It was a few days later that Mr. Fothersley, as was his frequent custom,
emerged from his front door at eleven o’clock, on his way to the post.
In his left hand he carried a sheaf of letters for the twelve o’clock
post out. As he often said, it made “an object for his morning stroll.”
Not that Mr. Fothersley ever really strolled. It would have been a
physical impossibility. His little plump legs always trotted. They
trotted now along the immaculate gravel drive which curved between two
wide strips of smooth mown sward. On the right hand the grass merged
into a magnificent grove of beech-trees, on the left it was fenced by a
neat iron railing, dividing it from what the house agent describes as
finely timbered park-land. Behind him, with all its sun-blinds down, the
grey old house slept serenely in the sunshine. The parterres were
brilliant with calceolaria, geranium, and heliotrope. Mr. Fothersley
rather prided himself on an early Victorian taste in gardening, and his
herbaceous borders, very lovely though they were, dwelt in the kitchen
garden region.
Leigh Manor had belonged to Mr. Fothersley from the day of his birth,
which occurred two months after the death of his father. That gentleman
had married late in life for the sole and avowed purpose of providing
his estate with an heir, of which purpose his son most cordially
approved. At the same time he had never seen his way to go so far
himself. The Fothersleys were not a marrying family. His mother, a
colourless person, of irreproachable lineage, and a view of life which
contemplated only two aspects, the comfortable and the uncomfortable,
had lived long enough to see him well into the forties, by which time he
was as skillful as she had been in the management of an establishment.
Everything continued to run in the same perfect order, and Mr.
Fothersley felt no more inclined than during her lifetime to disturb the
smooth current of his pleasant life by embarking on the very uncertain
adventure of matrimony. On this particular morning he paused outside his
own gate to look at the view—almost the same view that was obtainable
from the “house on the wall” at Thorpe Farm. Ever since he was a small
child, Mr. Fothersley could remember taking visitors to see “our view,”
and he had, at an early age, esteemed it unfortunate that none so good
was to be obtained from the grounds of Leigh Manor. He looked out over
the quiet scene. The great beautiful valley, with the suggestion only of
the sea beyond, the dotted farmsteads, with here and there some noble
old mansion like his own secluded among its trees, and, at his feet,
little Mentmore village, with its grey church tower, half hidden in the
hollow. It was typical of all he held most dearly. A symbol of the
well-ordered ease and superiority of his position, of the things which
were indeed, though unconsciously, Mr. Fothersley’s religion.
In the grey church his forbears had, like himself, sat with their peers,
in the front pews, while their dependents had herded discreetly at the
back behind the pillars. In these eminently picturesque cottages, of two
or three rooms, dwelt families who, he had always taken more or less for
granted, regarded him and his with a mixture of respect and reverence,
just touched—only touched—with awe. On the whole most worthy and
respectable people. Mr. Fothersley was generous to them out of his
superabundance. He was indeed attached to them; and although Mr.
Fothersley prided himself on moving with the times, it was plain that
any alteration in the admirable state of things existing in Mentmore
would not only be a mistake, but absolutely wrong.
Therefore, on this fine June morning, Mr. Fothersley was perturbed. The
knowledge that Mr. Pithey dwelt in the noble grey stone house on the
opposite hill, in the place of his old friend, Helford Rose, spoilt “his
view” for him. And, for the first time, too, one of Ruth Seer’s new
cottages had become visible just below his own pasture fields. The
workmen were putting on the roof. It was to Mr. Fothersley an unseemly
sight in Mentmore. Ruth had done her best, she had spent both time and
money in securing material that would not spoil the harmony or character
of the little village, but as Mr. Fothersley had said, it was the thin
end of the wedge.
What was to prevent Mr. Pithey from scattering some horrible epidemic of
hideous utilitarian domiciles broadcast over his wide estate? Mr.
Fothersley shuddered, and remembered with thankfulness that they were
not at present a paying proposition.
Still, he wished Miss Seer had not these queer manias. Not that he
disliked her—far from it. Indeed, the little basket of his special early
strawberries, poised in his right hand, was on its way to her. And he
had even traced a distant cousinship with her on the Courthope side.
Since what was now familiarly known in his set as the Pithian Invasion
he considered her a distinct asset at Thorpe.
“I would not have had old Dick’s place vulgarized for a good deal,” he
said to himself as he descended the hill. “And I know even he did talk
of building some cottages before the war, poor dear fellow.”
