at Tod’s?”
And Felix moved a little forward in his chair, his eyes fixed with interest on Stanley, who was about to speak.
“It’s that wife of his, of course. It was all very well so long as she confined herself to writing, and talk, and that Land Society, or whatever it was she founded, the one that snuffed out the other day; but now she’s getting herself and those two youngsters mixed up in our local broils, and really I think Tod’s got to be spoken to.”
“It’s impossible for a husband to interfere with his wife’s principles.” So Felix.
“Principles!” The word came from John.
“Certainly! Kirsteen’s a woman of great character; revolutionary by temperament. Why should you expect her to act as you would act yourselves?”
When Felix had said that, there was a silence.
Then Stanley muttered: “Poor old Tod!”
Felix sighed, lost for a moment in his last vision of his youngest brother. It was four years ago now, a summer evening–Tod standing between his youngsters Derek and Sheila, in a doorway of his white, black-timbered, creepered cottage, his sunburnt face and blue eyes the serenest things one could see in a day’s march!
“Why ‘poor’?” he said. “Tod’s much happier than we are. You’ve only to look at him.”
“Ah!” said Stanley suddenly. “D’you remember him at Father’s funeral?–without his hat, and his head in the clouds. Fine- lookin’ chap, old Tod–pity he’s such a child of Nature.”
Felix said quietly:
“If you’d offered him a partnership, Stanley–it would have been the making of him.”
“Tod in the plough works? My hat!”
Felix smiled. At sight of that smile, Stanley grew red, and John refilled his pipe. It is always the devil to have a brother more sarcastic than oneself!
“How old are those two?” John said abruptly.
“Sheila’s twenty, Derek nineteen.”
“I thought the boy was at an agricultural college?”
“What’s he like?”
“A black-haired, fiery fellow, not a bit like Tod.”
John muttered: “That’s her Celtic blood. Her father, old Colonel Moray, was just that sort; by George, he was a regular black Highlander. What’s the trouble exactly?”
It was Stanley who answered: “That sort of agitation business is all very well until it begins to affect your neighbors; then it’s time it stopped. You know the Mallorings who own all the land round Tod’s. Well, they’ve fallen foul of the Mallorings over what they call injustice to some laborers. Questions of morality involved. I don’t know all the details. A man’s got notice to quit over his deceased wife’s sister; and some girl or other in another cottage has kicked over–just ordinary country incidents. What I want is that Tod should be made to see that his family mustn’t quarrel with his nearest neighbors in this way. We know the Mallorings well, they’re only seven miles from us at Becket. It doesn’t do; sooner or later it plays the devil all round. And the air’s full of agitation about the laborers and ‘the Land,’ and all the rest of it–only wants a spark to make real trouble.”
And having finished this oration, Stanley thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and jingled the money that was there.
John said abruptly:
“Felix, you’d better go down.”
Felix was sitting back, his eyes for once withdrawn from his brothers’ faces.
“Odd,” he said, “really odd, that with a perfectly unique person like Tod for a brother, we only see him once in a blue moon.”
“It’s because he IS so d–d unique.”
Felix got up and gravely extended his hand to Stanley.
“By Jove,” he said, “you’ve spoken truth.” And to John he added: “Well, I WILL go, and let you know the upshot.”
When he had departed, the two elder brothers remained for some moments silent, then Stanley said:
“Old Felix is a bit tryin’! With the fuss they make of him in the papers, his head’s swelled!”
John did not answer. One could not in so many words resent one’s own brother being made a fuss of, and if it had been for something real, such as discovering the source of the Black River, conquering Bechuanaland, curing Blue-mange, or being made a Bishop, he would have been the first and most loyal in his appreciation; but for the sort of thing Felix made up–Fiction, and critical, acid, destructive sort of stuff, pretending to show John Freeland things that he hadn’t seen before–as if Felix could!–not at all the jolly old romance which one could read well enough and enjoy till it sent you to sleep after a good day’s work. No! that Felix should be made a fuss of for such work as that really almost hurt him. It was not quite decent, violating deep down one’s sense of form, one’s sense of health, one’s traditions. Though he would not have admitted it, he secretly felt, too, that this fuss was dangerous to his own point of view, which was, of course, to him the only real one. And he merely said:
“Will you stay to dinner, Stan?”
If John had those sensations about Felix, so–when he was away from John–had Felix about himself. He had never quite grown out of the feeling that to make himself conspicuous in any way was bad form. In common with his three brothers he had been through the mills of gentility–those unique grinding machines of education only found in his native land. Tod, to be sure, had been publicly sacked at the end of his third term, for climbing on to the headmaster’s roof and filling up two of his chimneys with football pants, from which he had omitted to remove his name. Felix still remembered the august scene–the horrid thrill of it, the ominous sound of that: “Freeland minimus!” the ominous sight of poor little Tod emerging from his obscurity near the roof of the Speech Room, and descending all those steps. How very small and rosy he had looked, his bright hair standing on end, and his little blue eyes staring up very hard from under a troubled frown. And the august hand holding up those sooty pants, and the august voice: “These appear to be yours, Freeland minimus. Were you so good as to put them down my chinmeys?” And the little piping, “Yes, sir.”
“May I ask why, Freeland minimus?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You must have had some reason, Freeland minimus?”
“It was the end of term, sir.”
“Ah! You must not come back here, Freeland minimus. You are too dangerous, to yourself, and others. Go to your place.”
And poor little Tod ascending again all those steps, cheeks more terribly rosy than ever, eyes bluer, from under a still more troubled frown; little mouth hard set; and breathing so that you could hear him six forms off. True, the new Head had been goaded by other outrages, the authors of which had not omitted to remove their names; but the want of humor, the amazing want of humor! As if it had not been a sign of first-rate stuff in Tod! And to this day Felix remembered with delight the little bubbling hiss that he himself had started, squelched at once, but rippling out again along the rows like tiny scattered lines of fire when a conflagration is suppressed. Expulsion had been the salvation of Tod! Or–his damnation? Which? God would know, but Felix was not certain. Having himself been fifteen years acquiring ‘Mill’ philosophy, and another fifteen years getting rid of it, he had now begun to think that after all there might be something in it. A philosophy that took everything, including itself, at face value, and questioned nothing, was sedative to nerves too highly strung by the continual examination of the insides of oneself and others, with a view to their alteration. Tod, of course, having been sent to Germany after his expulsion, as one naturally would be, and then put to farming, had never properly acquired ‘Mill’ manner, and never sloughed it off; and yet he was as sedative a man as you could meet.
Emerging from the Tube station at Hampstead, he moved toward home under a sky stranger than one might see in a whole year of evenings. Between the pine-trees on the ridge it was opaque and colored like pinkish stone, and all around violent purple with flames of the young green, and white spring blossom lit against it. Spring had been dull and unimaginative so far, but this evening it was all fire and gathered torrents; Felix wondered at the waiting passion of that sky.
He reached home just as those torrents began to fall.
The old house, beyond the Spaniard’s Road, save for mice and a faint underlying savor of wood-rot in two rooms, well satisfied the aesthetic sense. Felix often stood in his hall, study, bedroom, and other apartments, admiring the rich and simple glow of them– admiring the rarity and look of studied negligence about the stuffs, the flowers, the books, the furniture, the china; and then quite suddenly the feeling would sweep over him: “By George, do I really own all this, when my ideal is ‘bread and water, and on feast days a little bit of cheese’?” True, he was not to blame for the niceness of his things–Flora did it; but still–there they were, a little hard to swallow for an epicurean. It might, of course, have been worse, for if Flora had a passion for collecting, it was a very chaste one, and though what she collected cost no little money, it always looked as if it had been inherited, and–as everybody knows–what has been inherited must be put up with, whether it be a coronet or a cruet-stand.
To collect old things, and write poetry! It was a career; one would not have one’s wife otherwise. She might, for instance, have been like Stanley’s wife, Clara, whose career was wealth and station; or John’s wife, Anne, whose career had been cut short; or even Tod’s wife, Kirsteen, whose career was revolution. No–a wife who had two, and only two children, and treated them with affectionate surprise, who was never out of temper, never in a hurry, knew the points of a book or play, could cut your hair at a pinch; whose hand was dry, figure still good, verse tolerable, and– above all–who wished for no better fate than Fate had given her– was a wife not to be sneezed at. And Felix never had. He had depicted so many sneezing wives and husbands in his books, and knew the value of a happy marriage better perhaps than any one in England. He had laid marriage low a dozen times, wrecked it on all sorts of rocks, and had the greater veneration for his own, which had begun early, manifested every symptom of ending late, and in the meantime walked down the years holding hands fast, and by no means forgetting to touch lips.
