THE FFOLLIOTS OF REDMARLEY

by

L. ALLEN HARKER

JOHN MURRAY

TO

MABEL VIOLET JEANS. 

 For that dread "move" you saw me through, For all the things you found to do. For china washed and pictures hung-- And oh, those books, the hours among! For merry heart that goes all day, For jest that turns work into play, For all the dust and dusters shared, For that dear self you never spared: And most of all, that all of it Was light with laughter, spiced with wit-- Take, dear, my love, and with it take The little book you helped to make. 

First Edition . . . . . . . July, 1913Cheaper Edition . . . . . . September, 1919Reprinted . . . . . . . . . January, 1925

THE FFOLLIOTS OF REDMARLEY

CHAPTER I

ELOQUENT

"Father, what d'you think we'd better call him?" Mrs Gallup asked, whenthe baby was a week old; "have you thought of a name?"

"I've _fixed_ on a name, " her husband replied, triumphantly. "Thechild shall be called Eloquent. "

"Eloquent, " Mrs Gallup repeated, dubiously. "That's a queer name, isn't it? 'Tisn't a name at all, not really. "

"It's going to be my son's name, anyhow, " Mr Gallup retorted, positively. "I've thought the matter out, most careful I've consideredit, and that's the name my son's got to be called . . . EloquentGallup he'll be, and a very good name too. "

"But why Eloquent?" Mrs Gallup persisted. "How d'you know as he'll_be_ eloquent? an' if he isn't, that name'll make him a laughing-stock. Suppose he was to grow up one of them say-nothing-to-nobody sort ofchaps, always looking down his nose, and afraid to say 'Bo' to a goose:what's he to _do_ with such a name?"

"There's no fear my son will grow up a-say-nothing-to-nobody sort ofchap, " said Mr Gallup, boastfully. "I'll take care of that. Now youlisten to me, mother. You know the proverb 'Give a dog a bad name'----"

"I never said it was a bad name, " Mrs Gallup pleaded. 

"I should think you didn't--but look here, if it's true of a bad name, mustn't it be equally true of a good one? Why, it's argument, it'slogic, that is. Call a boy Eloquent and ten to one he'll _be_eloquent, don't you see?"

"But what d'you want him to be eloquent for?" Mrs Gallup enquiredalmost tearfully. "What good will it do him--precious lamb?"

"There's others to be thought of as well as 'im, " Mr Gallup remarked, mysteriously. 

"Who? More children?" asked Mrs Gallup. "I don't see as he'd need tobe eloquent just to mind his little brother or sister. "

"Ellen Gallup, you listen to me. That babe lying there on your kneewith a red face all puckered up is going to sway the multitude. " MrsGallup gasped, and clutched her baby closer. "He's going to be one ofthose whose voice shall ring clarion-like"--here Mr Gallupunconsciously raised his own, and the baby stirred uneasily--"over"--hepaused for a simile--he had been going to say "land and sea, " but itdidn't finish the sentence to his liking, "far and wide, " he concluded, rather lamely. 

Mrs Gallup made no remark, so he continued: "Eloquent Gallup shall be apolitician. Some day he'll stand for parlyment, _and he'll get in_, and when he's there he'll speak up and he'll speak out for the rightsof his fellow men, and he'll proclaim their wrongs. "

And there and then, as if in vindication of his father's belief in him, the baby began to roar so lustily that further converse was impossible. 

A week later, the baby was baptized Eloquent Abel Gallup. Abel was aconcession to his mother's qualms. It was his father's name, and byher it was looked upon as a loophole of escape for her son, shouldEloquent prove a misnomer. 

"After all, " she reflected, "if the poor chap shouldn't have the giftof the gab, Abel's a good everyday workin' name, and he can drop the Eif it suits 'im. 'Tain't always them as has most to say does most, that's certain; and why his father's so set on him being one of thosechaps forever standing on platforms and haranguing passes me. I neversee no good come of an election yet, an' I've seen plenty of harm: whatwith drinkin' and quarrellin', and standin' for hours at street cornersargifying. Politics is all very well in their place, but let it be asmall place, says I, and let 'em keep there. "

Abel Gallup was fifty years old and his wife over forty when theymarried; staid, home-loving people both. Abel's business was that of"a General Outfitter, " and "The Golden Anchor" that was hung over theentrance to the shop presided over the fortunes of a sound, goingconcern. Only ready-made clothes were sold, only ready money wasaccepted. They were well-to-do, and living simply above their shop inthe main street of Marlehouse were able to save largely. 

Abel Gallup, however, was not merely a keen man of business andsuccessful tradesman. He was, in addition, an idealist and a dreamerof dreams; but so shrewd and level-headed was he, that he kept the twothings quite apart. His business was never neglected, and he returnedto it all the fresher, inasmuch as in his off times his mind wasardently concerned with other things. 

He was a self-educated, self-made man, who had started as shop-boy andrisen to be proprietor. He had always been interested in politics, andin their study had found the relaxation that others sought in art, music, literature, or less intellectual pursuits. He was proud of hisliking for politics, counting it for much righteousness that he shouldbe able to find such joy in what he considered so useful and importanta matter. In fact, he had a habit of saying, "Seek ye first theKingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall beadded unto you, " with the comfortable reflection that such temporalprosperity as had been added to him was probably a reward for hisabstention from all frivolous pleasures. He had no particular desireto rise in the world, himself. When he married, comparatively late inlife, it was a woman of his own class, a comely, sensible, "comfortable" woman, who would order his house well, and see to it thatthere was "no waste. "

She did all this; but she did infinitely more. She gave him a son, andin that son all his hopes and dreams, his secret humilities andunconscious vanities, his political devotions and antipathies were allbrought together and focussed in one great determination that this sonof his should have all that he had been denied; that in this son everyone of his own inarticulate aspirations should find a voice. 

He was a Congregationalist and a prominent member of this sect, thechief dissenting body in Marlehouse. He read little poetry and nofiction, but he was widely read in and thoroughly conversant with allthe political events and controversies of both his own generation andof the one before it. A political meeting was to him what apublic-house is to the habitual drunkard; he could not pass it. Henever spoke in public himself, but he longed to do so with a longingthat was intense as it was hopeless. He knew his limitations, and wasquite conscious that his English was not that of the platform. 

Little Eloquent could never remember when he first began to hear thenames that were afterwards to be the most familiar household words tohim. Two names, two personalities ever stood out in memory as anintegral part of his child-life--those of William Ewart Gladstone andJohn Bright. 

These were his father's idols. 

They glowed, fixed planets in the political firmament, stable, unquenchable, a lamp to the feet of the faithful. Each shining with asteady radiance that the divergence in their views on many points couldneither confuse nor obscure. 

The square, dogged, fighting face of the man of peace; the serene, scholarly, aquiline features of the great Liberal leader were familiarto the little boy as the face of his own father. 

That John Bright died when Eloquent was about six made no difference inhis influence. There were two likenesses of him in the sitting-room, and under one of these the words were inscribed: "Be just and fearnot"; and Eloquent, who was brought up to look upon justice as thefirst of political virtues, used to wonder wistfully whether suchfearlessness could be achieved by one whose face at present showed noneof those characteristics of force, strength, and pugnacity manifestedin the portraits of the great commoner. But he found comfort in thereflection that "Dada, " mirror of all the virtues, was yet quite mildand almost insignificant in appearance; a small, stout, dapper, veryclean-looking little tradesman, with trim white whiskers, a bald head, and a round, rosy face, wherein shrewd, blue eyes twinkled cheerfully. 

No, dada bore not the slightest resemblance either to Mr Gladstone orMr Bright, and yet, Eloquent reflected, "what a man he was!" Dada wasthe chief factor in Eloquent's little world--law-giver, lover, andfriend. 

It is probable that his childhood would have been more normal and lesspolitically precocious had his mother lived. But she died when he wasfour years old, a fortnight after the birth of a little sister wholived but a few hours. 

Abel Gallup's sister came to keep house for them, and luckily, she, like his wife, was sensible and kindly, but she stood in great awe ofher brother and never dreamt of criticising his conduct. Now his wifehad never spared him her caustic, common-sense comments. Politics, especially where they might have affected the well-being of the child, were strictly kept in their proper place, And naturally she consideredthat, in the upbringing of a very small boy, that place should beremote almost to invisibility. 

With her death all this was altered. Abel Gallup was very lonely, andturned to his little son for comfort. The child was biddable, loving, and gentle, and "to please his dada" had ever been held before him ashis highest honour and duty. 