All the same, he did not feel in his usual spirits, and presently, to
add to his discomfort, he passed the local sweep, window cleaner, and
generally handy man, who, instead of touching his hat as of old, nodded
a cheery, “Good-morning, Mr. Fothersley! Nice weather,” to him.
Mr. Fothersley did not like it. Most distinctly it annoyed him! It had
been one thing to go and see Mankelow when he was wounded, and a patient
in the local V.A.D., and make a considerable fuss over him, but that, as
Mr. Pithey was fond of saying, “was different.” It was decidedly
presuming on it for Mankelow to treat him in that “Hail fellow, well
met” way.
This brought to Mr. Fothersley’s mind the threatening strikes among the
miners, transport workers, and what Mr. Fothersley vaguely designated as
“those sort of people.” He wondered what would happen if all the sweeps
went on strike. It was a most dangerous thing to light fires with a
large accumulation of soot up the chimney—most dangerous.
At this moment he nearly collided with Ruth Seer, as she came swiftly
round the Post Office corner.
They both stopped, laughed, and apologized.
“I was just on my way to you with some of our early strawberries,” said
Mr. Fothersley, exposing a corner of the contents of his basket.
“How very good of you!” exclaimed Ruth. “And I do love them. Will you
wait for me one moment? I am going on my way to send a telegram to Mr.
North.”
Now curiosity was the most prominent trait in Mr. Fothersley’s funny
little character, and it was the naked and unashamed curiosity of the
small child. It might almost be looked on as a virtue turned inside out,
so real and keen was his interest in his neighbors’ affairs, an interest
often followed by sympathy and help.
“Telegraphing to North!” he exclaimed. “What about?”
No inhabitant of any length of time would have been in the least
astonished, but Ruth, for a moment or two taken thoroughly aback, simply
stared at him. Then, somewhat late in the day, it began to dawn on her
that her telegram to Roger North might possibly demand an explanation,
and one she had no intentions of giving.
“Telegraphing to North? What about?” repeated Mr. Fothersley, his little
pink face beaming with kindly interest.
The whole truth being out of the question, there was nothing for it but
as much as possible.
“I want to see him to ask his opinion on a matter of importance,” said
Ruth.
Astonishment mingled with the curiosity on Mr. Fothersley’s speaking
countenance. Many things flashed through his mind in the minute while he
and Ruth again stared at each other, the most prominent being the tongue
of the Postmistress and Mrs. North’s fiery jealousy.
Mr. Fothersley could remember terrible times, when it had been aroused
by lesser matters than this telegram, aroused to such an extent that all
Mentmore had become aware of it, and much unnecessary dirty linen washed
in public before the storm subsided.
North himself on these occasions was, in Mr. Fothersley’s language,
difficult, most difficult. He either teased his wife unmercifully, or
lost his temper and used bad language. The whole affair was always,
again in Mr. Fothersley’s language, “regrettable, most regrettable,”
while the groundwork of the whole matter was, that women bored North far
more than they ever amused him, so that if he did talk to one it was
noticeable.
It was quite evident to Mr. Fothersley that Miss Seer was wholly
unconscious of anything unusual in her action. This surprised him, for
he had understood she had been a companion, and a companion’s knowledge
of such things, as a rule, passes belief.
Ruth made a movement to pass on, the fatal document in her hand. But it
was one of those moments when Mr. Fothersley was supreme.
“My dear lady,” he exclaimed, “I am going to Westwood so soon as I have
deposited my little offering on your doorstep. Allow me to take the
message for you.”
With a deft movement the paper was in his possession, was neatly folded
and placed in safety in his waistcoat pocket. His little plump figure
turned, plainly prepared to escort her back to Thorpe.
“The telegram will explain itself?” he asked, “or shall I give any
message?”
“I want to consult him about some happenings on the farm,” answered
Ruth. “Things I should like to talk over with him with as little delay
as possible. Mr. North has been very kind, and, I think takes a real
interest in Thorpe.”
“No doubt. No doubt.” Mr. Fothersley acquiesced cordially. “He was poor
Carey’s most intimate friend. Though indeed we were all his friends. A
most lovable fellow. Indeed, he was almost too kind-hearted. Anyone
could take him in—and did!” added Mr. Fothersley, with warmth. “There
was a German fellow, very pleasant, I own, to meet, who used to stay
with him quite a lot at one time. I always felt how, if they had invaded
England, he would have known every inch of the country round here, for
no doubt he took notes of everything, as they always did. Funnily
enough, he was taken prisoner badly wounded by Dick’s own regiment, and
died at the clearing station, before they could get him to a hospital.”
