ANOTHER OF THEM
A young man was walking through Redmarley woods towards Redmarley
village, and from time to time he gazed sorrowfully at his boots. There
had been a lot of rain that winter, and now on this, the third Sunday in
December, the pathway was covered with mud, which, when it was not
sticky, was extremely slippery.
The young man walked rather slowly, twirling a smart cane as he went, and
presently he burst into speech--more accurately--a speech.
"What, gentlemen," he demanded, loudly and rhetorically, "but no--I will
not call you gentlemen; here to-night, I note it with pride and gladness,
there are but few who can claim that courtesy title. I who speak, and
most of you who do me the honour to listen, can lay claim to no prouder
appellation than that of MEN. What then, fellow-men, I ask you, what
_is_ the House of Lords? What purpose does it serve except to delay all
beneficent legislation, to waste the country's time and to nullify the
best efforts. . . . Confound . . ."
He slipped, he staggered, his hat went one way, his stick another, and he
sat down violently and with a splash in a particularly large puddle. And
at that instant he was suddenly beset by a dog--a curiously long-legged
fox-terrier--who came bouncing round him with short rushes and sharp
barks. He had reached a part of the woods where the paths cross. Fir
trees were very thick just there, and footsteps made hardly any sound in
the soft mud.
A tall girl came quickly round the corner, calling "Parker!" and pulled
up short as she beheld the stranger seated ingloriously in the puddle.
But it was only for a moment; she hastened towards him, rebuking the dog
as she came: "Be quiet, Parker, how rude of you, come off now, come to
heel"--then, as he of the puddle, apparently paralysed by his undignified
position, made no effort to arise, on reaching him she held out her
hands, saying; "I wouldn't _sit_ there if I were you, it's so awfully
wet. Shall I pull you up? Dig your heels in, that's it. I say, you are
in a mess!"
He was.
The leggy fox-terrier ceased to bark. Instead, he thrust an inquisitive
nose into the stranger's bowler hat and sniffed dubiously.
The girl was strong and had pulled with a will.
"I am much obliged to you," the young man remarked stiffly, at the same
time regarding his rescuer with a suspicious and inimical eye, to see if
she were laughing at him.
She did nothing of the kind. Her candid gaze merely expressed dismay,
subtly mingled with commiseration. "I don't see how we're to clean you,"
she said; "only scraping would do it--a trowel's best, but, then, I don't
suppose you've got one about you."
The young man tried to look down his back, always a difficult feat.
"You're simply covered with mud from head to foot," she continued. "The
only thing I can think of for you to do is to come to the stables, and
I'll get Heaven to clean you . . . unless, perhaps," she added,
doubtfully, "you were coming to the house."
"If you will kindly direct me to the village," he said, "I have to pay a
call there, and no doubt my friends will assist me to remove some of this
mud."
"But you can't go calling like that," she expostulated; "you'd far better
come to the stables first. Heaven's so used to us, he'd clean you up in
no time; besides, by far the quickest way to the village is down our
drive. There's no right-of-way through these woods; didn't you see the
boards?"
"Whenever," he spoke with deliberate emphasis, "I see a board to the
effect that trespassers will be prosecuted, I make a point of walking
over that land as a protest."
"Dear me," she said. "It must take you sadly out of your way sometimes.
Where have you come from to-day?"
"From Marlehouse."
"Then you'd have saved yourself at least a mile and a half, and your
trousers all that mud, if you'd stuck to the road; it's ever such a long
way round to come by the woods."
"I prefer the woods."
There was such superior finality in his tone, that the girl was
apparently crushed. She started to walk, he followed; she waited for
him, and they tramped along side by side in silence; he, covertly taking
stock of his companion; she, gazing straight ahead as though for the
moment she had forgotten his existence.
A tall girl, evidently between sixteen and seventeen, for her hair was
not "done up," but tied together at the back with a large bow, whence it
streamed long and thick and wavy to her waist: abundant light brown hair,
with just enough red in it to give it life and warmth.