Before he could read he could repeat long portions from the variousspeeches his father particularly admired; he learned by heart easilyand had a retentive memory, and his father had only to say over asentence two or three times when the child was word perfect. It gaveAbel Gallup the most exquisite delight to stand his little son betweenhis knees and hear the stirring, sonorous sentences rolled out in thehigh, child voice; and even in those early days he used to impress uponEloquent that when he was grown-up he "would have to speak different todada. "

And little Eloquent, not realising that his father referred merely toaccent and general grammar, would puzzle for hours wondering how suchmen as Mr Gladstone or John Bright would express their common wants. In what lofty terms, for instance, would Mr Gladstone inform his aunt, if he had an aunt, that his collar was frayed at the back and wasscratching his neck. This, Eloquent felt, was quite a likelycontingency, "seeing as he wore 'em so high. " And how, he wondered, would Mr John Bright intimate delicately to the authorities who ruledhis home that he hoped there would be pork for dinner on Sunday andplenty of crackling. He felt certain that Mr Bright would besympathetic in the matter of crackling; he didn't know why, but he wassure of it. Equally convinced was he that the great statesman wouldexpress his desire in impressive and rhetorical language. He repeated"bits" from the speeches that he knew, to see if he could fasten on achance phrase here and there that could be introduced into the commonconversations of life; but they never did fit, and he was fain toexpress his small wants in the plain language of the folk about him. 

Another name floated vague and nebulous among the impressions of veryearly childhood: that of one Herbert Spencer; and this was curious, forAbel Gallup was what he would himself have described as "a sincereBeliever. " Nevertheless, he was immensely attracted by thephilosopher's _Study of Sociology_, and little Eloquent was made tolearn and repeat many long bits from that dispassionate work. Therewas no portrait of Mr Herbert Spencer hanging upon the walls; he wasnot a living force, a real presence, like Mr Gladstone or Mr Bright; hespake not with the words of "a great soul greatly stirred"; yet therewas something in his polished and logical sentences that gave Eloquenta doubtless quite erroneous sense of his personality, and of a certainaloofness in his attitude. He never called into council the "bits"from Mr Herbert Spencer in order to find majestic language in which toexpress the ordinary wants of life. 

Eloquent was taken to his first political meeting when he was six yearsold, and he fell asleep before he had been there half an hour. Hisfather put his arm round the child, rested the heavy little headagainst his shoulder and let him sleep in peace. Not even the cheeringwoke him, and his father carried him home, still sleeping. PerhapsAbel believed that in some mysterious manner the child absorbed theopinions of the speakers through the pores. He was not in the leastannoyed with the little boy for falling asleep, nor did his tenderyears prevent a repetition of the experiment a few months later. Thistime Eloquent kept awake for nearly an hour. He was dreadfully bored, but at the same time felt very elated and important. He was the onlylittle boy in the hall. 

Abel Gallup was never tired of impressing upon Eloquent that "thepeople had the power, and the people had the votes to send you toparlyment or keep you out. Don't you be misled, my boy, by them aswould wish you to try to please the gentry by and bye. The gentry'sfew and the people's many. I don't say a word against the gentry, mind, they're all right in their proper place, and very pleasant theybe, some of them, but when the time comes for you to stand, just youremember that even hereabout there's hundreds of little houses for onemanshun, and in every one of those little houses there's a vote, andyou can have it if you go the right way about. When you're _in_, Eloquent, then you can hob-a-nob with the gentry if it so pleases you;but _till_ you're in, remember it's the working man as can make or maryou. "

Eloquent's aunt, Miss Gallup, had for many years "kept" the post-officeand general shop in the village of Redmarley; but when her brotherasked her to come and look after his home and his motherless child, shedid not hesitate. She resigned her position of post-mistress, sold thegood-will of her shop, and went to live in Marlehouse at "The Sign ofthe Golden Anchor. "

She did not lose her interest in Redmarley, however; she had manyfriends there, and it was one of the treats of little Eloquent'schildhood to drive there with his aunt "in a shay, " to spend theafternoon in the woods, and have tea afterwards either with thehousekeeper at the "Manshun" or in one of the cottages in the village. 

In those days, only one old gentleman lived at the "Manshun. " He "kepthimself very much to himself, " so aunt said, and Eloquent never saw himexcept from an upper window in the Golden Anchor, when he happened todrive through Marlehouse. 

Neither did the little boy ever see much of the interior of the"Manshun" itself, except the housekeeper's room, which was down apassage just inside the back entrance. 

It was during these visits to the housekeeper at Redmarley that itfirst dawned upon Eloquent that there could be two opinions as to theabsolute righteousness of the Liberal Cause. Moreover, he found outthat his aunt's political views were not on all fours with those of hisfather. This last discovery was quite a shock to him, and there wasworse in store. For while he sat in solemn silence devouring bread andjam at the housekeeper's well-spread table, with his own ears he heardher dare to speak of the Grand Old Man as "that there Gladstone, " andthe butler, an imposing gentleman in black, actually described him as"a snake in the grass. "

"It's curious, Miss Gallup, " the butler said, thoughtfully, "that yourbrother should be that side in politics, and him so well-to-do and all. If he'd been in the boot trade now, I could have understood it--there'ssomething in the smell of leather that breeds Radicals like a bad drainbreeds fever; but clothes now, and lining and neck-ties and hosiery, you'd think they'd have a softening effect on a man. Dissenter, too, he is, isn't he?"

"My brother's altogether out of the common run, " Miss Gallup remarked, rather huffily. She might deplore his politics herself--when she wassome distance away from him--but no one else should presume to findfault. "He may be mistaken in his views--I think he is mistaken--butthat don't alter the fact that he's a very successful man: a solid man, well thought of in Marlehouse, I can tell you. "

"Dada says, " Eloquent broke in, "that he's successful _because_ of hisviews. "

"Well, to be sure, " exclaimed the housekeeper in astonishment, "who'dhave thought the child could understand. "

"The child, " groaned Miss Gallup, "hears nothing but politics all daylong--it turns me cold sometimes, it does really. "

CHAPTER II

ONE OF THEM

When Eloquent was six years old his visits to the "Manshun" atRedmarley ceased. 

Old Mr Ffolliot died, and his nephew, Mr Hilary, reigned in his stead. The butler and the housekeeper, handsomely pensioned, left the village. The staff of servants was much reduced, and at first Mr Hilary Ffolliotonly came down to Redmarley for two or three days at a time. Then hemarried and came to live there altogether. 

Eloquent had liked going to Redmarley. The place attracted him, andthe people were kind, even if they were wrong-headed as to politics. One day he asked his aunt when they would go again. 

"I don't fancy we shall go much now, " she replied; "most of my friendshave left. It's all different now up at the 'Manshun, ' with a youngmissus and a new housekeeper; though they seem pleased enough about itin the village; a well-spoken, nice-looking young lady they says sheis, but I shan't go there no more. They don't know me and I don't knowthem, and there we'll have to leave it. "

And there it was left. 

Redmarley would probably have faded altogether from Eloquent's mind, but for something that occurred to give it a new interest in his eyes. 

The summer that he was seven, he was sent to the Grammar School. Hecame home every day directly after morning lessons, for he was as yetconsidered too small to take part in the games which were at that timebut slightly supervised. 

One day he returned to find a victoria and pair standing at the shopdoor, coachman on the box, footman standing on the pavement. This wasunusual. Such an equipage must, he felt, belong to some member of thedangerously seductive "upper classes" his dada warned him against sooften. The class that some day would _want_ him. The class he was tokeep at arm's length till he was safely "in. "

The shop door was open, and Eloquent looked in. Dada, himself, wasserving a customer; moreover, he was looking particularly brisk andpleased. 

Eloquent crept into the shop cautiously. None noticed him. The fourshopmen were serving other customers, and they all happened to be atthe counter on the right-hand side. 

It was a long shop with two counters that stretched its entire length, and was rather dark and close as a rule, but to-day there was brightsunshine outside. It shone through the big plate-glass windows, theglass door stood open, and somehow the shop looked gay. Dada had theleft-hand counter all to himself. 

Eloquent had never before seen anyone in the least like this customer, who, with slender hands, sat turning over little ready-made suits, boy's suits, and feeling the stuff to see if it were strong; she hadtaken off one of her long white gloves, and it lay beside the suits. 