Hanging up the gray top hat, he went in search of her. He found her in his dressing-room, surrounded by a number of little bottles, which she was examining vaguely, and putting one by one into an ‘inherited’ waste-paper basket. Having watched her for a little while with a certain pleasure, he said:
“Yes, my dear?”
Noticing his presence, and continuing to put bottles into the basket, she answered:
“I thought I must–they’re what dear Mother’s given us.”
There they lay–little bottles filled with white and brown fluids, white and blue and brown powders; green and brown and yellow ointments; black lozenges; buff plasters; blue and pink and purple pills. All beautifully labelled and corked.
And he said in a rather faltering voice:
“Bless her! How she does give her things away! Haven’t we used ANY?”
“Not one. And they have to be cleared away before they’re stale, for fear we might take one by mistake.”
“My dear, she’s found something newer than them all by now.”
“The nomadic spirit. I have it, too!”
And a sudden vision came to him of his mother’s carved ivory face, kept free of wrinkles by sheer will-power, its firm chin, slightly aquiline nose, and measured brows; its eyes that saw everything so quickly, so fastidiously, its compressed mouth that smiled sweetly, with a resolute but pathetic acceptation. Of the piece of fine lace, sometimes black, sometimes white, over her gray hair. Of her hands, so thin now, always moving a little, as if all the composure and care not to offend any eye by allowing Time to ravage her face, were avenging themselves in that constant movement. Of her figure, that was short but did not seem so, still quick-moving, still alert, and always dressed in black or gray. A vision of that exact, fastidious, wandering spirit called Frances Fleeming Freeland–that spirit strangely compounded of domination and humility, of acceptation and cynicism; precise and actual to the point of desert dryness; generous to a point that caused her family to despair; and always, beyond all things, brave.
Flora dropped the last little bottle, and sitting on the edge of the bath let her eyebrows rise. How pleasant was that impersonal humor which made her superior to other wives!
“Mother travels unceasingly from place to place, person to person, thing to thing. I travel unceasingly from motive to motive, mind to mind; my native air is also desert air–hence the sterility of my work.”
Flora rose, but her eyebrows descended.
“Your work,” she said, “is not sterile.”
“That, my dear,” said Felix, “is prejudice.” And perceiving that she was going to kiss him, he waited without annoyance. For a woman of forty-two, with two children and three books of poems–and not knowing which had taken least out of her–with hazel-gray eyes, wavy eyebrows darker than they should have been, a glint of red in her hair; wavy figure and lips; quaint, half-humorous indolence, quaint, half-humorous warmth–was she not as satisfactory a woman as a man could possibly have married!
“I have got to go down and see Tod,” he said. “I like that wife of his; but she has no sense of humor. How much better principles are in theory than in practice!”
Flora repeated softly, as if to herself:
“I’m glad I have none.” She was at the window leaning out, and Felix took his place beside her. The air was full of scent from wet leaves, alive with the song of birds thanking the sky. Suddenly he felt her arm round his ribs; either it or they–which, he could not at the moment tell–seemed extraordinarily soft. . . .
Between Felix and his young daughter, Nedda, there existed the only kind of love, except a mother’s, which has much permanence–love based on mutual admiration. Though why Nedda, with her starry innocence, should admire him, Felix could never understand, not realizing that she read his books, and even analyzed them for herself in the diary which she kept religiously, writing it when she ought to have been asleep. He had therefore no knowledge of the way his written thoughts stimulated the ceaseless questioning that was always going on within her; the thirst to know why this was and that was not. Why, for instance, her heart ached so some days and felt light and eager other days? Why, when people wrote and talked of God, they seemed to know what He was, and she never did? Why people had to suffer; and the world be black to so many millions? Why one could not love more than one man at a time? Why–a thousand things? Felix’s books supplied no answers to these questions, but they were comforting; for her real need as yet was not for answers, but ever for more questions, as a young bird’s need is for opening its beak without quite knowing what is coming out or going in. When she and her father walked, or sat, or went to concerts together, their talk was neither particularly intimate nor particularly voluble; they made to each other no great confidences. Yet each was certain that the other was not bored–a great thing; and they squeezed each other’s little fingers a good deal–very warming. Now with his son Alan, Felix had a continual sensation of having to keep up to a mark and never succeeding–a feeling, as in his favorite nightmare, of trying to pass an examination for which he had neglected to prepare; of having to preserve, in fact, form proper to the father of Alan Freeland. With Nedda he had a sense of refreshment; the delight one has on a spring day, watching a clear stream, a bank of flowers, birds flying. And Nedda with her father–what feeling had she? To be with him was like a long stroking with a touch of tickle in it; to read his books, a long tickle with a nice touch of stroking now and then when one was not expecting it.
That night after dinner, when Alan had gone out and Flora into a dream, she snuggled up alongside her father, got hold of his little finger, and whispered:
“Come into the garden, Dad; I’ll put on goloshes. It’s an awfully nice moon.”
The moon indeed was palest gold behind the pines, so that its radiance was a mere shower of pollen, just a brushing of white moth-down over the reeds of their little dark pond, and the black blur of the flowering currant bushes. And the young lime-trees, not yet in full leaf, quivered ecstatically in that moon-witchery, still letting fall raindrops of the past spring torrent, with soft hissing sounds. A real sense in the garden, of God holding his breath in the presence of his own youth swelling, growing, trembling toward perfection! Somewhere a bird–a thrush, they thought–mixed in its little mind as to night and day, was queerly chirruping. And Felix and his daughter went along the dark wet paths, holding each other’s arms, not talking much. For, in him, very responsive to the moods of Nature, there was a flattered feeling, with that young arm in his, of Spring having chosen to confide in him this whispering, rustling hour. And in Nedda was so much of that night’s unutterable youth–no wonder she was silent! Then, somehow–neither responsible–they stood motionless. How quiet it was, but for a distant dog or two, and the stilly shivering-down of the water drops, and the far vibration of the million-voiced city! How quiet and soft and fresh! Then Nedda spoke:
“Dad, I do so want to know everything.”
Not rousing even a smile, with its sublime immodesty, that aspiration seemed to Felix infinitely touching. What less could youth want in the very heart of Spring? And, watching her face put up to the night, her parted lips, and the moon-gleam fingering her white throat, he answered:
“It’ll all come soon enough, my pretty!”
To think that she must come to an end like the rest, having found out almost nothing, having discovered just herself, and the particle of God that was within her! But he could not, of course, say this.
“I want to FEEL. Can’t I begin?”
How many millions of young creatures all the world over were sending up that white prayer to climb and twine toward the stars, and–fall to earth again! And nothing to be answered, but:
“Time enough, Nedda!”
“But, Dad, there are such heaps of things, such heaps of people, and reasons, and–and life; and I know nothing. Dreams are the only times, it seems to me, that one finds out anything.”
“As for that, my child, I am exactly in your case. What’s to be done for us?”
She slid her hand through his arm again.
“Don’t laugh at me!”
“Heaven forbid! I meant it. You’re finding out much quicker than I. It’s all folk-music to you still; to me Strauss and the rest of the tired stuff. The variations my mind spins–wouldn’t I just swap them for the tunes your mind is making?”
“I don’t seem making tunes at all. I don’t seem to have anything to make them of. Take me down to see ‘the Tods,’ Dad!”
Why not? And yet–! Just as in this spring night Felix felt so much, so very much, lying out there behind the still and moony dark, such marvellous holding of breath and waiting sentiency, so behind this innocent petition, he could not help the feeling of a lurking fatefulness. That was absurd. And he said: “If you wish it, by all means. You’ll like your Uncle Tod; as to the others, I can’t say, but your aunt is an experience, and experiences are what you want, it seems.”
Fervently, without speech, Nedda squeezed his arm.
Stanley Freeland’s country house, Becket, was almost a show place. It stood in its park and pastures two miles from the little town of Transham and the Morton Plough Works; close to the ancestral home of the Moretons, his mother’s family–that home burned down by Roundheads in the Civil War. The site–certain vagaries in the ground–Mrs. Stanley had caused to be walled round, and consecrated so to speak with a stone medallion on which were engraved the aged Moreton arms–arrows and crescent moons in proper juxtaposition. Peacocks, too–that bird ‘parlant,’ from the old Moreton crest– were encouraged to dwell there and utter their cries, as of passionate souls lost in too comfortable surroundings.
