Mr. Carlingford lived in an ugly but comfortable house among the
broad-backed Surrey Downs, generally alone, for a life of sixty-eight
years had convinced him that he found his own society less tedious than
that of his friends. He made, however, one exception in favour of Tom,
for whom he had a considerable liking. He had married late, had been a
widower for twenty-one years--since Tom’s birth--and had no other
children. He seldom spoke of his wife, so that we have no means of
finding out whether he included her in the verdict he mentally passed on
his friends, but there is no reason to suppose that he did not.
His house, Applethorpe Manor, he rented from the owner, who was in
straitened circumstances; he refused to buy it, for, as he said, he
would probably not live much longer, and it was more than possible that
Tom would not want to keep it, and would very likely sell it for much
under its value. But Tom might have been well content to keep such a
place; it stood admirably, surrounded by its own grounds, and a park of
some six hundred acres stretched away from halfway up the gentle slope
in front of the house to the top of the down. Behind, the hill-slope
declined rapidly away to the bottom of the valley, in which lay the
little red-roofed village, overlooked by a church, in which a
nineteenth-century architect had accomplished his wicked will, dealing
death to early Norman work. On the other side of the village another
down rose in gentle slopes of yellowing autumn fields, planted here and
there with beech and oak woods. At intervals, the chalky sub-soil came
to the surface like the bleached bones of the world, but for the most
part a thick loamy earth hid the underlying barrenness.
South of the house lay a level lawn, dominated by a large cedar-tree,
the horizontal fans of whose branches formed an effectual protection
against sun, and even against rain; flower-beds arrayed in fantastic
patterns, having for the centre of their system an Italian stone vase,
stretched out to one side of this tree, while to the other the lawn lay
steeped in summer suns, or grew rank and mossy under autumn rains. A
terrace festooned with virginia-creeper and low-growing monthly roses
bounded the lawn to the south, below which lay a long strip of
flower-bed, and beyond, a broad hayfield, stretching down as far as the
village.
But on the 1st of September, two days after the arrival of Tom and
Markham, there were other guests in the house. Mr. Carlingford’s sister
had married a peer, who privately considered his wife’s brother rather
low, but tolerated him for the sake of his partridge-shooting, about
which the most fastidious could not possibly be depreciatory. Lady
Ramsden was a tall, sallow, and fretful woman, who literally enjoyed
rather bad health, though not so bad as she imagined. In fact, her bad
health only manifested itself in intermittent medicine-taking, stopping
in bed for breakfast, and not going to church on Sunday. She was one of
those women about whom people say, when they are yet in their teens,
that they are sweetly pretty, but very delicate-looking; when they are
about thirty, that they will not wear well; and when they are
thirty-five, “Poor dear.” Lady Ramsden was forty, and her cup of
ineffectiveness was full.
Her husband was clearly English, almost brutally English. The name of
his nationality was, as it were, written in red ink all over his body
and his mind, and he dressed, so to speak, in Union Jack. He was tall,
well set up, had once represented his native borough in the House of
Commons in his youth, and now in middle age, having repeatedly failed to
get into the Lower House, had been awarded the Consolation Stakes, and
sat in the Upper. He was fond of shooting, but shot badly, had several
shelves in his library full of parliamentary blue-books, which he sent
periodically to be bound up, but which were never looked at either
before or after that operation, spent five months every year in London,
and half the day in all those five months in the bow-window of his club,
and the other seven months in the country, and told rather long-winded
stories. The point of these stories was always well defined, because he
himself always began to laugh just before he got to it, which was a very
convenient habit.
The other two guests were Miss Wrexham, who had been staying near the
Markhams a fortnight ago, and her brother Bob, who was in every respect
like a young gentleman from Woolwich. He had been at Eton with Tom, and
they had kept up a sort of acquaintance since: Tom had stayed with him,
and he with Tom. In the intervals they never wrote to one another, but
were extremely glad to see each other again. Tom had, to a superlative
degree, the power of picking up a friendship at the point where it had
stopped, and of carrying it forward as if there had been no
interruption.
The shooters, consisting of Tom, Bob Wrexham, and Lord Ramsden, started
soon after breakfast on the first; Markham had claimed the fulfilment of
Tom’s promise, and had taken himself off to the smoking-room when they
went out, and presumably spent a profitable though solitary morning
there. The two ladies, Mr. Carlingford and he were going to walk out
about half-past twelve, to a cottage some mile and a half off, and join
the shooters at lunch. Lady Ramsden established herself at a
writing-table in the drawing-room, wrote several unnecessary letters in
a tall, angular hand, and Miss Wrexham, who always made a point of doing
the paying thing, went out for a short ride with her host, and took an
intelligent interest in all he said.