Eloquent gazed and gazed, and edged up the side of the counter towardsher. Had he possessed eyes for anybody else he would have observedthat the four assistants were staring also, and that his father, even, seemed very much absorbed by this particular purchaser. 

And, after all, why?

She was just a tall, quite young woman, very simply dressed in white. 

But she was beautiful. 

Not pretty; beautiful in a large, luminous, quite intelligible way. 

It was all there, the gracious sovereignty of feature, colouring, aboveall, expression--that governs men. 

Little Eloquent knew it and came edging up the shop, drawn irresistiblyas by some powerful magnetic force. 

The young shopmen knew it, and neglected their patrons as much as theydared to stare at her. 

Mr Gallup knew it, and stood rubbing his hands and thoroughly enjoyingthe good moment. 

Those other customers knew it, and although the inattention of theyoung shopmen annoyed them, they sat well sideways in their chairs thatthey, too, might take a peep at the lady without rudely turning round. 

The only person in the shop who appeared to know nothing about it wasthe lady herself. She bent her lovely head over the little suits andpondered, murmuring:

"I do wish I knew which they'd like best, a Norfolk jacket, or a jacketand waistcoat. Can you remember which you liked best?" she asked, suddenly lifting large, earnest eyes to Mr Gallup's flushed andcheerful countenance. 

"Really, madam, " said Mr Gallup, rather taken aback at the verypersonal turn the subject had taken, "I shouldn't think it matters inthe least. Both are equally suitable. "

At that moment, the lady caught sight of Eloquent edging, edging up theside of the counter, ever nearer to this astonishing vision. 

"Here's somebody who can tell us, " she exclaimed. "I'll explain tohim. . . . I'm buying suits for three little boys--Sunday suits, forchurch and Sunday school, you know--I want them plain and serviceableso that by and bye they won't look funny for school--_you_ know; well, would they like coats and waistcoats, or a Norfolk--which do you think?"

"Coats and waistcoats, " said Eloquent promptly, his eyes still glued toher face. 

"Why?" asked the lady. 

"Because you can take off your coat, and _then_ you're in yourshirt-sleeves. "

"But aren't you in your shirt-sleeves when you take off a Norfolk?"

"No, " said Eloquent, "_then_ you're in your shirt. "

The lady laughed. Mr Gallup laughed. The assistants, who had notheard, for Eloquent spoke very low, sniggered sympathetically, and theother customers frowned. 

"That settles it, " said the lady, "and I'm very much obliged to you. I'll have the three little grey suits with coats and waistcoats. Poorlittle chaps, their mother died just a fortnight ago, and they'venothing tidy. "

"My mother's dead, " Eloquent announced abruptly. 

The lady's eyes had been so soft, her face so tender and full of pityas she said, "poor little chaps, " he felt a sudden spasm of jealousy. He wanted her to look at him like that. 

He did not see his father's start, nor the momentary pained contractionof his cheerful features. 

Eloquent's eyes were fixed on the lady's face, and sure enough he gotwhat he wanted. 

"I'm so sorry, " she said simply, and she looked it; she had turned herkind eyes full upon him, eyes wide apart and grey and limpid. 

He edged still nearer to her; so near that he stood upon her whitedress with his dusty little boots, and still he stared unblinkingly. 

The young lady looked puzzled. Why did the child regard her sofixedly? She suddenly awoke to the fact that everyone in the shop waslooking at her. Even Mr Gallup, on the other side of the counter, seemed suddenly stricken by inertia, and instead of putting up thelittle suits in paper, was staring at the pair of them. 

Then Eloquent was moved to explain. 

"I've never seen anybody look like you before, " he said gravely, "and Ilike watching you. "

"Thank you, " said the lady, and she patted his cheek. 

She laughed. 

Mr Gallup laughed, and came back to the affairs of the Golden Anchor, busying himself in tying up her parcel, while he explained thatEloquent was his only child. 

Eloquent did not laugh, for she was going away. 

Dada carried the parcel to the shop door and gave it to the footman. He put it in the carriage, and held out a thin silken cloak for thelady, which she put on. He covered her knees with a linen dust rug, and smiling and bowing she drove away. 

Eloquent turned back into the shop with his father. 

It seemed to have got very dark and gloomy again. 

"Dada, " he asked, "who is that lady?"

"That, " said Mr Gallup, loudly and with no little pride, "is MrsFfolliot of Redmarley, the bride. "

The customers were all listening, the four assistants were alllistening. 

Mr Gallup held out his hand to Eloquent, and together they went throughthe shop and upstairs into the sitting-room, that looked out upon themarket-place. 

"Dada, is she one of the Classes?" Eloquent inquired, nervously. 

"I believe you, my boy, " Mr Gallup responded jocosely, "very much so, she is; a regular out and outer. "

His father went away chuckling, but Eloquent was much depressed. 

He went and stood over against one of the portraits of John Bright andlooked at him for help. 

"Be just and fear not, " said that statesman. 

"All very well, " thought Eloquent, "she didn't pat _your_ cheek. "

He went and sought counsel of Mr Gladstone, a youngish Mr Gladstone inthe Free Trade Hall, Manchester: "At last, my friends, I have comeamongst you . . . Unmuzzled, " said the legend underneath his portrait. 

But Eloquent felt that this was just what he was not. He felt verymuzzled indeed. All sorts of vague thoughts went surging through hisbrain that could find no expression in words. 

"I do believe, " he said desperately, "if she was to give thewhisperingest little call, I'd be obliged to go . . . And so wouldyou, " he continued, shaking his head at Mr Gladstone, "you'd do justthe same. "

He felt that, in some inexplicable, subtly mysterious fashion, therewas a kind of affinity between Mr Gladstone and Mrs Ffolliot. 

Mr Gladstone would understand, and not be too hard upon him. 

In the years that followed, he saw Mrs Ffolliot from time to time fromthe window or in the street, but never again did he come so close toher as to touch her. 

Never did he see her, however, without that strange thrill ofenthusiastic admiration; that dumb, inarticulate sense of having seensomething entirely satisfying and delightful; satisfying for the momentonly: he paid dearly for his brief joy in after hours of curiousdepression and an aching sense of emptiness and loss. She was so faraway. 

Sometimes she was driving with her husband, and little Eloquentwondered after they had passed what manner of man it could be who hadthe right to sit by her whenever he liked. He never had time to noticeMr Ffolliot, till one day he saw him in the carriage alone, andscrutinised him sternly. Long afterwards he read how some admirer ofLord Hartington had said that what he liked most about him was his"You-be-damnedness. " The phrase, Eloquent felt, exactly described MrFfolliot; aloof, detached, a fastidious, fine gentleman to his fingertips, entirely careless as to what the common people thought of him;not willingly conscious, unless rudely reminded of their existence, that there were any common people: such, Eloquent felt sure, was MrFfolliot's mental attitude, and he hated him. 

Mr Ffolliot wore a monocle, and just at that time a new figure loomedlarge on the little boy's political horizon--a figure held up beforehim not for admiration, but reprobation--as a turncoat, an apostate, areal and menacing danger to the Cause dada had most at heart; thewell-known effigy of Mr Joseph Chamberlain. He always appeared withmonocle and orchid. In his expression, judged by the illustratedpapers, there was something of that same "you-be-damnedness" hedisliked so much in Mr Ffolliot. Eloquent lumped them together in hismind, and hated Mr Ffolliot as ardently as he worshipped his wife; andto no one at all did he ever say a word about either of them. 

He rose rapidly in the school, and when he was nine years old hadreached a form with boys much older than himself, boys old enough towrite essays; and Eloquent wrote essays too; essays which were cruderand quainter than those of his companions. One day the subjectgiven--rather an abstruse theme for boys to tackle--was Beauty. Eloquent wrote as follows:

"Beauty is tall and has a pleasant sounding voice, and you want to comeas near as you can. You want to look at her all the time because youdon't see it often. Beauty is most pretty to look at and you don'tseem to see anyone else when it's there. She smells nice, a waftysmell like tobacco plants not pipes in the evening. When beauty looksat you you feel glad and funny and she smiles at you and looks with hereyes. She is different to aunts and people's wives. Taller and quitea different shape. Beauty is different. --E. A. Gallup, class IIIb. "

He was twelve years old when they left Marlehouse. His father hadbought a larger business in a busy commercial town, where there was agrammar school famous throughout the Midlands. 