By one of those freaks of which Nature is so prodigal, Stanley– owner of this native Moreton soil–least of all four Freeland brothers, had the Moreton cast of mind and body. That was why he made so much more money than the other three put together, and had been able, with the aid of Clara’s undoubted genius for rank and station, to restore a strain of Moreton blood to its rightful position among the county families of Worcestershire. Bluff and without sentiment, he himself set little store by that, smiling up his sleeve–for he was both kindly and prudent–at his wife who had been a Tomson. It was not in Stanley to appreciate the peculiar flavor of the Moretons, that something which in spite of their naivete and narrowness, had really been rather fine. To him, such Moretons as were left were ‘dry enough sticks, clean out of it.’ They were of a breed that was already gone, the simplest of all country gentlemen, dating back to the Conquest, without one solitary conspicuous ancestor, save the one who had been physician to a king and perished without issue–marrying from generation to generation exactly their own equals; living simple, pious, parochial lives; never in trade, never making money, having a tradition and a practice of gentility more punctilious than the so- called aristocracy; constitutionally paternal and maternal to their dependents, constitutionally so convinced that those dependents and all indeed who were not ‘gentry,’ were of different clay, that they were entirely simple and entirely without arrogance, carrying with them even now a sort of Early atmosphere of archery and home-made cordials, lavender and love of clergy, together with frequent use of the word ‘nice,’ a peculiar regularity of feature, and a complexion that was rather parchmenty. High Church people and Tories, naturally, to a man and woman, by sheer inbred absence of ideas, and sheer inbred conviction that nothing else was nice; but withal very considerate of others, really plucky in bearing their own ills; not greedy, and not wasteful.
Of Becket, as it now was, they would not have approved at all. By what chance Edmund Moreton (Stanley’s mother’s grandfather), in the middle of the eighteenth century, had suddenly diverged from family feeling and ideals, and taken that ‘not quite nice’ resolution to make ploughs and money, would never now be known. The fact remained, together with the plough works. A man apparently of curious energy and character, considering his origin, he had dropped the E from his name, and–though he continued the family tradition so far as to marry a Fleeming of Worcestershire, to be paternal to his workmen, to be known as Squire, and to bring his children up in the older Moreton ‘niceness’–he had yet managed to make his ploughs quite celebrated, to found a little town, and die still handsome and clean-shaved at the age of sixty-six. Of his four sons, only two could be found sufficiently without the E to go on making ploughs. Stanley’s grandfather, Stuart Morton, indeed, had tried hard, but in the end had reverted to the congenital instinct for being just a Moreton. An extremely amiable man, he took to wandering with his family, and died in France, leaving one daughter–Frances, Stanley’s mother–and three sons, one of whom, absorbed in horses, wandered to Australia and was killed by falling from them; one of whom, a soldier, wandered to India, and the embraces of a snake; and one of whom wandered into the embraces of the Holy Roman Church.
The Morton Plough Works were dry and dwindling when Stanley’s father, seeking an opening for his son, put him and money into them. From that moment they had never looked back, and now brought Stanley, the sole proprietor, an income of full fifteen thousand pounds a year. He wanted it. For Clara, his wife, had that energy of aspiration which before now has raised women to positions of importance in the counties which are not their own, and caused, incidentally, many acres to go out of cultivation. Not one plough was used on the whole of Becket, not even a Morton plough–these indeed were unsuitable to English soil and were all sent abroad. It was the corner-stone of his success that Stanley had completely seen through the talked-of revival of English agriculture, and sedulously cultivated the foreign market. This was why the Becket dining-room could contain without straining itself large quantities of local magnates and celebrities from London, all deploring the condition of ‘the Land,’ and discussing without end the regrettable position of the agricultural laborer. Except for literary men and painters, present in small quantities to leaven the lump, Becket was, in fact, a rallying point for the advanced spirits of Land Reform–one of those places where they were sure of being well done at week-ends, and of congenial and even stimulating talk about the undoubted need for doing something, and the designs which were being entertained upon ‘the Land’ by either party. This very heart of English country that the old Moretons in their paternal way had so religiously farmed, making out of its lush grass and waving corn a simple and by no means selfish or ungenerous subsistence, was now entirely lawns, park, coverts, and private golf course, together with enough grass to support the kine which yielded that continual stream of milk necessary to Clara’s entertainments and children, all female, save little Francis, and still of tender years. Of gardeners, keepers, cow-men, chauffeurs, footmen, stablemen–full twenty were supported on those fifteen hundred acres that formed the little Becket demesne. Of agricultural laborers proper–that vexed individual so much in the air, so reluctant to stay on ‘the Land,’ and so difficult to house when he was there, there were fortunately none, so that it was possible for Stanley, whose wife meant him to ‘put up’ for the Division, and his guests, who were frequently in Parliament, to hold entirely unbiassed and impersonal views upon the whole question so long as they were at Becket.
It was beautiful there, too, with the bright open fields hedged with great elms, and that ever-rich serenity of its grass and trees. The white house, timbered with dark beams in true Worcestershire fashion, and added-to from time to time, had preserved, thanks to a fine architect, an old-fashioned air of spacious presidency above its gardens and lawns. On the long artificial lake, with innumerable rushy nooks and water-lilies and coverture of leaves floating flat and bright in the sun, the half- tame wild duck and shy water-hens had remote little worlds, and flew and splashed when all Becket was abed, quite as if the human spirit, with its monkey-tricks and its little divine flame, had not yet been born.
Under the shade of a copper-beech, just where the drive cut through into its circle before the house, an old lady was sitting that afternoon on a campstool. She was dressed in gray alpaca, light and cool, and had on her iron-gray hair a piece of black lace. A number of Hearth and Home and a little pair of scissors, suspended by an inexpensive chain from her waist, rested on her knee, for she had been meaning to cut out for dear Felix a certain recipe for keeping the head cool; but, as a fact, she sat without doing so, very still, save that, now and then, she compressed her pale fine lips, and continually moved her pale fine hands. She was evidently waiting for something that promised excitement, even pleasure, for a little rose-leaf flush had quavered up into a face that was colored like parchment; and her gray eyes under regular and still- dark brows, very far apart, between which there was no semblance of a wrinkle, seemed noting little definite things about her, almost unwillingly, as an Arab’s or a Red Indian’s eyes will continue to note things in the present, however their minds may be set on the future. So sat Frances Fleeming Freeland (nee Morton) waiting for the arrival of her son Felix and her grandchildren Alan and Nedda.
She marked presently an old man limping slowly on a stick toward where the drive debouched, and thought at once: “He oughtn’t to be coming this way. I expect he doesn’t know the way round to the back. Poor man, he’s very lame. He looks respectable, too.” She got up and went toward him, remarking that his face with nice gray moustaches was wonderfully regular, almost like a gentleman’s, and that he touched his dusty hat with quite old-fashioned courtesy. And smiling–her smile was sweet but critical–she said: “You’ll find the best way is to go back to that little path, and past the greenhouses. Have you hurt your leg?”
“My leg’s been like that, m’m, fifteen year come Michaelmas.”
“How did it happen?”
“Ploughin’. The bone was injured; an’ now they say the muscle’s dried up in a manner of speakin’.”
“What do you do for it? The very best thing is this.”
From the recesses of a deep pocket, placed where no one else wore such a thing, she brought out a little pot.
“You must let me give it you. Put it on when you go to bed, and rub it well in; you’ll find it act splendidly.”
The old man took the little pot with dubious reverence.
“Yes, m’m,” he said; “thank you, m’m.”
“What is your name?”
“And where do you live?”
“Over to Joyfields, m’m.”
“Joyfields–another of my sons lives there–Mr. Morton Freeland. But it’s seven miles.”
“I got a lift half-way.”
“And have you business at the house?” The old man was silent; the downcast, rather cynical look of his lined face deepened. And Frances Freeland thought: ‘He’s overtired. They must give him some tea and an egg. What can he want, coming all this way? He’s evidently not a beggar.’
The old man who was not a beggar spoke suddenly:
“I know the Mr. Freeland at Joyfields. He’s a good gentleman, too.”
“Yes, he is. I wonder I don’t know you.”
“I’m not much about, owin’ to my leg. It’s my grand-daughter in service here, I come to see.”
“Oh, yes! What is her name?”