His appraising eye took in the fact at once that all her clothes were
old, shabby, and exceedingly well cut. Her hat was a shapeless soft felt
with no trimming, save a rather ragged cord, and she wore it turned down
all round. It had once been brown, but was now a mixture of soft faded
tints like certain lichens growing on a roof. Her covert coat, rather
too big, and quite nondescript in colour, washed by the rains of many
winters, revealed in flowing lines the dim grace of the broad, yet
slender shoulders beneath.
Her exceedingly short skirt was almost as weather-beaten as the coat, but
it swung evenly with every step and there was no sagging at the back.
Last of all, his eyes dropped to her boots: wide welted, heavy brown
boots; regular country boots; but here again was the charm of graceful
line, and he knew instinctively that the feet they encased were slender
and shapely and unspoiled.
He raised his eyes again to the serenely unconscious profile presented to
his view: a very finished profile with nothing smudgy or uncertain about
it. The little nose was high-bridged and decided, the red lips full and
shut closely together, the upper short and deeply cleft in the centre.
He was just thinking that, in spite of his muddy hat, he would rather
like her to look at him again, when she turned her large gaze upon him
with the question:
"Were you preaching just before you fell down?"
He flushed hotly. "Certainly not--did it sound like . . . that?"
"Well, I wasn't sure. I thought if you were a curate trying a sermon
you'd have said 'brethren,' but 'fellow men' would do, you know; and then
I heard something about the 'house of the Lord,' and I was sure you must
be a sucking parson; but when I came up I wasn't so sure. What were you
saying over, if it wasn't a sermon?"
"It was stupid of me . . . but I do a good deal of public speaking, and I
never dreamt anyone was within miles . . ."
"Oh, a speech, was it? Where are you going to speak it?"
"I shall probably address a meeting in Marlehouse to-morrow night."
"Why?"
"Because I've been asked to do so."
"Will it be in the paper on Saturday?"
"Probably."
"How grand; do tell me your name, then I can look for your speech. I'd
love to read it and see if you begin with the bit I heard about fellow
men and the house of the Lord."
"The House of Lords," he corrected.
"Oh," said the girl. "Them! It's them you're against. I was afraid you
objected to churches."
"I don't care much for churches, either," he observed, gloomily. "Do
you?"
"I've really never thought about it," she confessed. "One's supposed to
like them . . . they're good things, surely?"
"Institutions must be judged by their actual utility; their adaptability
to present needs. Traditional benefits can no longer be accepted as a
reason for the support of any particular cause."
"I think," she said, "that the mud on your clothes is drying. It will
probably brush off quite nicely."
Had he ever read _Alice in Wonderland_ he might have remembered what
preceded the Caucus Race. But he never had, so he merely thought that
she was singularly frivolous and irrelevant.
"You haven't told me your name," she continued, "so that I can look for
that speech. We're nearly home, and I'll hand you over to Heaven so that
he can make you tidy for your call."
"My name is E. A. Gallup," he replied, shortly.
"Up or op?" she asked.
"Up," he replied, wishing to heaven it weren't.
"Mine's M. B. Ffolliot, two 'fs' and two 'ls'. We live here, you know."
"I guessed you were a Miss Ffolliot. In fact, I may say I knew it."
"Everyone knows us about here," she said sadly. "That's the worst of it.
You can never get out of anything you've done."
E. A. Gallup looked surprised, but as she was again gazing into space she
did not observe him.
"Whenever hay's trampled, or pheasants startled, or gates left open, or
pigs chased, or turkeys furious, they always say, 'It's them varmints of
young Ffolliots.'"
"Do you know," he said, and his grave face suddenly broke into a most
boyish grin, "I believe even I have heard something of the kind."
"If you live anywhere within six miles of Redmarley you'll hear little
else, and it isn't always us . . . though it is generally. This stupid
gate's locked. We'll have to get over. It's easiest to do it like this."