There Eloquent was educated until he was seventeen, when he, too, wentinto the outfitting business. He attended lectures and the scienceschool in his free time, and belonged to two or three debating clubs. He was in great request at the smaller political gatherings as aspeaker, and with constant practice bade fair to justify his name. 

He occasionally went to Marlehouse, generally on political business, but never to Redmarley. Nevertheless, stray items of Redmarley newsreached him through his aunt, who still kept up her friendship withsome of the village folk there. 

From her he learned that there were a lot of young Ffolliots; that theywere wild and "mishtiful, " unmanageable and generally troublesome; thatMrs Ffolliot was still immensely popular and her husband hardly knownafter all these years; that, owing, it was supposed, to theirincreasing family, they did not entertain much, and that the "Manshun"itself looked much as it had always looked. 

Eloquent made no comment on these revelations, but he treasured them inhis heart. Some day he intended to go back to Redmarley. He neverforgot Mrs Ffolliot, or the impression she had made upon him the firsttime he saw her. 

When Eloquent was four-and-twenty Abel Gallup died. He then learnedthat his father was a much wealthier man than anyone had supposed. Miss Gallup was left an annuity of a hundred a year. The rest of thevery considerable property (some seventy thousand pounds) was left toEloquent, but with the proviso that until he was elected a member ofParliament he could not touch more than three hundred a year, though hewas to be allowed two thousand pounds for his election expenseswhenever, and as often as he chose to stand, until he was elected; aslong as the money lasted. Once he was in Parliament the property washis absolutely, to dispose of as he thought fit. 

It was proof of Abel Gallup's entire trust in his son, that there wasnot one word in the will that in any way whatsoever expressed even ahope as to the legatee's political convictions. 

Miss Gallup went back to Redmarley. Eloquent sold the outfittingbusiness, and went to London to study parliamentary business from thestranger's gallery. 

CHAPTER III

ANOTHER OF THEM

A young man was walking through Redmarley woods towards Redmarleyvillage, and from time to time he gazed sorrowfully at his boots. Therehad been a lot of rain that winter, and now on this, the third Sunday inDecember, the pathway was covered with mud, which, when it was notsticky, was extremely slippery. 

The young man walked rather slowly, twirling a smart cane as he went, andpresently he burst into speech--more accurately--a speech. 

"What, gentlemen, " he demanded, loudly and rhetorically, "but no--I willnot 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, andmost of you who do me the honour to listen, can lay claim to no prouderappellation 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 allbeneficent legislation, to waste the country's time and to nullify thebest efforts. . . . Confound . . . "

He slipped, he staggered, his hat went one way, his stick another, and hesat down violently and with a splash in a particularly large puddle. Andat that instant he was suddenly beset by a dog--a curiously long-leggedfox-terrier--who came bouncing round him with short rushes and sharpbarks. He had reached a part of the woods where the paths cross. Firtrees were very thick just there, and footsteps made hardly any sound inthe soft mud. 

A tall girl came quickly round the corner, calling "Parker!" and pulledup short as she beheld the stranger seated ingloriously in the puddle. But it was only for a moment; she hastened towards him, rebuking the dogas she came: "Be quiet, Parker, how rude of you, come off now, come toheel"--then, as he of the puddle, apparently paralysed by his undignifiedposition, made no effort to arise, on reaching him she held out herhands, saying; "I wouldn't _sit_ there if I were you, it's so awfullywet. Shall I pull you up? Dig your heels in, that's it. I say, you arein a mess!"

He was. 

The leggy fox-terrier ceased to bark. Instead, he thrust an inquisitivenose 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 sametime regarding his rescuer with a suspicious and inimical eye, to see ifshe 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'tsuppose 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. "Theonly thing I can think of for you to do is to come to the stables, andI'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 acall there, and no doubt my friends will assist me to remove some of thismud. "

"But you can't go calling like that, " she expostulated; "you'd far bettercome to the stables first. Heaven's so used to us, he'd clean you up inno time; besides, by far the quickest way to the village is down ourdrive. There's no right-of-way through these woods; didn't you see theboards?"

"Whenever, " he spoke with deliberate emphasis, "I see a board to theeffect that trespassers will be prosecuted, I make a point of walkingover 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 yourtrousers all that mud, if you'd stuck to the road; it's ever such a longway round to come by the woods. "

"I prefer the woods. "

There was such superior finality in his tone, that the girl wasapparently crushed. She started to walk, he followed; she waited forhim, and they tramped along side by side in silence; he, covertly takingstock of his companion; she, gazing straight ahead as though for themoment she had forgotten his existence. 

A tall girl, evidently between sixteen and seventeen, for her hair wasnot "done up, " but tied together at the back with a large bow, whence itstreamed 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 wereold, shabby, and exceedingly well cut. Her hat was a shapeless soft feltwith no trimming, save a rather ragged cord, and she wore it turned downall round. It had once been brown, but was now a mixture of soft fadedtints like certain lichens growing on a roof. Her covert coat, rathertoo big, and quite nondescript in colour, washed by the rains of manywinters, revealed in flowing lines the dim grace of the broad, yetslender shoulders beneath. 

Her exceedingly short skirt was almost as weather-beaten as the coat, butit 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 brownboots; regular country boots; but here again was the charm of gracefulline, and he knew instinctively that the feet they encased were slenderand shapely and unspoiled. 

He raised his eyes again to the serenely unconscious profile presented tohis view: a very finished profile with nothing smudgy or uncertain aboutit. The little nose was high-bridged and decided, the red lips full andshut closely together, the upper short and deeply cleft in the centre. 

He was just thinking that, in spite of his muddy hat, he would ratherlike her to look at him again, when she turned her large gaze upon himwith 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 sermonyou'd have said 'brethren, ' but 'fellow men' would do, you know; and thenI heard something about the 'house of the Lord, ' and I was sure you mustbe a sucking parson; but when I came up I wasn't so sure. What were yousaying over, if it wasn't a sermon?"

"It was stupid of me . . . But I do a good deal of public speaking, and Inever 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'dlove to read it and see if you begin with the bit I heard about fellowmen 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 youobjected to churches. "

"I don't care much for churches, either, " he observed, gloomily. "Doyou?"

"I've really never thought about it, " she confessed. "One's supposed tolike them . . . They're good things, surely?"

"Institutions must be judged by their actual utility; their adaptabilityto present needs. Traditional benefits can no longer be accepted as areason for the support of any particular cause. "

"I think, " she said, "that the mud on your clothes is drying. It willprobably brush off quite nicely. "

Had he ever read _Alice in Wonderland_ he might have remembered whatpreceded the Caucus Race. But he never had, so he merely thought thatshe was singularly frivolous and irrelevant. 

"You haven't told me your name, " she continued, "so that I can look forthat speech. We're nearly home, and I'll hand you over to Heaven so thathe 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 shedid not observe him. 

"Whenever hay's trampled, or pheasants startled, or gates left open, orpigs chased, or turkeys furious, they always say, 'It's them varmints ofyoung Ffolliots. '"

"Do you know, " he said, and his grave face suddenly broke into a mostboyish grin, "I believe even I have heard something of the kind. "

"If you live anywhere within six miles of Redmarley you'll hear littleelse, and it isn't always us . . . Though it is generally. This stupidgate'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 topand vault the gate as a boy vaults a "gym" horse. E. A. Gallup did notattempt to follow suit. He climbed over, clumsily enough, dropping hisstick on the wrong side. When he had recovered it, he raised his muddyhat with a sweep. "I see we are in a road of some sort, perhaps you willkindly direct me to the village, and I will not trouble . . . Er . . . MrHeaven----"

"But much the nearest way to the village is down our front drive. And wepass the stables to go to it. "

"I couldn't think of intruding in your drive. Have the goodness todirect me. "

"But the woods are ours just as much as the drive; where's thedifference? In fact, we'd _rather_ have people walk in the drive becauseof the pheasants. "

"There _is_ a difference, though it may not be apparent to you . . . If Ifollow this road, do I come to the village?"

"Don't be silly, " she said shortly. "If you prefer to be all over mudthere's no more to be said, but I can't direct you any more than I'vedone. 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'squite 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 whyI 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 ofa row if I'm out alone, and father meets me when I get in. Not a soulwill see you, please hurry. "

She led him across a deserted stableyard, and round the back of the housethrough a wide-walked formal garden, where Christmas roses shone starwhite in the herbacious border, where yew trees were clipped intofantastic shapes, and tall grey statues looked like ghosts in thegathering dusk, till they reached the sweep of gravelled drive in frontof the house. Wide lawns sloped steeply to the banks of the Marle, whichflowed through the grounds. The red December sun was reflected in amyriad flames in the many mullioned windows of the Manor. As the girlhad promised, not a soul was in sight, and it was very still. 