“Gaunt her name is.”
“I shouldn’t know her by her surname.”
“Ah! in the kitchen; a nice, pretty girl. I hope you’re not in trouble.”
Again the old man was silent, and again spoke suddenly:
“That’s as you look at it, m’m,” he said. “I’ve got a matter of a few words to have with her about the family. Her father he couldn’t come, so I come instead.”
“And how are you going to get back?”
“I’ll have to walk, I expect, without I can pick up with a cart.”
Frances Freeland compressed her lips. “With that leg you should have come by train.”
The old man smiled.
“I hadn’t the fare like,” he said. “I only gets five shillin’s a week, from the council, and two o’ that I pays over to my son.”
Frances Freeland thrust her hand once more into that deep pocket, and as she did so she noticed that the old man’s left boot was flapping open, and that there were two buttons off his coat. Her mind was swiftly calculating: “It is more than seven weeks to quarter day. Of course I can’t afford it, but I must just give him a sovereign.”
She withdrew her hand from the recesses of her pocket and looked at the old man’s nose. It was finely chiselled, and the same yellow as his face. “It looks nice, and quite sober,” she thought. In her hand was her purse and a boot-lace. She took out a sovereign.
“Now, if I give you this,” she said, “you must promise me not to spend any of it in the public-house. And this is for your boot. And you must go back by train. And get those buttons sewn on your coat. And tell cook, from me, please, to give you some tea and an egg.” And noticing that he took the sovereign and the boot-lace very respectfully, and seemed altogether very respectable, and not at all coarse or beery-looking, she said:
“Good-by; don’t forget to rub what I gave you into your leg every night and every morning,” and went back to her camp-stool. Sitting down on it with the scissors in her hand, she still did not cut out that recipe, but remained as before, taking in small, definite things, and feeling with an inner trembling that dear Felix and Alan and Nedda would soon be here; and the little flush rose again in her cheeks, and again her lips and hands moved, expressing and compressing what was in her heart. And close behind her, a peacock, straying from the foundations of the old Moreton house, uttered a cry, and moved slowly, spreading its tail under the low- hanging boughs of the copper-beeches, as though it knew those dark burnished leaves were the proper setting for its ‘parlant’ magnificence.
The day after the little conference at John’s, Felix had indeed received the following note:
“When you go down to see old Tod, why not put up with us at Becket? Any time will suit, and the car can take you over to Joyfields when you like. Give the pen a rest. Clara joins in hoping you’ll come, and Mother is still here. No use, I suppose, to ask Flora.
During the twenty years of his brother’s sojourn there Felix had been down to Becket perhaps once a year, and latterly alone; for Flora, having accompanied him the first few times, had taken a firm stand.
“My dear,” she said, “I feel all body there.”
Felix had rejoined:
“No bad thing, once in a way.”
But Flora had remained firm. Life was too short! She did not get on well with Clara. Neither did Felix feel too happy in his sister-in-law’s presence; but the gray top-hat instinct had kept him going there, for one ought to keep in touch with one’s brothers.
He replied to Stanley:
“Delighted; if I may bring my two youngsters. We’ll arrive to- morrow at four-fifty.
Travelling with Nedda was always jolly; one could watch her eyes noting, inquiring, and when occasion served, have one’s little finger hooked in and squeezed. Travelling with Alan was convenient, the young man having a way with railways which Felix himself had long despaired of acquiring. Neither of the children had ever been at Becket, and though Alan was seldom curious, and Nedda too curious about everything to be specially so about this, yet Felix experienced in their company the sensations of a new adventure.
Arrived at Transham, that little town upon a hill which the Morton Plough Works had created, they were soon in Stanley’s car, whirling into the sleepy peace of a Worcestershire afternoon. Would this young bird nestling up against him echo Flora’s verdict: ‘I feel all body there!’ or would she take to its fatted luxury as a duck to water? And he said: “By the way, your aunt’s ‘Bigwigs’ set in on a Saturday. Are you for staying and seeing the lions feed, or do we cut back?”
From Alan he got the answer he expected:
“If there’s golf or something, I suppose we can make out all right.” From Nedda: “What sort of Bigwigs are they, Dad?”
“A sort you’ve never seen, my dear.”
“Then I should like to stay. Only, about dresses?”
“What war paint have you?”
“Only two white evenings. And Mums gave me her Mechlin.”
To Felix, Nedda in white ‘evenings’ was starry and all that man could desire.
“Only, Dad, do tell me about them, beforehand.”
“My dear, I will. And God be with you. This is where Becket begins.”
The car had swerved into a long drive between trees not yet full- grown, but decorously trying to look more than their twenty years. To the right, about a group of older elms, rooks were in commotion, for Stanley’s three keepers’ wives had just baked their annual rook pies, and the birds were not yet happy again. Those elms had stood there when the old Moretons walked past them through corn-fields to church of a Sunday. Away on the left above the lake, the little walled mound had come in view. Something in Felix always stirred at sight of it, and, squeezing Nedda’s arm, he said:
“See that silly wall? Behind there Granny’s ancients lived. Gone now–new house–new lake–new trees–new everything.”
But he saw from his little daughter’s calm eyes that the sentiment in him was not in her.
“I like the lake,” she said. “There’s Granny–oh, and a peacock!”
His mother’s embrace, with its frail energy, and the pressure of her soft, dry lips, filled Felix always with remorse. Why could he not give the simple and direct expression to his feeling that she gave to hers? He watched those lips transferred to Nedda, heard her say: “Oh, my darling, how lovely to see you! Do you know this for midge-bites?” A hand, diving deep into a pocket, returned with a little silver-coated stick having a bluish end. Felix saw it rise and hover about Nedda’s forehead, and descend with two little swift dabs. “It takes them away at once.”
“Oh, but Granny, they’re not midge-bites; they’re only from my hat!”
“It doesn’t matter, darling; it takes away anything like that.”
And he thought: ‘Mother is really wonderful!’
At the house the car had already disgorged their luggage. Only one man, but he absolutely the butler, awaited them, and they entered, at once conscious of Clara’s special pot-pourri. Its fragrance steamed from blue china, in every nook and crevice, a sort of baptism into luxury. Clara herself, in the outer morning-room, smelled a little of it. Quick and dark of eye, capable, comely, perfectly buttoned, one of those women who know exactly how not to be superior to the general taste of the period. In addition to that great quality she was endowed with a fine nose, an instinct for co-ordination not to be excelled, and a genuine love of making people comfortable; so that it was no wonder that she had risen in the ranks of hostesses, till her house was celebrated for its ease, even among those who at their week-ends liked to feel ‘all body.’ In regard to that characteristic of Becket, not even Felix in his ironies had ever stood up to Clara; the matter was too delicate. Frances Freeland, indeed–not because she had any philosophic preconceptions on the matter, but because it was ‘not nice, dear, to be wasteful’ even if it were only of rose-leaves, or to ‘have too much decoration,’ such as Japanese prints in places where they hum–sometimes told her daughter-in-law frankly what was wrong, without, however, making the faintest impression upon Clara, for she was not sensitive, and, as she said to Stanley, it was ‘only Mother.’
When they had drunk that special Chinese tea, all the rage, but which no one really liked, in the inner morning, or afternoon room– for the drawing-rooms were too large to be comfortable except at week-ends–they went to see the children, a special blend of Stanley and Clara, save the little Francis, who did not seem to be entirely body. Then Clara took them to their rooms. She lingered kindly in Nedda’s, feeling that the girl could not yet feel quite at home, and looking in the soap-dish lest she might not have the right verbena, and about the dressing-table to see that she had pins and scent, and plenty of ‘pot-pourri,’ and thinking: ‘The child is pretty–a nice girl, not like her mother.’ Explaining carefully how, because of the approaching week-end, she had been obliged to put her in ‘a very simple room’ where she would be compelled to cross the corridor to her bath, she asked her if she had a quilted dressing-gown, and finding that she had not, left her saying she would send one–and could she do her frocks up, or should Sirrett come?
Abandoned, the girl stood in the middle of the room, so far more ‘simple’ than she had ever slept in, with its warm fragrance of rose-leaves and verbena, its Aubusson carpet, white silk-quilted bed, sofa, cushioned window-seat, dainty curtains, and little nickel box of biscuits on little spindly table. There she stood and sniffed, stretched herself, and thought: ‘It’s jolly–only, it smells too much!’ and she went up to the pictures, one by one. They seemed to go splendidly with the room, and suddenly she felt homesick. Ridiculous, of course! Yet, if she had known where her father’s room was, she would have run out to it; but her memory was too tangled up with stairs and corridors–to find her way down to the hall again was all she could have done.