"This" was to go back a few paces, run forward, put her hands on the top
and vault the gate as a boy vaults a "gym" horse. E. A. Gallup did not
attempt to follow suit. He climbed over, clumsily enough, dropping his
stick on the wrong side. When he had recovered it, he raised his muddy
hat with a sweep. "I see we are in a road of some sort, perhaps you will
kindly direct me to the village, and I will not trouble . . . er . . . Mr
Heaven----"
"But much the nearest way to the village is down our front drive. And we
pass the stables to go to it."
"I couldn't think of intruding in your drive. Have the goodness to
direct me."
"But the woods are ours just as much as the drive; where's the
difference? In fact, we'd _rather_ have people walk in the drive because
of the pheasants."
"There _is_ a difference, though it may not be apparent to you . . . if I
follow this road, do I come to the village?"
"Don't be silly," she said shortly. "If you prefer to be all over mud
there's no more to be said, but I can't direct you any more than I've
done. If you want to get to the village you must go down our drive,
unless you go wandering another mile and a half out of your way. It's
quite a short drive; only you must come by the stables to get to it.
_Are_ you coming?"
"I'm afraid I seem ungrateful," he began.
"You do rather," she interrupted.
"I assure you I am not. I appreciate your kindness, but I cannot see why
I should trouble . . ."
"Oh, Heaven's used to it; _he_ wouldn't mind, but it's evident you would,
so come along. It will be dark before long, and I'll get into no end of
a row if I'm out alone, and father meets me when I get in. Not a soul
will see you, please hurry."
She led him across a deserted stableyard, and round the back of the house
through a wide-walked formal garden, where Christmas roses shone star
white in the herbacious border, where yew trees were clipped into
fantastic shapes, and tall grey statues looked like ghosts in the
gathering dusk, till they reached the sweep of gravelled drive in front
of the house. Wide lawns sloped steeply to the banks of the Marle, which
flowed through the grounds. The red December sun was reflected in a
myriad flames in the many mullioned windows of the Manor. As the girl
had promised, not a soul was in sight, and it was very still.
"There, Mr Gallup," she announced, cheerfully, "follow the drive and
you'll find the village outside the gates. Good-bye! I must go in by
the side door with these boots." And before he could do more than lift
his hat while he murmured inarticulate thanks, she had walked swiftly
away and vanished round the angle of the house.
For a moment he stood quite still, looking at the beautiful old Jacobean
manor-house so warmly red in the sunset. Then he, too, turned and walked
quickly down the winding drive, and as he went he murmured softly: "So
that's what they're like . . . curious anomaly . . . curious anomaly."
The girl entered the house by the side door, changed her muddy boots and
hung up her coat and hat in a little room devoted to boot boxes and pegs,
and ran upstairs to the schoolroom. Her elder brother, Grantly, who
lounged smoking in the deep window-seat, swung his feet to the floor with
a plump, and sat facing her as she came in, saying sternly:
"Mary, who on earth was that man you were with? Where did you pick him
up?"
Mary laughed. "I literally picked him up from the very wettest part of
the wood, where all the firs are, you know. He was sitting mournfully in
a young pond, apparently quite incapable of getting up by himself, and
very much afraid of Parker, who was barking furiously."
"Showed his sense; but what was that chap doing there, and who is he?"
"He was trespassing, of course; makes a point of it, he says, but he'd
evidently lost his way, so I put him right. I thought if he and the
pater met there'd be words. He isn't at all a meek young man, and talks
like that _Course of Reading_ Miss Glover loves so."
"If he talked so much, he must have told you something about himself."
"Not much; his name is E. A. Gallup, and he was going to pay a call in
Redmarley."
"What's he like? I only saw his back, and deucedly disreputable it was.
He looked as if he had been rolling drunk."