The shooting-party had already arrived at the luncheon-place when the
others came, and were clamouring for food. Lord Ramsden, it was noticed
sat a little apart, and was smoking a cigarette with an isolated and
reserved air.
“Oh, what a sweet little cottage!” said Maud Wrexham, as they entered.
“Mr. Carlingford, if I were you, I should come and live here. Why,
there’s a warming-pan! Do you know, I don’t think I ever saw a
warming-pan before. How clever it was of me to know it was one, wasn’t
it? That’s what they call intuitive cerebration. I shall write to the
Physical Research about it.”
Tom considered.
“Is it intuitive cerebration when one crosses the Channel for the first
time, and sees the coast, to know that it is France? You have never seen
it before, you know.”
Lady Ramsden gave a thin monosyllabic laugh.
“No, that’s only remembering what you have seen on an atlas,” said Maud.
“I never saw a map of this cottage with ‘warming-pan’ marked on it.”
“The Physical Research Society are a company of amiable and intelligent
lunatics,” remarked Mr. Carlingford. “Don’t have anything to do with
them, Miss Wrexham. Are you ready for your lunch, Ramsden? What sort of
sport have you had?”
Lord Ramsden threw away the end of his cigarette, which he had been
smoking at the door, and came in.
“Birds very wild,” he said. “It’s no use walking them up.”
“Oh, we’ve got twelve brace,” said Tom, cheerfully. “It’s not so bad.
However, we can drive after lunch; there are lots of them in the
stubble, and we can’t get near them any other way.”
“Tom’s been talking art all the morning,” remarked Bob Wrexham; “I draw
the line at talking art when you’re shooting.”
“You can’t do two things at once,” growled his lordship, who had not
pursued the subject of the birds being wild.
“Tom never does less than two things at once,” said his father; “he says
there isn’t time.”
“I can eat and talk at once,” said Tom, with his mouth full.
“Yes, old chap, and you can shoot more than one bird at once,” said Bob.
“It was the most disgraceful thing I ever saw. Tom fired into the middle
of a covey which ought to have been out of shot. The worst of it was
that he killed a brace. However, it’s good for the bag.”
Mr. Carlingford was sitting next Tom, and murmured gently to him, “How
odd it is that the only way to keep up your bags is to destroy your
braces!”
Lord Ramsden was reviving a little under the influence of food. “I never
can shoot in the morning,” he confessed; “it was always the way with me.
Once at Ramsden I told them to have lunch ready at half-past eleven, so
that we could have a long afternoon. And, by Jove, I didn’t miss the
rest of the day. They were very much amused at it all.”
Mr. Carlingford regretted to himself that he was not a friend of Peter
Magnus, but received his lordship’s remarks with cordiality, and after a
quick lunch Tom got up.
“Well, we’d better be off again as soon as we can,” he said. “Teddy, you
must come with us, and if you won’t shoot, you’ll see me do it. Miss
Wrexham, I’m sure you want a walk.”
“I should love to come,” said she, “if I shan’t be in the way. But
aren’t women a fearful nuisance when you are shooting? Bob always sends
me home after lunch.”
“Yes,” said Bob, “Tom only asked you out of politeness. He meant you to
refuse.”
“I don’t believe you did,” said she. “Anyhow, if you did, you may say
so, and I’ll go home. I will, really; I shan’t be offended. I don’t know
how.”
“May I be permitted to express a hope,” said Lord Ramsden, “that Miss
Wrexham will grace--ah, exactly, will come with us? You’d better be
getting home, dear,” he said to his wife. “You don’t want to trudge over
ploughed fields.”
“Gracious, no!” said Lady Ramsden. “I’m sure I shall be tired out as it
is.”
Miss Wrexham paired off with Markham, who had an ample opportunity of
testing his sister’s judgment of her.
“It was so delicious, that little peep I had of your sister,” she said;
“I long for that sort of life myself. She must be so happy with her dear
little everyday duties. I’m sure that’s why there used to be saints, and
why there are none now. People used to live like that in the country,
just doing their duty; and then, when men began to herd into towns, they
saw at once how beautiful the lives of those others must have been, so
of course they canonized them.”
“I don’t know,” said Markham, who treated all subjects gravely; “I
expect there is just as much opportunity for becoming a saint if you
live in a town. Of course, it’s harder. After all, saints were only very
good people with the power of making their goodness felt, and it’s
harder to make yourself felt in London, because every one is in such a
hurry.”
“Oh dear me, yes, it’s fearful to think of!” said Maud. “One is busy the
whole day, and yet one gets nothing done--nothing worth doing, at least.
