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.”
Felix murmured:
“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.