Ruth looked at the sunlit peace of the farm, for they had reached the
gate. She remembered what Violet Riversley had told her. And yet Dick
Carey had cared for this man.
“And they had parted here as friends,” she said.
“I believe Dick was quite cut up about it,” said Mr. Fothersley. “Very
odd. But poor dear Dick was odd! No sense of proportion, you know!”
This was a favourite saying of both Mr. Fothersley’s and Mrs. North’s.
It is doubtful if either of them quite knew what they meant by it, but
it sounded well.
Mr. Fothersley repeated it over again, leaning with his arms on the
gate. “No sense of proportion. A lovable fellow though, most lovable.
Many’s the time we’ve stood here, just as you and I are standing,
watching his birds. You have the bird pool still, I see.” Mr. Fothersley
fumbled for his glasses. “Yes, and those wretched little blue-tits
everywhere—the worst offenders in the garden. Even the blossom is not
safe from them. Madness to encourage them with coconuts and bacon-rind.
But as I said, poor Dick——”
By this time Mr. Fothersley had his glasses firmly planted across the
bridge of his nose. He could see the pool plainly, and in addition to
several blue-tits, two round cherub faces, open-mouthed, very still,
hanging over the edge of the bank.
“Good heavens! What are those?” he exclaimed.
“Only two small visitors of mine,” said Ruth, smiling. “It is quite
wonderful how still they have learnt to be to watch the birds. They live
in Blackwall Tenements, and their only playground there is a strip of
pavement under a dust shoot.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Fothersley dubiously. “Blackwall. That is somewhere in
the City.”
He was interrupted by a shrill, excited, plainly female voice on its
topmost note.
“Oh, Tommy! ’e’s caught a f’y!”
The next moment every bird had gone, while the complete figures
belonging to the moon faces arose, as it were out of the ground. Both
wore knickers, both had short hair, but it was plainly the master male
who administered swift and primitive punishment.
“There, you’ve done it again!”
“I forgot—I——” Sobs, bitter and violent, stopped the lament.
The boy pocketed his hands and moved off.
“Jes’ like a woman,” he called over his shoulder.
The other small figure followed him at a humble distance, wailing aloud
till both disappeared from view.
Mr. Fothersley shuddered.
“How can you bear it?” he asked, his little pink face really concerned.
“Even Dick——”
“Stopped short at Germans,” Ruth ended for him. “Well, it has its
compensations. And after all, what _can_ one do? I know that playground
under the dust soot! And I have all this. One could not bear it, if one
didn’t have them down.”
“How many?” asked Mr. Fothersley faintly.
Ruth leant back against the gate and gave way to helpless laughter,
while Mr. Fothersley prodded holes in the bank with his stick and waited
with dignity till she should recover. He saw nothing to laugh at.
“I beg your pardon,” said Ruth, hurriedly suppressing what she felt from
his manner was most unseemly mirth. “I only have two at a time,” she
added appeasingly. “And they are really very good on the whole.”
“I should relegate them to the back garden,” said Mr. Fothersley
decisively. “I remember as a child even _I_ was never allowed to run
wild where I pleased. Good heavens! what is that noise?” He cocked an
attentive ear, as a sound, like nothing he had ever heard before, made
itself evident.
At the same moment, over the crest of the lawn appeared a wonderful
procession. First came the small female figure in knickers, brandishing
in her right hand a crimson flag, while with the left she held a small
tin trumpet to her lips, with which at intervals she blew a breathless
note. The same which had attracted Mr. Fothersley’s attention. Then,
strapped into his go-cart, and positively smothered in flags and
flowers, came Bertram Aurelius. Finally, pushing the go-cart with
somewhat dangerous vigour, the small Lord of the Show. Around the
procession, leaping and barking, skirmished Sarah and Selina, while
beside the go-cart Larry padded sedately, snuffing the air delicately,
waving a stately tail.
The procession circled the lawn at the full speed of the children’s
small legs, dropped over into the garden pathway and disappeared towards
the farmyard.
Mr. Fothersley softened. The scene had been a pretty one.