"There, Mr Gallup, " she announced, cheerfully, "follow the drive andyou'll find the village outside the gates. Good-bye! I must go in bythe side door with these boots. " And before he could do more than lifthis hat while he murmured inarticulate thanks, she had walked swiftlyaway and vanished round the angle of the house. 

For a moment he stood quite still, looking at the beautiful old Jacobeanmanor-house so warmly red in the sunset. Then he, too, turned and walkedquickly down the winding drive, and as he went he murmured softly: "Sothat's what they're like . . . Curious anomaly . . . Curious anomaly. "

The girl entered the house by the side door, changed her muddy boots andhung 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, wholounged smoking in the deep window-seat, swung his feet to the floor witha 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 himup?"

Mary laughed. "I literally picked him up from the very wettest part ofthe wood, where all the firs are, you know. He was sitting mournfully ina young pond, apparently quite incapable of getting up by himself, andvery 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'devidently lost his way, so I put him right. I thought if he and thepater met there'd be words. He isn't at all a meek young man, and talkslike 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 inRedmarley. "

"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 respectableyoung milkman, fresh-coloured, you know, and sort of blunt everywhere, but he speaks--if you can imagine a cross between a very superior curateand the pater--that's what he speaks like, except that there's just anecho of an accent--not bad, you know, but there. "

Grantly took the pipe out of his mouth and pulled the lobe of his earmeditatively. 

"Gallup, " he repeated. "Gallup, I've heard something about that namequite lately. Surely, if you walked with him right from the Forty Firsand talked all the time, you must have found out something more?"

"He's going to make a speech at Marlehouse to-morrow night; he wasspouting away like anything just before he fell down. That's what madeParker bark so. "

"I've got it, " cried Grantly. "He's the Liberal candidate, that's whathe is. He's standing against poor old Brooke of Medenham, and they sayhe'll get in, too--young brute. "

"Is he a Labour member?"

"No, Liberal, they couldn't run a Labour member at Marlehouse; not enoughcash in the constituency . . . Tell you who he is, son of old Gallup thatkept the ready-made clothes shop in the market-place--'Golden Anchor' orsomething, they called it. Mother used to buy suits there for the kidsin 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 throughour 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 topeople for marching through other people's property, you especially. Why, nine-tenths of the bad rows, ever since any of us could walk, havebeen 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, whoannounced: "The master wishes to speak to you, Miss Mary. "

"Oh, Botticelli! Cimabue! Burne Jones!" Mary ejaculated. "The patermust have been looking out of the window, too. What _bad_ luck. "

"I wouldn't mention having _touched_ the chap in your interview with thepater, " Grantly called after her. 

As Eloquent neared the Manor gates--those great gates famous throughoutthe country for the gryphons on their posts and their wonderfulfairy-like iron tracery--a little boy came out from amongst the tallchestnuts in the avenue. His face was dirty and his sailor-suit much theworse for wear, but his outstanding, high-bridged little nose and broad, confident smile proclaimed him one of the family. He stood right in thestranger'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 boyasked. 

"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 shemight have charged into you and knocked you over . . . She wouldn't meanto do it . . . "

"I must be going, " said Eloquent, "good-evening, " and he hastened on hisway. 

"Sorry you couldn't stop to tea, " the small boy called after himhospitably. "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 thathe would turn his head, and nod or wave to him in friendly farewell, buthe did neither. Ger gave a little sigh, and trotted up the drive towardshome. 

Outside the gates Eloquent paused and looked back at them. Brought fromVerona generations ago, they were a perfect example of a perfect period. Richly decorative, various in design, light and flowing in form, thedelicate curves broke into actual leafage, sweeping and free as nature'sown. 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 wonderif it's the constant passing through gates like this that helps to makethem what they are. "

CHAPTER IV

REFLECTION AND ENLIGHTENMENT

Eloquent found that M. B. Ffolliot had not deceived him as to thenearness of the village. A few yards to the left, over the bridge, andthe long, irregular street lay in front of him; the river on one side;the houses, various in size and shape, but alike in one respect, thatthe most modern of them was over two hundred years old. He knew thathis aunt's house was at the very end of the street and furthest fromthe bridge, and that Redmarley village was nearly a mile in length. Yet he did not hurry. He walked very slowly in the middle of the muddyroad, resolved to marshal and tabulate his impressions as was hisorderly wont. 

But in this instance his impressions refused to conform to eitherprocess, and remained mutinously chaotic. 

He found that, in thinking of Mary, he unconsciously called her "thatgirl, " whereas such maidens as he hitherto had encountered were always"young ladies. " He didn't know many "young ladies, " but those he didknow he there and then called into review and compared with MaryFfolliot. 

They were all of them much better dressed, he was certain of that. Buthe was equally assured that not one of them would have forborne tolaugh at his plight, as he sat abject and ridiculous in the verylargest puddle in Redmarley woods. 

She had not laughed. 

And would any one of these well-dressed young ladies (Eloquent tookinto account that it was Sunday) have held out helping hands to a totalstranger with such absolute simplicity, so entirely as a matter ofcourse? not as a young woman to a young man, but as one fellow-creatureto another who had, literally, in this instance, fallen upon evil times. 

How tall she was, and how strong. 

Again (he blushed at the recollection) he seemed to feel the clasp ofthose muscular young hands in the worn tan-coloured gloves, glovesloose at the wrists, that did not button but were drawn on. He hadnoticed her leather gloves as she held out her hands to him, and knewthat in the language of the trade they were "rather costly to startwith, but lasted for ever. "

They did not stock goods of that class in the particular branch of theoutfitting trade that he knew best. People wouldn't pay the price. And he found himself saying over and over again, "wouldn't pay theprice, " and it was of the girl he was thinking, not of her gloves. 

How eager she had been that he should come and be brushed; "I've noobjection, " Eloquent reflected, "to being under an obligation to her, but I'm hanged if I'd be beholden to Ffolliot for anything. " Somehowit gave him infinite satisfaction to think of Mary's father in thatfamiliar fashion. He, to put up boards about trespassers in the woods!

Who was he?

Eloquent ignored the fact that they were the same boards that had beenthere in old Mr Ffolliot's time, and badly needed repainting. 

That little boy, too, who first appeared to suspect him of poaching, and then expressed sorrow that he would not stay to tea. What anextraordinary family they seemed to be!

The girl had actually owned to being constantly suspected of all sortsof damage, and not always wrongfully either. He was devoured bycuriosity as to what forms her lawlessness could take. 

"A bit of a gawk" her young brother had called her. How dared he?

"Goddess, " thought Eloquent, was much more appropriate than gawk. Hehad no very clear conception of a goddess, but vaguely pictured a womanfair and simple and superb and young--not quite so young as MaryFfolliot. It was only during the last year or two that he had read anypoetry, and he was never quite sure whether he liked it or not. It wasupsetting stuff he considered, vaguely disquieting and suggestive. Yetthere were times when it came in useful. It said things for a chapthat he couldn't say for himself. It expressed the inexpressible . . . In words. It synthesised and formulated fantastic and illusiveexperiences. 

His youthful facility in learning "bits" of prose by heart had notdeserted him, and he found verse even easier to remember; in fact, sometimes certain stanzas would recur with irritating persistency whenhe didn't want them at all; and in thinking of this, to him, new typeof girl, there flowed into his mind the lines:

 "Walking in maiden wise, Modest and kind and fair, The freshness of spring in her eyes And the fulness of spring in her hair. "

Gawk, indeed! that little boy ought to have his head smacked. 

And having come to a definite condition at last, he found he hadreached his aunt's house. The lamp was lit in the parlour and theblind was down, for it was already quite dark. He had takentwenty-five minutes to walk from Mr Ffolliot's gates to his aunt'shouse. 

Miss Gallup, plump, ruddy, and garrulous, very like her brother Abelwith her round pink face and twinkling eyes, was greatly delighted tosee him. 