A maid came in now with a blue silk gown very thick and soft. Could she do anything for Miss Freeland? No, thanks, she could not; only, did she know where Mr. Freeland’s room was?
“Which Mr. Freeland, miss, the young or the old?”
“Oh, the old!” Having said which, Nedda felt unhappy; her Dad was not old! “No, miss; but I’ll find out. It’ll be in the walnut wing!” But with a little flutter at the thought of thus setting people to run about wings, Nedda murmured: “Oh! thanks, no; it doesn’t matter.”
She settled down now on the cushion of the window-seat, to look out and take it all in, right away to that line of hills gone blue in the haze of the warm evening. That would be Malvern; and there, farther to the south, the ‘Tods’ lived. ‘Joyfields!’ A pretty name! And it was lovely country all round; green and peaceful, with its white, timbered houses and cottages. People must be very happy, living here–happy and quiet like the stars and the birds; not like the crowds in London thronging streets and shops and Hampstead Heath; not like the people in all those disgruntled suburbs that led out for miles where London ought to have stopped but had not; not like the thousands and thousands of those poor creatures in Bethnal Green, where her slum work lay. The natives here must surely be happy. Only, were there any natives? She had not seen any. Away to the right below her window were the first trees of the fruit garden; for many of them Spring was over, but the apple-trees had just come into blossom, and the low sun shining through a gap in some far elms was slanting on their creamy pink, christening them–Nedda thought–with drops of light; and lovely the blackbirds’ singing sounded in the perfect hush! How wonderful to be a bird, going where you would, and from high up in the air seeing everything; flying down a sunbeam, drinking a raindrop, sitting on the very top of a tall tree, running in grass so high that you were hidden, laying little perfect blue-green eggs, or pure-gray speckly ones; never changing your dress, yet always beautiful. Surely the spirit of the world was in the birds and the clouds, roaming, floating, and in the flowers and trees that never smelled anything but sweet, never looked anything but lovely, and were never restless. Why was one restless, wanting things that did not come–wanting to feel and know, wanting to love, and be loved? And at that thought which had come to her so unexpectedly–a thought never before shaped so definitely–Nedda planted her arms on the window-sill, with sleeves fallen down, and let her hands meet cup-shaped beneath her chin. Love! To have somebody with whom she could share everything–some one to whom and for whom she could give up–some one she could protect and comfort–some one who would bring her peace. Peace, rest–from what? Ah! that she could not make clear, even to herself. Love! What would love be like? Her father loved her, and she loved him. She loved her mother; and Alan on the whole was jolly to her–it was not that. What was it– where was it–when would it come and wake her, and kiss her to sleep, all in one? Come and fill her as with the warmth and color, the freshness, light, and shadow of this beautiful May evening, flood her as with the singing of those birds, and the warm light sunning the apple blossoms. And she sighed. Then–as with all young things whose attention after all is but as the hovering of a butterfly–her speculation was attracted to a thin, high-shouldered figure limping on a stick, away from the house, down one of the paths among the apple-trees. He wavered, not knowing, it seemed, his way. And Nedda thought: ‘Poor old man, how lame he is!’ She saw him stoop, screened, as he evidently thought, from sight, and take something very small from his pocket. He gazed, rubbed it, put it back; what it was she could not see. Then pressing his hand down, he smoothed and stretched his leg. His eyes seemed closed. So a stone man might have stood! Till very slowly he limped on, passing out of sight. And turning from the window, Nedda began hurrying into her evening things.
When she was ready she took a long time to decide whether to wear her mother’s lace or keep it for the Bigwigs. But it was so nice and creamy that she simply could not take it off, and stood turning and turning before the glass. To stand before a glass was silly and old-fashioned; but Nedda could never help it, wanting so badly to be nicer to look at than she was, because of that something that some day was coming!
She was, in fact, pretty, but not merely pretty–there was in her face something alive and sweet, something clear and swift. She had still that way of a child raising its eyes very quickly and looking straight at you with an eager innocence that hides everything by its very wonder; and when those eyes looked down they seemed closed–their dark lashes were so long. Her eyebrows were wide apart, arching with a slight angle, and slanting a little down toward her nose. Her forehead under its burnt-brown hair was candid; her firm little chin just dimpled. Altogether, a face difficult to take one’s eyes off. But Nedda was far from vain, and her face seemed to her too short and broad, her eyes too dark and indeterminate, neither gray nor brown. The straightness of her nose was certainly comforting, but it, too, was short. Being creamy in the throat and browning easily, she would have liked to be marble-white, with blue dreamy eyes and fair hair, or else like a Madonna. And was she tall enough? Only five foot five. And her arms were too thin. The only things that gave her perfect satisfaction were her legs, which, of course, she could not at the moment see; they really WERE rather jolly! Then, in a panic, fearing to be late, she turned and ran out, fluttering into the maze of stairs and corridors.
Clara, Mrs. Stanley Freeland, was not a narrow woman either in mind or body; and years ago, soon indeed after she married Stanley, she had declared her intention of taking up her sister-in-law, Kirsteen, in spite of what she had heard were the woman’s extraordinary notions. Those were the days of carriages, pairs, coachmen, grooms, and, with her usual promptitude, ordering out the lot, she had set forth. It is safe to say she had never forgotten that experience.
Imagine an old, white, timbered cottage with a thatched roof, and no single line about it quite straight. A cottage crazy with age, buried up to the thatch in sweetbrier, creepers, honeysuckle, and perched high above crossroads. A cottage almost unapproachable for beehives and their bees–an insect for which Clara had an aversion. Imagine on the rough, pebbled approach to the door of this cottage (and Clara had on thin shoes) a peculiar cradle with a dark-eyed baby that was staring placidly at two bees sleeping on a coverlet made of a rough linen such as Clara had never before seen. Imagine an absolutely naked little girl of three, sitting in a tub of sunlight in the very doorway. Clara had turned swiftly and closed the wicket gate between the pebbled pathway and the mossed steps that led down to where her coachman and her footman were sitting very still, as was the habit of those people. She had perceived at once that she was making no common call. Then, with real courage she had advanced, and, looking down at the little girl with a fearful smile, had tickled the door with the handle of her green parasol. A woman younger than herself, a girl, indeed, appeared in a low doorway. She had often told Stanley since that she would never forget her first sight (she had not yet had another) of Tod’s wife. A brown face and black hair, fiery gray eyes, eyes all light, under black lashes, and “such a strange smile”; bare, brown, shapely arms and neck in a shirt of the same rough, creamy linen, and, from under a bright blue skirt, bare, brown, shapely ankles and feet! A voice so soft and deadly that, as Clara said: “What with her eyes, it really gave me the shivers. And, my dear,” she had pursued, “white-washed walls, bare brick floors, not a picture, not a curtain, not even a fire-iron. Clean–oh, horribly! They must be the most awful cranks. The only thing I must say that was nice was the smell. Sweetbrier, and honey, coffee, and baked apples–really delicious. I must try what I can do with it. But that woman–girl, I suppose she is–stumped me. I’m sure she’d have cut my head off if I’d attempted to open my mouth on ordinary topics. The children were rather ducks; but imagine leaving them about like that amongst the bees. ‘Kirsteen!’ She looked it. Never again! And Tod I didn’t see at all; I suppose he was mooning about amongst his creatures.”
It was the memory of this visit, now seventeen years ago, that had made her smile so indulgently when Stanley came back from the conference. She had said at once that they must have Felix to stay, and for her part she would be only too glad to do anything she could for those poor children of Tod’s, even to asking them to Becket, and trying to civilize them a little. . . . “But as for that woman, there’ll be nothing to be done with her, I can assure you. And I expect Tod is completely under her thumb.”