Mary laughed again. "I shouldn't think _he_ ever got drunk," she said;
"he's far too solemn. In appearance, he's rather like a very respectable
young milkman, fresh-coloured, you know, and sort of blunt everywhere,
but he speaks--if you can imagine a cross between a very superior curate
and the pater--that's what he speaks like, except that there's just an
echo of an accent--not bad, you know, but there."
Grantly took the pipe out of his mouth and pulled the lobe of his ear
meditatively.
"Gallup," he repeated. "Gallup, I've heard something about that name
quite lately. Surely, if you walked with him right from the Forty Firs
and talked all the time, you must have found out something more?"
"He's going to make a speech at Marlehouse to-morrow night; he was
spouting away like anything just before he fell down. That's what made
Parker bark so."
"I've got it," cried Grantly. "He's the Liberal candidate, that's what
he is. He's standing against poor old Brooke of Medenham, and they say
he'll get in, too--young brute."
"Is he a Labour member?"
"No, Liberal, they couldn't run a Labour member at Marlehouse; not enough
cash in the constituency . . . tell you who he is, son of old Gallup that
kept the ready-made clothes shop in the market-place--'Golden Anchor' or
something, they called it. Mother used to buy suits there for the kids
in the village for Easter, jolly decent suits they were, too."
"And does he keep on the 'Golden Anchor'?"
"I don't think so, but I don't know. Jolly good cheek marching through
our woods, as if they belonged to him. Wish I'd met him."
"My dear chap, we're the last people in the world who can say anything to
people for marching through other people's property, you especially.
Why, nine-tenths of the bad rows, ever since any of us could walk, have
been about that sort of thing."
"Good old Mary, that Radical chap's converted you. What else did he say?
Come on; get it off your chest."
At that moment, the door was opened by an elderly man-servant, who
announced: "The master wishes to speak to you, Miss Mary."
"Oh, Botticelli! Cimabue! Burne Jones!" Mary ejaculated. "The pater
must have been looking out of the window, too. What _bad_ luck."
"I wouldn't mention having _touched_ the chap in your interview with the
pater," Grantly called after her.
As Eloquent neared the Manor gates--those great gates famous throughout
the country for the gryphons on their posts and their wonderful
fairy-like iron tracery--a little boy came out from amongst the tall
chestnuts in the avenue. His face was dirty and his sailor-suit much the
worse for wear, but his outstanding, high-bridged little nose and broad,
confident smile proclaimed him one of the family. He stood right in the
stranger's path, exclaiming:
"Hullo! had a scrap with the keeper?"
His tone proclaimed a purely friendly curiosity. "Certainly not,"
Eloquent answered, coldly. "I had the misfortune to slip and fall."
"Why ever didn't they clean you up a bit at the house?" the little boy
asked.
"Your sister was kind enough to suggest it----"
"Which sister?"
"Miss----" he hardly liked to say "M. B.," and paused.
"Big or little? There's only two."
"Rather big, I should say."
"Oh, that's Mary--did she bump into you?"
Eloquent looked hopelessly puzzled, and the boy hastened to add:
"She's a bit of a gawk, you know, and awfully strong. I thought she
might have charged into you and knocked you over . . . she wouldn't mean
to do it . . ."
"I must be going," said Eloquent, "good-evening," and he hastened on his
way.
"Sorry you couldn't stop to tea," the small boy called after him
hospitably. "I'm Ger, so you'll know me again when you see me."
The child stood for a minute looking after the stranger in the hope that
he would turn his head, and nod or wave to him in friendly farewell, but
he did neither. Ger gave a little sigh, and trotted up the drive towards
home.
Outside the gates Eloquent paused and looked back at them. Brought from
Verona generations ago, they were a perfect example of a perfect period.
Richly decorative, various in design, light and flowing in form, the
delicate curves broke into actual leafage, sweeping and free as nature's
own. The Ffolliots were proud of their gates.
He gazed at them admiringly, and then, like Ger, he sighed.
"Why," he muttered, "why should they have had all this always? I wonder
if it's the constant passing through gates like this that helps to make
them what they are."