I can’t imagine a saint living in London--that’s to say, doing what we
naturally do in London. But if I lived in the country, it would be just
as natural to do what your sister does. I’m always supposed to be
frivolous, and I don’t know what; but it’s a great shame. Of course, I
talk thirteen to the dozen, but that is no proof of frivolity. I’m sure
your sister thought me frivolous, and I thought her so sweet. It’s not a
bit fair.”
Ted did not reply, and after a moment Miss Wrexham continued----
“You can’t deny it, you see. Do you know, I think some of the saints
must have been rather trying. It was St. Elizabeth, wasn’t it, who told
her husband she’d only got some roses in her apron, when it was bread
really? Poor dear! You see he knew it was bread, and she knew it was;
and then, when she opened her apron, there was nothing but roses. I hope
they pricked her--it really was mean. You know, if I was reading a novel
on Sunday, and they asked me what book it was, I should say a novel. St.
Elizabeth would have said a Septuagint. I hate her.”
Ted laughed.
“I wonder if you really care what my sister thought of you. Why should
you care? You’ve only just seen her.”
“Ah, but what does that matter?” asked Maud. “Of course I care. I always
make a point of being nice to people in railway carriages and ’buses--I
always go in ’buses in London, don’t you?--even though I only see them
for two minutes. I want to be nice to everybody. I care immensely what
every one thinks of me.”
“But how can it matter?” said Ted. “Those people whom you meet just for
two minutes have no opportunity of judging you. They form their
impressions on perfectly superficial things.”
“Ah, I see! Your sister formed an unfavourable impression of me, and you
excuse her by saying it was superficial.”
“I’ve got a great mind to tell you what she said,” remarked Ted.
Maud stopped for a moment, and turned to him.
“Ah, do tell me!”
“She said she thought you weren’t genuine.”
Maud stared for a moment in deep perplexity.
“Not genuine? Why--why, that is exactly what I am! Why did she think
that?”
“I just remember her saying that you talked about early celebrations,
and covering books for the parish library, as if they were one and the
same thing.”
Maud stood still for a moment longer, recalling the scene, and then
broke out into a light laugh.
“Oh, I see, I see!” she cried. “Oh dear me, how funny! She had every
excuse for thinking that, but she was so wrong. She hasn’t got a
picturesque mind, I’m afraid. But I saw the whole picture of her in her
life there so clearly. You can talk of a Madonna and the little Italian
landscape behind her chair in one breath, can’t you? She thought I
regarded them as equally essential. I’m so glad you told me that. I
never take offence; I only profit by such things if they are true, and
forget them if they are not. There is an atom of truth in this,
although, as I say, she was wrong.”
The shooters were waiting, when they got up to them, for a long narrow
valley of stubble to be driven down, and Ted and Maud got under shelter
of the same tall hedge, which separated the fields, and waited with
them.
Markham went up to where Tom was standing. The latter at once began
talking in a whisper about the artistic beauty of a drive.
“If you shoot, you are called a barbarian,” he explained. “That’s so
silly. Why, a drive is the most beautiful thing there is! First you
wait, hearing nothing--and then you hear little far-away sounds, and you
know they are off. Then there comes that flight of stupid sparrows and
small birds, and then silence again. Then there’s a sudden rush through
the hedge, perhaps, and out comes a hare. And then--and then--‘Mark
over!’ and you hear the whistling of wings, which sound as if they
wanted oiling. And, best of all, that extraordinary ceasing of voluntary
motion. The bird’s wings clap down to his sides, you know, but he still
goes on as if he was alive. I killed a bird once that was coming
towards me, and it fell slap on me and knocked me down. You needn’t
believe me unless you like. There! They’ve started! Keep quiet, Teddy;
it will all happen just as I said.”
Tom stepped a little way back from the hedge, in order to get a longer
view, almost trembling with excitement as “Mark over!” sounded from
higher up the valley. The covey came over Lord Ramsden, and he missed
solemnly with both barrels.
“Those birds went on just as if they were alive,” remarked Ted in an
undertone to Tom, who grinned maliciously.
“He missed eight birds this morning in succession,” he whispered; and
then he said to Bob Wrexham, “You should see me play lawn-tennis. Look
out, there’s another covey coming!”
A big lot approached the tall hedge like a stream, caught sight of Tom,
and wheeled rapidly to the centre. Two, however, turned a little
somersault in the air, and fell thirty yards behind him in the stubble.
“There, did you see?” asked Tom, reloading. “That’s another of those
things like dropping matches in the Cam. They came blazing over, then
there’s a little pause, and a thud. I’m afraid my poor uncle has missed
again.”
Markham meditated.
“Yes, I see. That really was rather nice. There must be some
satisfaction in doing that.”