“Quite like one of the delightful illustrations in the children’s books
of to-day,” he said, smiling. “Please don’t think me unsympathetic, dear
lady. A love of children is one of the most beautiful traits in a
woman’s character, and philanthropy has also its due place. But do not
be carried away by too much enthusiasm. Do have, as I used to say to
poor Dick, a due sense of proportion. Otherwise you will only get
imposed upon, and do no good in the long run. Believe me, you have gone
quite far enough with these innovations, and do let it stop there before
you have cause for regret.”
Mr. Fothersley paused and smiled, well pleased with the turning of his
phrases. Also he felt his advice was good. Ruth acquiesced with becoming
humility, aware only of a little running commentary which conveyed
nothing to her. Her mind was entirely absorbed with the fact that Larry
had accompanied the small procession which had so swiftly crossed their
line of vision and disappeared—Larry, who kept children severely in
their place as became a dignified gentleman of a certain age, and on
whom not even Selina’s wiliest enticement produced the smallest effect.
“No good ever comes of moving people out of their natural surroundings,”
continued Mr. Fothersley, holding on his way with complete satisfaction.
“All men cannot be equal, and it only makes them discontented with the
state of life in which it has pleased God to place them. Personally I
believe also they are quite unable to appreciate better conditions. Why,
when——”
And here, to the little man’s astonishment, Ruth suddenly, and very
vividly, turned on him, shaking a warning finger in front of his
startled nose.
“Mr. Fothersley, if you tell me that old story about the chickens in the
bathroom, I warn you I am quite unable to bear it. I shall hold forth,
and either make you very cross with me or bore you to death. I have
lived amongst the very poor, and between your view of them and mine
there is a great gulf fixed. I know what you cannot know—their
sufferings, their endurance, their patience. I would have every child in
London down here if I could—so there! And they may love their squalor
and filth, as people here have said to me. It is all the home they have
ever known. It is the great indictment against our civilization.”
Then she stopped and suddenly smiled at him, it was a smile that barred
offence.
“There, you see! Don’t start me off, whatever you do!”
Mr. Fothersley smiled back. “My dear lady, I admire your kindness of
heart. It is your lack of any sense of proportion——”
It was at this moment that Mr. Pithey appeared, magnificent in a new
tweed knickerbocker suit of a tawny hue, with immaculate gaiters, brown
boots and gloves; a cap to match the suit, upon his head; the inevitable
cigar in his mouth; looking incongruous enough, between the wild rose
and honeysuckle hedges.
To discover a couple of anything like marriageable age alone together,
in what he called “the lanes,” suggested one thing and one thing only to
Mr. Pithey’s mind. His manner assumed a terrible geniality.
“Now don’t let me disturb you,” he said, waving a large newly gloved
hand. “Just a word with this lady, and I’m off.” He perpetrated a wink
that caused Mr. Fothersley to shut his eyes. “Two’s company and three’s
none, eh?”
Mr. Fothersley opened his eyes and endeavoured to stare him down with
concentrated rage and disgust. But Mr. Pithey held on his way,
undisturbed.
“Wonderful how you meet everybody in this little place! Just passed Lady
Condor. Jove! how that woman does cake her face with paint. At her age
too! What’s the use? Doesn’t worry me, but Mrs. Pithey disapproves of
that sort of thing root and branches.”
If Mr. Fothersley could have called down fire from heaven and slain Mr.
Pithey at that moment, he would undoubtedly have done so; as it was, he
could only struggle impotently for words wherewith to convey to him some
sense of his insufferable impertinence.
And words failed him. His little round face quivering with rage, he
stammered for a moment unintelligibly, making furious gestures with his
disengaged hand at the astonished Mr. Pithey. Finally he turned his back
and thrust the basket of strawberries into Ruth’s hand.
“Please send the basket back at your convenience, Miss Seer,” he said.
Even in that moment he did not forget the importance of the return of
one of the Leigh Manor baskets. “Good-morning.”
“Touching little brute,” remarked Mr. Pithey cheerfully, gazing after
him. “What’s upset him now? He’ll have an apoplectic fit if he walks at
that rate in this heat, a man of his built and a hearty eater too!”
Indeed poor Mr. Fothersley, by the time he reached the Manor, between
rage and nervousness, for who could say what thoughts Mr. Pithey’s
egregious remarks might not have given rise to in Miss Seer’s mind, was
in a very sad state.