To Felix, who took her in to dinner, she spoke feelingly and in a low voice. She liked Felix, in spite of his wife, and respected him–he had a name. Lady Malloring–she told him–the Mallorings owned, of course, everything round Joyfields–had been telling her that of late Tod’s wife had really become quite rabid over the land question. ‘The Tods’ were hand in glove with all the cottagers. She, Clara, had nothing to say against any one who sympathized with the condition of the agricultural laborer; quite the contrary. Becket was almost, as Felix knew–though perhaps it wasn’t for her to say so–the centre of that movement; but there were ways of doing things, and one did so deprecate women like this Kirsteen– what an impossibly Celtic name!–putting her finger into any pie that really was of national importance. Nothing could come of anything done that sort of way. If Felix had any influence with Tod it would be a mercy to use it in getting those poor young creatures away from home, to mix a little with people who took a sane view of things. She would like very much to get them over to Becket, but with their notions it was doubtful whether they had evening clothes! She had, of course, never forgotten that naked mite in the tub of sunlight, nor the poor baby with its bees and its rough linen. Felix replied deferentially–he was invariably polite, and only just ironic enough, in the houses of others–that he had the very greatest respect for Tod, and that there could be nothing very wrong with the woman to whom Tod was so devoted. As for the children, his own young people would get at them and learn all about what was going on in a way that no fogey like himself could. In regard to the land question, there were, of course, many sides to that, and he, for one, would not be at all sorry to observe yet another. After all, the Tods were in real contact with the laborers, and that was the great thing. It would be very interesting.
Yes, Clara quite saw all that, but–and here she sank her voice so that there was hardly any left–as Felix was going over there, she really must put him au courant with the heart of this matter. Lady Malloring had told her the whole story. It appeared there were two cases: A family called Gaunt, an old man, and his son, who had two daughters–one of them, Alice, quite a nice girl, was kitchen-maid here at Becket, but the other sister–Wilmet–well! she was one of those girls that, as Felix must know, were always to be found in every village. She was leading the young men astray, and Lady Malloring had put her foot down, telling her bailiff to tell the farmer for whom Gaunt worked that he and his family must go, unless they sent the girl away somewhere. That was one case. And the other was of a laborer called Tryst, who wanted to marry his deceased wife’s sister. Of course, whether Mildred Malloring was not rather too churchy and puritanical–now that a deceased wife’s sister was legal–Clara did not want to say; but she was undoubtedly within her rights if she thought it for the good of the village. This man, Tryst, was a good workman, and his farmer had objected to losing him, but Lady Malloring had, of course, not given way, and if he persisted he would get put out. All the cottages about there were Sir Gerald Malloring’s, so that in both cases it would mean leaving the neighborhood. In regard to village morality, as Felix knew, the line must be drawn somewhere.
Felix interrupted quietly:
“I draw it at Lady Malloring.”
“Well, I won’t argue that with you. But it really is a scandal that Tod’s wife should incite her young people to stir up the villagers. Goodness knows where that mayn’t lead! Tod’s cottage and land, you see, are freehold, the only freehold thereabouts; and his being a brother of Stanley’s makes it particularly awkward for the Mallorings.”
“Quite so!” murmured Felix.
“Yes, but my dear Felix, when it comes to infecting those simple people with inflated ideas of their rights, it’s serious, especially in the country. I’m told there’s really quite a violent feeling. I hear from Alice Gaunt that the young Tods have been going about saying that dogs are better off than people treated in this fashion, which, of course, is all nonsense, and making far too much of a small matter. Don’t you think so?”
But Felix only smiled his peculiar, sweetish smile, and answered:
“I’m glad to have come down just now.”
Clara, who did not know that when Felix smiled like that he was angry, agreed.
“Yes,” she said; “you’re an observer. You will see the thing in right perspective.”
“I shall endeavor to. What does Tod say?”
“Oh! Tod never seems to say anything. At least, I never hear of it.”
“Tod is a well in the desert.”
To which deep saying Clara made no reply, not indeed understanding in the least what it might signify.
That evening, when Alan, having had his fill of billiards, had left the smoking-room and gone to bed, Felix remarked to Stanley:
“I say, what sort of people are these Mallorings?”
Stanley, who was settling himself for the twenty minutes of whiskey, potash, and a Review, with which he commonly composed his mind before retiring, answered negligently:
“The Mallorings? Oh! about the best type of landowner we’ve got.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
Stanley took his time to answer, for below his bluff good-nature he had the tenacious, if somewhat slow, precision of an English man of business, mingled with a certain mistrust of ‘old Felix.’
“Well,” he said at last, “they build good cottages, yellow brick, d–d ugly, I must say; look after the character of their tenants; give ’em rebate of rent if there’s a bad harvest; encourage stock- breedin’, and machinery–they’ve got some of my ploughs, but the people don’t like ’em, and, as a matter of fact, they’re right– they’re not made for these small fields; set an example goin’ to church; patronize the Rifle Range; buy up the pubs when they can, and run ’em themselves; send out jelly, and let people over their place on bank holidays. Dash it all, I don’t know what they don’t do. Why?”
“Are they liked?”
“Liked? No, I should hardly think they were liked; respected, and all that. Malloring’s a steady fellow, keen man on housing, and a gentleman; she’s a bit too much perhaps on the pious side. They’ve got one of the finest Georgian houses in the country. Altogether they’re what you call ‘model.'”
“But not human.”
Stanley slightly lowered the Review and looked across it at his brother. It was evident to him that ‘old Felix’ was in one of his free-thinking moods.
“They’re domestic,” he said, “and fond of their children, and pleasant neighbors. I don’t deny that they’ve got a tremendous sense of duty, but we want that in these days.”
“Duty to what?”
Stanley raised his level eyebrows. It was a stumper. Without great care he felt that he would be getting over the border into the uncharted land of speculation and philosophy, wandering on paths that led him nowhere.
“If you lived in the country, old man,” he said, “you wouldn’t ask that sort of question.”
“You don’t imagine,” said Felix, “that you or the Mallorings live in the country? Why, you landlords are every bit as much town dwellers as I am–thought, habit, dress, faith, souls, all town stuff. There IS no ‘country’ in England now for us of the ‘upper classes.’ It’s gone. I repeat: Duty to what?”
And, rising, he went over to the window, looking out at the moonlit lawn, overcome by a sudden aversion from more talk. Of what use were words from a mind tuned in one key to a mind tuned in another? And yet, so ingrained was his habit of discussion, that he promptly went on:
“The Mallorings, I’ve not the slightest doubt, believe it their duty to look after the morals of those who live on their property. There are three things to be said about that: One–you can’t make people moral by adopting the attitude of the schoolmaster. Two–it implies that they consider themselves more moral than their neighbors. Three–it’s a theory so convenient to their security that they would be exceptionally good people if they did not adopt it; but, from your account, they are not so much exceptionally as just typically good people. What you call their sense of duty, Stanley, is really their sense of self-preservation coupled with their sense of superiority.”
“H’m!” said Stanley; “I don’t know that I quite follow you.”
“I always hate an odor of sanctity. I’d prefer them to say frankly: ‘This is my property, and you’ll jolly well do what I tell you, on it.'”
“But, my dear chap, after all, they really ARE superior.”
“That,” said Felix, “I emphatically question. Put your Mallorings to earn their living on fifteen to eighteen shillings a week, and where would they be? The Mallorings have certain virtues, no doubt, natural to their fortunate environment, but of the primitive virtues of patience, hardihood, perpetual, almost unconscious self- sacrifice, and cheerfulness in the face of a hard fate, they are no more the equals of the people they pretend to be superior to than I am your equal as a man of business.”
“Hang it!” was Stanley’s answer, “what a d–d old heretic you are!”
Felix frowned. “Am I? Be honest! Take the life of a Malloring and take it at its best; see how it stands comparison in the ordinary virtues with those of an averagely good specimen of a farm-laborer. Your Malloring is called with a cup of tea, at, say, seven o’clock, out of a nice, clean, warm bed; he gets into a bath that has been got ready for him; into clothes and boots that have been brushed for him; and goes down to a room where there’s a fire burning already if it’s a cold day, writes a few letters, perhaps, before eating a breakfast of exactly what he likes, nicely prepared for him, and reading the newspaper that best comforts his soul; when he has eaten and read, he lights his cigar or his pipe and attends to his digestion in the most sanitary and comfortable fashion; then in his study he sits down to steady direction of other people, either by interview or by writing letters, or what not. In this way, between directing people and eating what he likes, he passes the whole day, except that for two or three hours, sometimes indeed seven or eight hours, he attends to his physique by riding, motoring, playing a game, or indulging in a sport that he has chosen for himself. And, at the end of all that, he probably has another bath that has been made ready for him, puts on clean clothes that have been put out for him, goes down to a good dinner that has been cooked for him, smokes, reads, learns, and inwardly digests, or else plays cards, billiards, and acts host till he is sleepy, and so to bed, in a clean, warm bed, in a clean, fresh room. Is that exaggerated?”