"You've come to your old aunt first thing, Eloquent, " she criedtriumphantly, "which is no more than I expected, though none the lessgratifying, and you nearly a member and all. How things do come topass, to be sure. I wish as your poor father had lived to see thisday, and you going into parlyment with the best of 'em. "

"Don't say 'going in, ' aunt, " Eloquent expostulated. "It's quite onthe cards that they won't elect me. Personally, I think they wouldhave done better to put up a stronger candidate. Marlehouse is alwayslooked upon as a safe Tory seat; you know Mr Brooke has been member fora long time, and was unopposed at the last election. "

"An' never opens his mouth in London from one year's end to the other, sits and sleeps, so I've heard, and leaves the rest to do all thetalking and bills and that. My dear boy, don't tell me! Marlehousefolk's got too much sense to give the go-by to one as can talk and wasborn amongst 'em, and they all know you. "

"But, Aunt Susan, I thought you were ever such a Tory. What has becomeof all your political convictions, if you want me to get in?"

Miss Gallup laughed. "Precious little chance; I had of _'aving_ anyconvictions all the years I kept house for your dear father; an' apretty aunt I'd be if I could go against you now. Politics is all verywell, but flesh and blood's a deal more, an' a woman wouldn't be half awoman if she didn't stand by her own. It don't seem to matter muchwhich side's in. There'll be plenty to find fault with 'em whicheverit is, and anyway from all I can hear just now you're on the winnin'side, so 'vote for Gallup, ' says I, an' get someone as'll speak up foryou--and not sit mumchance for all the world like a stuckey image nightafter night. Your bag come by the carrier all right yesterday. Andnow you must want your tea after that long walk--but, good gracious me, boy, have you met with an accident, or what, that you're all over withmud like that? You aren't hurted, are you?"

Eloquent again explained his mishap, but he said nothing about MaryFfolliot. His aunt took him to the back-door and brushed himvigorously, then they both sat down to tea in her exceedingly cosysitting-room. 

"Do you like being back here again after all these years, Aunt Susan?"asked Eloquent. "I suppose everything has changed very much since youlived here before. "

"Not so much as you'd think; and then the _place_ is the same, and asone grows older that counts for a lot. When one's young, one's all forchange and gallivantin', but once you're up in years 'tis the oldthings you cares for most; 'an when I heard as the house I was born inwas empty I just had to come back. Redmarley village don't change, because no one can build. Mr Ffolliot sees to that; not one rood ofland will he sell, and the old houses looks just the same as when I wasa little girl. Your father he left Redmarley when he was fourteen, andwent 'prentice to the 'Golden Anchor, ' an' he never cared for thevillage like me. I hardly knew him when I was young, he being twelveyears older than me, and him coming home but seldom. "

"It must make a good deal of difference having a family at . . . TheManor, " said Eloquent, with studied carelessness. He had nearly said"the Manshun, " after the fashion of the villagers. 

"Of course it do. There's changes there, if you like. "

"I suppose you sometimes see . . . The young people?"

"See them? I should just think we do, _and_ hear them and hear _about_them from morning to night. There never was more mixable children thanthe young Ffolliots. "

"How many are there?" Eloquent tried to keep his voice cool anduninterested, but he felt as he used to feel when he was a child in"hiding games, " when some one told him he was "getting warm. "

"Well, there's Mr Grantly, he's the eldest; he's going to be an officerin the army like his grandpa; he's gone apprentice to some shop. "

"What?" asked Eloquent, in astonishment. 

"I thought it a bit queer myself, but Miss Mary herself did say it. 'Grantly's gone to the shop, ' she said, 'to learn to be a soldier'; andI said, 'Well, the gentry's got more sense than I thought for, if theygives 'em a trade as well. ' And Miss Mary she said again, he'd gone toa shop right enough, and went off laughing. "

"But that's impossible, " said Eloquent. "He must have gone either toSandhurst or Woolwich; there's nowhere else he could go. "

"She never mentioned neither of those names. 'Shop, ' she said . . . You needn't look at me like that, Eloquent . . . I'm positive. "

"You were telling me how many children there were, " Eloquent remarkedpacifically, "Grantly, the eldest son, and then . . . ?"

"I'm getting warm, " his mind kept saying. 

"Then Miss Mary, just a year younger, very like her mother she is . . . In looks, but she hasn't got the gumption of Mrs Ffolliot. That'llcome, perhaps . . . Later. A bit of a tomboy she's bin, but she'ssettling down. "

"I suppose she is nearly grown up?"

"Between seventeen and eighteen, she'll be, but not done up her hairyet--that's Mr Ffolliot's doin's; he's full of fads as an egg's full o'meat. Then there's the twins, Uz and Buz they calls 'em. They're atRugby School, they are, but they'll be home for the holidays almostdirectly. I can't say I'm partial to scripture names myself, and onlylast time he was here I asked Mr Grantly what they called them thatfor, when there was so many prettier names in our language, and hesaid, quite solemn like, 'Uz his first-born and Buz his brother, that'swhy, you see. ' And I said, 'but they're twins, sir'; and he said, 'butUz was born five minutes before Buz, so it's quite correct, ' and wentoff laughing. They're always laughing at something, those children. "

"Then are there just the four?' asked Eloquent, who knew perfectly wellthere were more. 

"Oh, bless you, no; there's Master Ger; now I call him the pick of thebunch, the most conformable little chap and full of sense: he'll talkto you like one of yourselves; he's everybody's friend, is Master Ger. Miss Kitten's the youngest, and a nice handful she is. She and MasterGer does everything together, and they do say as she's the only one asdon't care two pins for her papa; nothing cows her, she'd sauce theking himself if she got the chance. "

"From what you say, I gather that they seem to do pretty much as theylike, " Eloquent remarked primly. 

"Outside they do, but in the house they say those poor children'shushed up something dreadful. Mr Ffolliot's a regular old Betty, henever ought to have had one child, let alone six. He's always readingand writing and studying and sitting with his nose in a book, and thenhe complains of nerves. I'd nerve him if I was his wife--but she's allfor peace, poor lady, and I suppose she makes the best of a bad job. "

"Is she unhappy?" Eloquent demanded, with real solicitude. 

"If she is, she don't show it, anyhow. She goes her way, and he goeshis, and her way's crowded with the children, and there it is. "

"Are you thinking of going to church, Aunt Susan?"

Miss Gallup looked surprised. 

"Well, no, not if you don't want to come. I generally go, but I'm morethan willing to stop with you. "

"But I'd like to go, " Eloquent asserted, and got very red in the faceas he did so. "I don't think I've ever been in the church here. "

"Well, there's no chapel as you could go to if you was ever so minded. Old Mr Molyneux mayn't be so active as some, but there's never been nodissent since he was vicar, and that's forty years last Michaelmas. "

"What about my father?" Eloquent suggested. 

"Your dear father got his dissenting opinions and his politics inMarlehouse, not here. "

"Then I'm afraid I shan't get many votes from this village, " saidEloquent, but he said it cheerfully, as though he didn't care. 

"That's for you to see to, " Miss Gallup said significantly; "there's notellin' what a persuasive tongue mayn't do. "

As Eloquent walked through the darkness with his aunt, he heard hercheerful voice go rippling on as in a dream. He had no idea what shetalked about, his whole mind was concentrated in the question: "Willshe be there?"

CHAPTER V

THE IMPRESSIONS ARE INTENSIFIED

The service at Redmarley Church was "medium high. " It boasted anorganist and a surpliced choir, and the choir intoned the responses. "The old Vicar, " as Mr Molyneux liked to be called, was musical, andsaw to it that the Sunday services were melodiously and well rendered. Very rarely was there a week-day service. The villagers would haveregarded them in the light of a dangerous innovation; yet, notwithstanding the lack of daily services, the church stood open fromsunrise to sunset always, and though very few people ever entered itduring the week, they would have been most indignant had it ever beenshut. 

The church was too big for the village: it was built early in thefourteenth century when the Manor House was a monastery, and at a timewhen Redmarley was the religious centre for half a dozen outlyingvillages that now had churches of their own. Therefore, it was neverfull, and even if every soul in the village had made a point of goingto divine service at the same time, it would still have appeared butsparsely attended. 

Miss Gallup's seat, with a red cushion and red footstools andeverything handsome about it, was about half-way up the aisle on theleft. 

On the right, one behind the other, were two long oaken pews next thechancel steps belonging to the Manor House. In the one, there werethree young women, obviously servants; the front one was empty. 

Eloquent began to wish he had not come. 

People bustled and creaked and pattered up the aisle after theirseveral fashions. The organist started the voluntary, and the choircame in. 

The congregation stood up, when suddenly his aunt gave Eloquent's elbowa jerk, and whispered: "There's Mr Grantly and Miss Mary. "

As if he didn't know!