It was impossible to risk driving to Westwood in an open car. He ordered
the landaulette, closed.
It was necessary to go because he had Miss Seer’s telegram to deliver.
Also the desire was strong upon him for the people of his own little
world, those who felt things as he felt them, and saw things even as he
saw them. He wanted to talk over the various small happenings of the
morning with an understanding spirit; the sweep’s familiarity, Miss
Seer’s odd activities, and last, but not least, Mr. Pithey’s hateful
facetiousness. Above all, though he hardly knew it himself, he wanted to
get with people who were the same as people had been before the war, to
get away from this continual obtrusion of an undercurrent of difference,
of change, which so disquieted him, and he wanted, badly wanted, comfort
and sympathy.
The Norths were by themselves, and proportionately glad to see him.
Violet had left, on a sudden impulse, that morning, and fresh visitors
were not expected till the following week.
The very atmosphere of Nita North comforted the little man. The
atmosphere of the great commonplace, the unimaginative, the egotistic.
An atmosphere untouched by the war. Peace descended on his troubled
spirit as he unfolded his table napkin and watched the butler, in the
very best manner of the best butler lift the silver cover in front of
Mrs. North from the golden-brown veal cutlets, each with its dainty roll
of fat bacon, Mr. Fothersley’s favourite luncheon dish, while North, who
had his moments of insight, said:
“Some of the Steinberg Cabinet for Mr. Fothersley, Mansfield.”
Indeed, both the Norths saw at once that Mr. Fothersley was not quite
himself, that he had been upset.
It was impossible to tell the chief causes of his annoyance before the
servants, though, in an interval, he commented on the familiar behaviour
of the sweep, and his views as to the results of “the new independence”
on the working classes, and the danger of strikes.
“I have no patience with this pandering to the lower classes,” said Mrs.
North. “They must be taught.”
North, who was genuinely fond of little Mr. Fothersley, did not ask
“How?” as he had an irritating habit of doing when he heard his wife
enunciate this formula.
Mr. Fothersley agreed. “Certainly, they must be taught.”
He was distinctly soothed. The Steinberg Cabinet had not altered, indeed
it had gained in its power to minister. The objectionable feeling that
the foundations on which his world was built were quivering and breaking
up subsided into the background, and by the time the coffee came, and
the servants departed, he was his usual genial kindly little self, and
could even give a risible turn to his account of Mr. Pithey’s
impertinence.
“I lost my temper and, I am afraid, practically gibbered at him with
rage,” he owned. “I was hardly dignified. But that I should live to hear
that Marion Condor is disapproved of by Mrs. Pithey!”
“Insolent brute!” said Mrs. North, all unconscious that her language was
Pithian. “Can nobody put him in his place?”
“He must be taught,” suggested North wickedly. But, though his wife shot
a doubtful glance at him, Mr. Fothersley took the suggestion in good
faith.
“I quite agree with you, Roger. The question is, How? Unfortunately we
have all called.”
“We could all cut him,” suggested Mrs. North.
“I don’t approve of cutting people, my dear Nita. In a small community
it makes things very unpleasant and leads to such uncomfortable
situations.” Indeed, Mr. Fothersley had more than once interposed in
almost a high-handed manner to prevent Mrs. North cutting ladies of whom
she thought she had reason to be jealous. “No, I sincerely wish we had
never called, but having called, and indeed invited these people to our
houses, received them as guests, I should deprecate cutting them. You
agree with me, Roger?”
“Certainly. The Pitheys would not care if you did. Also he is the sort
of man who could worry you a good deal in the village if he took it into
his head to do so. Better keep good terms with him if you can.”
“What did Miss Seer say?” asked Mrs. North.
“I don’t remember her saying anything, but I was so agitated. I didn’t,
of course, even look at her. You don’t think his remarks will give rise
to any ideas——” Mr. Fothersley paused, looking from one to the other.
“Good Lord, no!” said North.
“How do you know?” asked his wife sharply. “I should certainly advise
Arthur to keep away for the future.”
North shrugged his shoulders as he rose from the table.
“I expect you will like your cigar in the garden with Nita,” he said,
pushing the box across the table to his guest. “I’ve got some letters to
write.”
When he reached his study he took Ruth’s telegram out of his pocket-book
and, lighting a match, burned it very carefully to ashes. “Bless their
small minds,” he said.