“No; but when you talk of his directing other people, you forget that he is doing what they couldn’t.”
“He may be doing what they couldn’t; but ordinary directive ability is not born in a man; it’s acquired by habit and training. Suppose fortune had reversed them at birth, the Gaunt or Tryst would by now have it and the Malloring would not. The accident that they were not reversed at birth has given the Malloring a thousandfold advantage.”
“It’s no joke directing things,” muttered Stanley.
“No work is any joke; but I just put it to you: Simply as work, without taking in the question of reward, would you dream for a minute of swapping your work with the work of one of your workmen? No. Well, neither would a Malloring with one of his Gaunts. So that, my boy, for work which is intrinsically more interesting and pleasurable, the Malloring gets a hundred to a thousand times more money.”
“All this is rank socialism, my dear fellow.”
“No; rank truth. Now, to take the life of a Gaunt. He gets up summer and winter much earlier out of a bed that he cannot afford time or money to keep too clean or warm, in a small room that probably has not a large enough window; into clothes stiff with work and boots stiff with clay; makes something hot for himself, very likely brings some of it to his wife and children; goes out, attending to his digestion crudely and without comfort; works with his hands and feet from half past six or seven in the morning till past five at night, except that twice he stops for an hour or so and eats simple things that he would not altogether have chosen to eat if he could have had his will. He goes home to a tea that has been got ready for him, and has a clean-up without assistance, smokes a pipe of shag, reads a newspaper perhaps two days old, and goes out again to work for his own good, in his vegetable patch, or to sit on a wooden bench in an atmosphere of beer and ‘baccy.’ And so, dead tired, but not from directing other people, he drowses himself to early lying again in his doubtful bed. Is that exaggerated?”
“I suppose not, but he–“
“Has his compensations: Clean conscience–freedom from worry– fresh air, all the rest of it! I know. Clean conscience granted, but so has your Malloring, it would seem. Freedom from worry–yes, except when a pair of boots is wanted, or one of the children is ill; then he has to make up for lost time with a vengeance. Fresh air–and wet clothes, with a good chance of premature rheumatism. Candidly, which of those two lives demands more of the virtues on which human life is founded–courage and patience, hardihood and self-sacrifice? And which of two men who have lived those two lives well has most right to the word ‘superior’?”
Stanley dropped the Review and for fully a minute paced the room without reply. Then he said:
“Felix, you’re talking flat revolution.”
Felix, who, faintly smiling, had watched him up and down, up and down the Turkey carpet, answered:
“Not so. I am by no means a revolutionary person, because with all the good-will in the world I have been unable to see how upheavals from the bottom, or violence of any sort, is going to equalize these lives or do any good. But I detest humbug, and I believe that so long as you and your Mallorings go on blindly dosing yourselves with humbug about duty and superiority, so long will you see things as they are not. And until you see things as they are, purged of all that sickening cant, you will none of you really move to make the conditions of life more and ever more just. For, mark you, Stanley, I, who do not believe in revolution from the bottom, the more believe that it is up to us in honour to revolutionize things from the top!”
“H’m!” said Stanley; “that’s all very well; but the more you give the more they want, till there’s no end to it.”
Felix stared round that room, where indeed one was all body.
“By George,” he said, “I’ve yet to see a beginning. But, anyway, if you give in a grudging spirit, or the spirit of a schoolmaster, what can you expect? If you offer out of real good-will, so it is taken.” And suddenly conscious that he had uttered a constructive phrase, Felix cast down his eyes, and added:
“I am going to my clean, warm bed. Good night, old man!”
When his brother had taken up his candlestick and gone, Stanley, uttering a dubious sound, sat down on the lounge, drank deep out of his tumbler, and once more took up his Review.
The next day Stanley’s car, fraught with Felix and a note from Clara, moved swiftly along the grass-bordered roads toward Joyfields. Lying back on the cushioned seat, the warm air flying at his face, Felix contemplated with delight his favorite countryside. Certainly this garden of England was very lovely, its greenness, trees, and large, pied, lazy cattle; its very emptiness of human beings even was pleasing.
Nearing Joyfields he noted the Mallorings’ park and their long Georgian house, carefully fronting south. There, too, was the pond of what village there was, with the usual ducks on it; and three well-remembered cottages in a row, neat and trim, of the old, thatched sort, but evidently restored. Out of the door of one of them two young people had just emerged, going in the same direction as the car. Felix passed them and turned to look. Yes, it was they! He stopped the car. They were walking, with eyes straight before them, frowning. And Felix thought: ‘Nothing of Tod in either of them; regular Celts!’
The girl’s vivid, open face, crisp, brown, untidy hair, cheeks brimful of color, thick lips, eyes that looked up and out as a Skye terrier’s eyes look out of its shagginess–indeed, her whole figure struck Felix as almost frighteningly vital; and she walked as if she despised the ground she covered. The boy was even more arresting. What a strange, pale-dark face, with its black, uncovered hair, its straight black brows; what a proud, swan’s- eyed, thin-lipped, straight-nosed young devil, marching like a very Highlander; though still rather run-up, from sheer youthfulness! They had come abreast of the car by now, and, leaning out, he said:
“You don’t remember me, I’m afraid!” The boy shook his head. Wonderful eyes he had! But the girl put out her hand.
“Of course, Derek; it’s Uncle Felix.”
They both smiled now, the girl friendly, the boy rather drawn back into himself. And feeling strangely small and ill at ease, Felix murmured:
“I’m going to see your father. Can I give you a lift home?”
The answer came as he expected:
“No, thanks.” Then, as if to tone it down, the girl added:
“We’ve got something to do first. You’ll find him in the orchard.”
She had a ringing voice, full of warmth. Lifting his hat, Felix passed on. They WERE a couple! Strange, attractive, almost frightening. Kirsteen had brought his brother a formidable little brood.
Arriving at the cottage, he went up its mossy stones and through the wicket gate. There was little change, indeed, since the days of Clara’s visit, save that the beehives had been moved farther out. Nor did any one answer his knock; and mindful of the girl’s words, “You’ll find him in the orchard,” he made his way out among the trees. The grass was long and starred with petals. Felix wandered over it among bees busy with the apple-blossom. At the very end he came on his brother, cutting down a pear-tree. Tod was in shirt-sleeves, his brown arms bare almost to the shoulders. How tremendous the fellow was! What resounding and terrific blows he was dealing! Down came the tree, and Tod drew his arm across his brow. This great, burnt, curly-headed fellow was more splendid to look upon than even Felix had remembered, and so well built that not a movement of his limbs was heavy. His cheek-bones were very broad and high; his brows thick and rather darker than his bright hair, so that his deep-set, very blue eyes seemed to look out of a thicket; his level white teeth gleamed from under his tawny moustache, and his brown, unshaven cheeks and jaw seemed covered with gold powder. Catching sight of Felix, he came forward.
“Fancy,” he said, “old Gladstone spending his leisure cutting down trees–of all melancholy jobs!”
Felix did not quite know what to answer, so he put his arm within his brother’s. Tod drew him toward the tree.
“Sit down!” he said. Then, looking sorrowfully at the pear-tree, he murmured:
“Seventy years–and down in seven minutes. Now we shall burn it. Well, it had to go. This is the third year it’s had no blossom.”
His speech was slow, like that of a man accustomed to think aloud. Felix admired him askance. “I might live next door,” he thought, “for all the notice he’s taken of my turning up!”
“I came over in Stanley’s car,” he said. “Met your two coming along–fine couple they are!”
“Ah!” said Tod. And there was something in the way he said it that was more than a mere declaration of pride or of affection. Then he looked at Felix.
“What have you come for, old man?”
Felix smiled. Quaint way to put it!
“For a talk.”
“Ah!” said Tod, and he whistled.
A largish, well-made dog with a sleek black coat, white underneath, and a black tail white-tipped, came running up, and stood before Tod, with its head rather to one side and its yellow-brown eyes saying: ‘I simply must get at what you’re thinking, you know.’
“Go and tell your mistress to come–Mistress!”
The dog moved his tail, lowered it, and went off.
“A gypsy gave him to me,” said Tod; “best dog that ever lived.”
“Every one thinks that of his own dog, old man.”
“Yes,” said Tod; “but this IS.”
“He looks intelligent.”
“He’s got a soul,” said Tod. “The gypsy said he didn’t steal him, but he did.”
“Do you always know when people aren’t speaking the truth, then?”