Just the same leisurely, unconscious, strolling walk that got over theground so much more quickly than one would have thought. 

She had changed her clothes and looked, he noted it with positiverelief, much more Sundayish. In fact, her costume (Eloquent used thisdreadful word) now compared quite favourably with those of the otheryoung ladies of his acquaintance. Not that she in the least resembledthem. Not a bit. Her things were ever so much plainer, but Eloquent'seagle eye, trained to acute observation by his long service in theoutfitting line, grasped at once that plain as was the dark blue coatand skirt, it was uncommonly well made. She wore blue fox furs, too, hat and stole and muff all matching, and her hair was tied twice withdark blue ribbon, at the nape of the neck and about half-way down. 

Yes, M. B. Ffolliot was very tidy indeed. Behind her followed a youthridiculously like her in feature, but he was half a head taller. Hewalked with quick, short steps, and had a very flat back and squareshoulders. His appearance, even allowing for the high seriousness ofan outfitter's point of view, was eminently satisfactory. There was nofleck or speck of fluff or dust or mud about _his_ clothes. He was, Eloquent decided grimly, a "knut" of the nuttiest flavour; from the topof his exceedingly smooth head to his admirable grey spats andwell-shaped boots, a thoroughly well-dressed young man. 

"Shop, indeed!" thought Eloquent. "He's never seen the wrong side of acounter in his life. "

"Rend your hearts and not your garments, " so the Vicar adjured thecongregation in his agreeable monotone, and the service began. 

Eloquent could see Mary's back between the heads of two maids: her hairshone burnished and bright in the lamplight. Just before the psalmsshe turned and whispered to her brother, and he caught a glimpse of herprofile for the space of three seconds. 

When the psalms ended, the "knut" came out into the aisle, mounted thesteps leading to the lectern, and started to read the first lesson. 

"Woe to thee that spoilest and thou wast not spoiled, " Grantly Ffolliotbegan in a voice of thunder. The congregation lifted startled heads, and looked considerably surprised. Grantly was nervous. He read veryfast, and so loud that Mary was moved to cover her ears with her hands;and Eloquent saw her and sympathised. 

Now here was a matter in which he could give young Ffolliot points anda beating. He longed passionately to stand up at that brass bird andread the Bible to the people of Redmarley; to one person in particular. He knew exactly the pitch of voice necessary to fill a building of thatsize. 

"He that walketh righteously and speaketh uprightly; he that despiseththe gain of oppressions, that shaketh his hands from the holding ofbribes. . . . "

How curiously applicable certain of Isaiah's exhortations are to thepresent day, thought Eloquent. . . . The "knut" had somewhat subduedhis voice, and even he could not spoil the music and the majesty of thewords, "a place of broad rivers and streams wherein shall go no galleywith oars, neither shall gallant ship pass thereby. " Two more verses, and the first lesson was ended, and Grantly Ffolliot, flushed butsupremely thankful, made his way back to his seat. 

Eloquent registered a vow. 

The vicar himself read the second lesson, and the meditations of theassembled worshippers were undisturbed. 

The vicar always preached for exactly ten minutes. He took anold-fashioned hour-glass up into the pulpit with him, and when it ranout he concluded his discourse. Redmarley folk highly approved thisritual. When stray parsons came to preach, especially if they weredignitaries of the church, a body could never tell what they might beat, and the suspense was wearing. Why, the Dean of Garchester had beenknown to keep on for half an hour. 

The Redmarley worshippers rarely slept. It wasn't worth while. Instead, they kept a wary eye upon the hour-glass. They trusted totheir vicar's honour, and he rarely failed them. As the last grains ofsand ran out he turned to the east, and most people were back home andsitting down to supper by eight o'clock. 

Miss Gallup never hurried out of church. She thought it unseemly. Therefore, it came to pass that Eloquent was still standing in hisplace as Mary Ffolliot and her brother came down the aisle. Marylooked him full in the face as she passed, and smiled frankly at himwith friendly recognition. 

The "knut" had gone on ahead. 

Eloquent gave no answering smile. For one thing, he had never for onemoment expected her to take the slightest notice of him, and the factthat she had done so raised a perfect tumult of unexpected andinexplicable emotion. 

The hot blood rushed to his face, and there was a singing in his ears. He turned right round and stared down the aisle at her retreating form, and was only roused to a sense of mundane things by a violent poke inthe small of his back, and his aunt's voice buzzing in an irritatedwhisper: "Go on, my boy, do you want to stop here all night?"

"Mr Grantly read very nice, didn't he?"

Miss Gallup remarked complacently, as they were walking home. 

"To tell you the truth, Aunt Susan, I thought he read very badly: hebellowed so, and was absolutely wanting in expression. "

"Poor young gentleman, " Miss Gallup said tolerantly. "Last time heread, back in summer it was, he did read so soft like, no one couldhear a word he said, and I know they all went on at him somethingdreadful, so this time I suppose he thought as they _should_ hear him. "

"Do you think, " Eloquent asked diffidently, "that Mr Molyneux wouldlike me to read the lessons some Sunday when I'm down here?"

Miss Gallup stopped short. 

"Well, now, " she exclaimed, "to think of you suggestin' that, an' I wasjust wonderin' at that very minute whether if I was to ask you--you'dsnap my head off, you being chapel and all. "

Eloquent longed to say that he was not so wrapped up in chapel as allthat, but long habits of self-restraint stood him in good stead. Wherepossible votes were concerned it did not do to speak the thought of themoment, so he merely remarked indifferently that he'd be "pleased to beof any assistance. "

"Of course, " Miss Gallup continued, as she walked on, "there's noknowing whether, with the election coming on and all, the vicar mightthink it quite suitable, though he's generally glad to get any one toread as will. "

"Surely, " Eloquent said severely, "he does not carry his politicalviews into his religious life, to the extent of boycotting those who donot agree with him. "

"It's his church, " Miss Gallup rejoined stoutly; "no one can read in itwithout 'tis his wish. "

"My dear aunt, you surely don't imagine that I want to read the lessonsat Redmarley except as a matter of kindness . . . Assistance to MrMolyneux. What other reason can I have?"

"Well, " said Miss Gallup, shrewdly, "it might be that you wanted toshow how well you could do it . . . " she paused. 

Eloquent blushed in the darkness. 

"And with an election coming on, you never know what motives folkshas, " she continued. "But it's my belief Mr Molyneux'd be pleased asPunch. He's all for friendliness, he is. I know who wouldn't bepleased, though----"

"Who is that?" asked Eloquent, as his aunt had stopped, evidentlywaiting to be questioned. 

"Why, Mr Ffolliot; he don't take much part in politics, but he thinksRedmarley belongs to him, and he'd be mighty astonished if you was toget up and read in the parish church, and him not been told anythingabout it. "

"I shall certainly call on Mr Molyneux tomorrow, " said Eloquent. 

CHAPTER VI

THE SQUIRE

Hilary Ffolliot, squire of Redmarley in the county of Garsetshire, didnot appreciate the blessings heaped upon him by providence in the shapeof so numerous a family, and from their very earliest years manifesteda strong determination that no child of his should be spoilt throughany injudicious slackening of discipline. 

His rules and regulations were as the sands of the sea for number, andas they all tended in the same direction, namely, to the effacement ofhis lively and ubiquitous offspring, it is hardly surprising that sucha large and healthy family found it difficult, not to say impossible, to attain to his ideal of the whole duty of children. And although adesire not to transgress his code regarding silence and decorum in suchparts of the house as were within ear-shot of his study was strong inthe children, knowing how swift and sure was the retribution overtakingsuch offenders--yet, however willing the spirit, the flesh was weak, and succumbed to temptations to jump whole flights of stairs, to slidedown bannisters, arriving with a sounding thump at the bottom, andoccasionally to bang the schoolroom door in the faces of the pursuingbrethren. 

Thus it was that strangers ringing the front-door bell at the ManorHouse were, on being admitted, faced by large cards on the oppositewall bearing such devices as, "Be sure you shut the door quietly, " "Donot speak loudly, " "Go round to the back if possible. " And it is toldof one timid guest, that on reading the aforesaid directions (which, bythe way, were only supposed to apply to the children) he incontinentlyfled before the astonished butler could stop him; and, as directed, meekly rang the back-door bell, some five minutes afterwards. 