“Of course, half the pleasure lies in not being certain whether you are
going to hit or not. If I always hit I don’t think I should care about
it--not so much, at any rate. It’s like gambling with an enormous
proportion of chances in your favour if you play well.”
Miss Wrexham took almost as much interest in the proceedings as the
shooters themselves, and she showed no wish to go back until they all
went home. Lord Ramsden met with greater success towards the end of the
afternoon, and they all returned in excellent spirits.
Tom and Miss Wrexham were walking a little in front of the others, and
in answer to some questions of hers, he was saying what he was going to
do when he left Cambridge.
“It must be such a blessing,” she said, “to know for certain, as you do,
exactly what you want to be, and to be able to be it. Most people never
know what they want to be. Bob is going into the army simply because he
can’t think of anything else.”
“The worst of most professions is that they are only ways of making
money,” said Tom. “Artists and clergymen are the only people who do what
they have a passion for. No one can have a passion for cross-examining
witnesses.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that!” objected Maud. “My mother--do you know my
mother?--has a passion, literally a passion, for making arrangements.
Really her chief joy in life is arranging things quite irrespective of
what the arrangements are; but I think people like her are mostly
women.”
“What is your passion?” asked Tom.
“Making people like me, especially if they hate me naturally. I wouldn’t
say that it is my vocation, because lots of people detest me. Don’t
trouble to say you don’t believe me. I am sure that sort of speech would
come very badly from you.”
“Do you mean that I’ve got such awkward manners, or that I am naturally
honest?”
“I mean that when a man doesn’t owe a compliment, it is no use his
trying to pay one.”
“Compliments are a cheap way of paying debts. They are like apologies. I
always apologize if it will do any good.”
Maud walked on in silence a little way.
“If I wasn’t a woman,” she said at length very slowly, “I should choose
to be a man. No, it’s not such nonsense as it sounds. What I really mean
is that men have great advantages over us in some ways. A woman can
hardly ever become anything else than an amateur, and I want to be a
professional artist, and a musician, and she-clergyman, living in the
country. But I wouldn’t give up being a woman. Women have much more self
than men, else they would have all taken to professions long ago. If men
hadn’t professions they would all bore themselves to death. That is why
they take to the Stock Exchange and politics--they do anything to make
them forget their own selves. I don’t say that women are any better, but
they find themselves more interesting than men do.”
“But men have to make money or else they couldn’t marry and support
families,” said Tom rather feebly.
“Yes; but don’t you see that if women had not been sufficiently
interested in themselves to make them not want professions, they would
have had them long ago? They would both have worked for their living.
As it is, a woman’s chief object is to marry a rich man, so that she
can’t possibly work.”
“That’s a new idea,” said Tom. “What are you going to do with it?”
“How do you mean?”
“You ought to marry a poor man, and help him to earn his living.”
“Unfortunately I have lots of money myself.”
Tom drew in a deep breath.
“That is a misfortune. I am in the same state. One can’t give it all to
a lunatic asylum, or else people think you are laying up treasure for
your own dotage. I wish I was poor, really poor, you know, out at
elbows, having to work for my bread. It must be exquisite to be poor.”
“It’s a ridiculous arrangement,” said Maud suddenly. “My grandmother
left me heaps of money, and poor Bob none; now Bob wants money and I
don’t. But I expect, if one was poor, one would get to like money.”
“No doubt one would,” said Tom, “but that would do one no harm. One
would get to know what its value was. At present I haven’t the slightest
idea. That is not being miserly--misers never know the value of money;
they only know the price of things they want, but refuse to buy.”
They had reached the front door, and stood waiting for the others.
“One ought to be allowed to change circumstances with one’s friends,”
said Tom. “I would choose Ted Markham’s circumstances. He is poor, and
he is working at what he likes best. Just think how happy one would be!
Success to him means the fullest possible success; position means
opportunities.”
“What do you mean by opportunities?”
“Why, the University Press will consent to publish his editions of
classical authors.”
“That’s narrow,” remarked Miss Wrexham. “Providence has spared me that
limitation.”
“That’s what I’m always telling him. But it must be very comfortable to
be narrow.”
“Until you know you are narrow.”
“Oh, but then you become broad,” said Tom, “and that’s nice too!”
“We are a pair of blighted beings,” said Miss Wrexham solemnly. “We have
been made rich and broad, whereas we only want to be poor and narrow.”
“No, we should like to be narrow, if we couldn’t be broad,” said
Tom--“just as you would like to be a man if you couldn’t be a woman.”
“Ah, well, one can’t have everything.”
Tom looked at her with radiant confidence.
“I mean to have everything!” he announced.