At such a monstrous remark from any other man, Felix would have smiled; but seeing it was Tod, he only asked: “How?”
“People who aren’t speaking the truth look you in the face and never move their eyes.”
“Some people do that when they are speaking the truth.”
“Yes; but when they aren’t, you can see them struggling to keep their eyes straight. A dog avoids your eye when he’s something to conceal; a man stares at you. Listen!”
Felix listened and heard nothing.
“A wren”; and, screwing up his lips, Tod emitted a sound: “Look!”
Felix saw on the branch of an apple-tree a tiny brown bird with a little beak sticking out and a little tail sticking up. And he thought: ‘Tod’s hopeless!’
“That fellow,” said Tod softly, “has got his nest there just behind us.” Again he emitted the sound. Felix saw the little bird move its head with a sort of infinite curiosity, and hop twice on the branch.
“I can’t get the hen to do that,” Tod murmured.
Felix put his hand on his brother’s arm–what an arm!
“Yes,” he said; “but look here, old man–I really want to talk to you.”
Tod shook his head. “Wait for her,” he said.
Felix waited. Tod was getting awfully eccentric, living this queer, out-of-the-way life with a cranky woman year after year; never reading anything, never seeing any one but tramps and animals and villagers. And yet, sitting there beside his eccentric brother on that fallen tree, he had an extraordinary sense of rest. It was, perhaps, but the beauty and sweetness of the day with its dappling sunlight brightening the apple-blossoms, the wind-flowers, the wood-sorrel, and in the blue sky above the fields those clouds so unimaginably white. All the tiny noises of the orchard, too, struck on his ear with a peculiar meaning, a strange fulness, as if he had never heard such sounds before. Tod, who was looking at the sky, said suddenly:
“Are you hungry?”
And Felix remembered that they never had any proper meals, but, when hungry, went to the kitchen, where a wood-fire was always burning, and either heated up coffee, and porridge that was already made, with boiled eggs and baked potatoes and apples, or devoured bread, cheese, jam, honey, cream, tomatoes, butter, nuts, and fruit, that were always set out there on a wooden table, under a muslin awning; he remembered, too, that they washed up their own bowls and spoons and plates, and, having finished, went outside and drew themselves a draught of water. Queer life, and deuced uncomfortable–almost Chinese in its reversal of everything that every one else was doing.
“No,” he said, “I’m not.”
“I am. Here she is.”
Felix felt his heart beating–Clara was not alone in being frightened of this woman. She was coming through the orchard with the dog; a remarkable-looking woman–oh, certainly remarkable! She greeted him without surprise and, sitting down close to Tod, said: “I’m glad to see you.”
Why did this family somehow make him feel inferior? The way she sat there and looked at him so calmly! Still more the way she narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her lips, as if rather malicious thoughts were rising in her soul! Her hair, as is the way of fine, soft, almost indigo-colored hair, was already showing threads of silver; her whole face and figure thinner than he had remembered. But a striking woman still–with wonderful eyes! Her dress–Felix had scanned many a crank in his day–was not so alarming as it had once seemed to Clara; its coarse-woven, deep-blue linen and needle- worked yoke were pleasing to him, and he could hardly take his gaze from the kingfisher-blue band or fillet that she wore round that silver-threaded black hair.
He began by giving her Clara’s note, the wording of which he had himself dictated:
“Though we have not seen each other for so long, I am sure you will forgive my writing. It would give us so much pleasure if you and the two children would come over for a night or two while Felix and his young folk are staying with us. It is no use, I fear, to ask Tod; but of course if he would come, too, both Stanley and myself would be delighted.
She read it, handed it to Tod, who also read it and handed it to Felix. Nobody said anything. It was so altogether simple and friendly a note that Felix felt pleased with it, thinking: ‘I expressed that well!’
Then Tod said: “Go ahead, old man! You’ve got something to say about the youngsters, haven’t you?”
How on earth did he know that? But then Tod HAD a sort of queer prescience.
“Well,” he brought out with an effort, “don’t you think it’s a pity to embroil your young people in village troubles? We’ve been hearing from Stanley–“
Kirsteen interrupted in her calm, staccato voice with just the faintest lisp:
“Stanley would not understand.”
She had put her arm through Tod’s, but never removed her eyes from her brother-in-law’s face.
“Possibly,” said Felix, “but you must remember that Stanley, John, and myself represent ordinary–what shall we say–level-headed opinion.”
“With which we have nothing in common, I’m afraid.”
Felix glanced from her to Tod. The fellow had his head on one side and seemed listening to something in the distance. And Felix felt a certain irritation.
“It’s all very well,” he said, “but I think you really have got to look at your children’s future from a larger point of view. You don’t surely want them to fly out against things before they’ve had a chance to see life for themselves.”
“The children know more of life than most young people. They’ve seen it close to, they’ve seen its realities. They know what the tyranny of the countryside means.”
“Yes, yes,” said Felix, “but youth is youth.”
“They are not too young to know and feel the truth.”
Felix was impressed. How those narrowing eyes shone! What conviction in that faintly lisping voice!
‘I am a fool for my pains,’ he thought, and only said:
“Well, what about this invitation, anyway?”
“Yes; it will be just the thing for them at the moment.”
The words had to Felix a somewhat sinister import. He knew well enough that she did not mean by them what others would have meant. But he said: “When shall we expect them? Tuesday, I suppose, would be best for Clara, after her weekend. Is there no chance of you and Tod?”
She quaintly wrinkled her lips into not quite a smile, and answered:
“Tod shall say. Do you hear, Tod?”
“In the meadow. It was there yesterday–first time this year.”
Felix slipped his arm through his brother’s.
“Quite so, old man.”
“What?” said Tod. “Ah! let’s go in. I’m awfully hungry.” . . .
Sometimes out of a calm sky a few drops fall, the twigs rustle, and far away is heard the muttering of thunder; the traveller thinks: ‘A storm somewhere about.’ Then all once more is so quiet and peaceful that he forgets he ever had that thought, and goes on his way careless.
So with Felix returning to Becket in Stanley’s car. That woman’s face, those two young heathens–the unconscious Tod!
There was mischief in the air above that little household. But once more the smooth gliding of the cushioned car, the soft peace of the meadows so permanently at grass, the churches, mansions, cottages embowered among their elms, the slow-flapping flight of the rooks and crows lulled Felix to quietude, and the faint far muttering of that thunder died away.
Nedda was in the drive when he returned, gazing at a nymph set up there by Clara. It was a good thing, procured from Berlin, well known for sculpture, and beginning to green over already, as though it had been there a long time–a pretty creature with shoulders drooping, eyes modestly cast down, and a sparrow perching on her head.
“On Tuesday–the youngsters, only.”
“You might tell me a little about them.”
But Felix only smiled. His powers of description faltered before that task; and, proud of those powers, he did not choose to subject them to failure.
Not till three o’clock that Saturday did the Bigwigs begin to come. Lord and Lady Britto first from Erne by car; then Sir Gerald and Lady Malloring, also by car from Joyfields; an early afternoon train brought three members of the Lower House, who liked a round of golf–Colonel Martlett, Mr. Sleesor, and Sir John Fanfar–with their wives; also Miss Bawtrey, an American who went everywhere; and Moorsome, the landscape-painter, a short, very heavy man who went nowhere, and that in almost perfect silence, which he afterward avenged. By a train almost sure to bring no one else came Literature in Public Affairs, alone, Henry Wiltram, whom some believed to have been the very first to have ideas about the land. He was followed in the last possible train by Cuthcott, the advanced editor, in his habitual hurry, and Lady Maude Ughtred in her beauty. Clara was pleased, and said to Stanley, while dressing, that almost every shade of opinion about the land was represented this week-end. She was not, she said, afraid of anything, if she could keep Henry Wiltram and Cuthcott apart. The House of Commons men would, of course, be all right. Stanley assented: “They’ll be ‘fed up’ with talk. But how about Britto–he can sometimes be very nasty, and Cuthcott’s been pretty rough on him, in his rag.”
Clara had remembered that, and she was putting Lady Maude on one side of Cuthcott, and Moorsome on the other, so that he would be quite safe at dinner, and afterward–Stanley must look out!
“What have you done with Nedda?” Stanley asked.
“Given her to Colonel Martlett, with Sir John Fanfar on the other side; they both like something fresh.” She hoped, however, to foster a discussion, so that they might really get further this week-end; the opportunity was too good to throw away.