Mr Ffolliot suffered from nerves. He was by temperament quite unfittedto be either a country squire or the father of a large family. Aboveall, was he singularly unable to bear with equanimity the strain uponhis income such a large family entailed. He liked his comforts abouthim, he was by nature of a contemplative and aesthetically studiousturn, and saw no good reason why his learned leisure should sufferinterruption, or his delicate susceptibilities be ruffled by suchincongruities as the loud voices and inharmonious movements of a set ofthoughtless children. 

The village was small and well-to-do, his duties as a landowner satlightly upon him, and he was very awe-inspiring, didactic, and distantin his dealings with the surrounding neighbours. He had a fine tastein old prints and old port, and every spring his health necessitated asomewhat lengthened stay in an "oasis" which he had "discovered, " so hesaid, in the south of France, where he communed with nature, andmanifested a nice appreciation of the artistic efforts of his host'smost excellent cook. 

In fact, the matter of intercourse with outsiders was largely left tothe discretion of his wife; and whoever had much to do with MrsFfolliot (and most people wanted as much as they could get) spent agood deal of time in the society of the children. And to thechildren--what was she not to those children?

For them "mother" signified everything that was kind, and gay, andgracious, and above all, understanding. Other people might be stupid, and attaint with evil intention accidents, which while certainlyunfortunate in their results, were wholly unpremeditated, but motheralways gave the offender the benefit of the doubt, and not infrequentlyby her charms of person and persuasive arts of conversation, soeffectually turned away the wrath of the injured one (generally afarmer), that no hint of the escapade reached Mr Ffolliot's ears. 

For the fact is that being somewhat tightly kept at home, the youngFfolliots were more than something of a nuisance when they went abroad;and as several of them generally were abroad, in their train didmischief and destruction follow. 

For three hundred years there had been Ffolliots at Redmarley; of thelast three owners two were married and childless, and the oneimmediately preceding Mr Hilary Ffolliot was a bachelor. But the factthat the Manor had not for over a hundred years descended from fatherto son, in no way affected the love each reigning Ffolliot felt for it. 

There was something about Redmarley that seized the imagination and theaffection of the dwellers there. The little grey stone village thatlay so lovingly along the banks of the Marle was so enduring, sovalorous in its sturdy indifference to time; in the way its gabledcottages under their overhanging eaves faced summer sun and winterrains, and instead of crumbling away seemed but to stand the firmer andmore dignified in their cheery eld. 

The Ffolliots were good landlords. No leaking roofs or defective wallswere complained of at Redmarley. Never was Ffolliot yet who had notrealised the unique quality of the village, and done his best tomaintain it. It never grew, rarely was a house to let, and the jerrybuilder was an unknown evil. It was a healthy village, too, set highin the clean Cotswold air. Big farms surrounded it, the nearestrailway line was three miles off, and the nearest station almost seven. 

Of course there was poverty and a good deal of rheumatism among theolder inhabitants, but on the whole the periodic outbursts ofindustrial discontent and unrest that convulsed other parts of Englandseemed to pass Redmarley by. 

Had the Manor stood empty or the vicar been a poor man with a largefamily, doubtless things would have been uncomfortable enough to stirthe villagers out of their habitual philosophic acceptance of the "richman in his castle, the poor man at his gate" as an inevitable andimmutable law. But they couldn't actively dislike either squire orparson, and although the agricultural labourer is slow of speech he isnot lacking in shrewdness, and those at Redmarley realised that thingswould be much worse than they were if Squire and Parson were suddenlyeliminated. 

Hilary Ffolliot liked the r�le of landed proprietor in the abstract. He would not have let the Manor and lived elsewhere for the world. Hewent regularly to church on Sunday morning, though it bored himextremely, because, like Major Pendennis, he thought that "when agentleman is _sur ses terres_ he must give an example to the countrypeople. " Had he been starving he would not have sold a single rood ofRedmarley land to assuage his hunger. Similarly he would himself havedone without a great many things rather than let any of his people gohungry. But it was only because they were _his_ people, part of thestate and circumstance of Redmarley. He didn't care for them a bit asindividuals. Any intercourse with the peasantry was irksome to him. Dialect afflicted him. He had nothing to say to them, and they werestricken dumb in his awe-inspiring presence. He was well content tohave few personal dealings with those, who, in his own mind, he thoughtof as his "retainers. " He left everything of that sort to his wife. 

It was the same with the children. He looked upon them as a concessionto Marjory's liking for that sort of thing: and by "that sort of thing"he meant his wife's enthusiastic interest in her fellow-creatures. 

To be sure he was pleased that there should be no question as to adirect heir . . . But . . . Six of them was really rather a nuisance. Children were like peasantry, inclined to be awkward and uncouth, crudein thought and word and deed; apt to be sticky unless fresh from thehands of nurse; in summer nearly always hot, frequently dirty, andcertainly always noisy, with, moreover, a distinct leaning towards lowcompany and a plainly manifest discomfort in his own. 

He was proud of them because they were Ffolliots, and because they weretall and straight and handsome (how wisely he had chosen theirmother!), and he supposed that some day, when they became morecivilised, he would be able to take some pleasure in their society. Even the two eldest, Grantly and Mary, wearied him. He could neverseem to find any topic of mutual interest, except Redmarley itself, andthen they always introduced irrelevant matter relating to theinhabitants that he had no desire to hear. 

Had Marjory, his wife, grown plain and anxious during her twenty yearsof married life, it is probable she would have bored him too. But shekept her hold upon him because she was not only the most beautifulwoman he knew, but she satisfied his artistic sensibilities all round. She was full of individuality and quick-witted decision. Long ago shehad made up her mind that it was quite impossible to alter him, but shewas equally assured as to her perfect right to differ from him in everypossible way. He quite fell in with this view of the situation; solong as he was allowed unchallenged to be as stiff and stand-off andunapproachable as he pleased, he was well content that she should beextraordinarily sympathetic, gracious, and gay. It pleased him thatthe "retainers" should adore her and come to her in their troubles anddifficulties; that she should be constantly surrounded by her children;that she should be in great request at every social gathering in thecounty. 

Did it happen that his need of her clashed with the children's, andthat just then she considered theirs was the stronger claim, he wasannoyed; but apart from that he approved of her devotion to them. Somebody must look after the children; and it was not in his line. 

So many things were not in his line. 

One day, early in their married life, with unusual want of tact, Marjory had asked him what his line was. 

The question surprised and distressed him, it was so difficult toanswer. However, the retort courteous came easily to Mr Ffolliot, andraising her hand to his lips, he replied, "To provide a sufficientlybeautiful setting for you, my dear, that is my _m�tier_ at present. "And Marjory, who had spent a long, hot morning in superintending theremoval of books, busts, and pictures to the room that, for the future, was to be his study, the room that till then had been her drawing-room, felt an unregenerate desire to slap him with the hand he had justkissed. 

Mr Ffolliot believed that he could best develop the ultimate highestthat was in him if his surroundings were entirely harmonious. Therefore had he selected the sunniest, largest room on the entrancefloor for his own study. It had a lovely view of the river. 

The oak wainscotting and shelves were removed there piece by piece fromthe old library at the back, which faced north and had rather anuninteresting outlook towards the woods. This rather gloomy chamber hecaused to be newly panelled with wood enamelled white, and presented itto his wife for her own use with a "God bless you, my darling, I hopeyou may have many happy hours here. "

Her drawing-room was the only room in Redmarley that Marjory Ffolliotthoroughly disliked, and she never sat there if she could help it. 

On that Sunday afternoon when Eloquent thought fit to visit his aunt, Mr Ffolliot had left his writing-table and was standing in one of thegreat windows that he might look out and, with the delicateappreciation of the connoisseur, savour the crimson beauties of thewinter sunset. 

As he gazed he mentally applauded the pageant of colour provided forhis enjoyment, and then he perceived two figures standing not fiftyyards from his window. 

One he recognised at once as his daughter, and for a moment he includedher in his beatitude at the prospect presented to his view. Yes; Marywas undoubtedly pleasing to the eye, she was growing very like hiswife, and for that resemblance, like the Ancient Mariner, "he blessedher unaware. "

But when he became fully cognisant of the other figure, his feelingwholly changed. He screwed his eyeglass firmly into his eye and glaredat the couple. 

Who on earth was this muddy, rather plebeian-looking person with whomMary was conversing on apparently friendly and familiar terms? Hesuddenly realised with an irritated sense of rapidly approachingcomplications that Mary was nearly grown up. 

In another minute the young man was walking down the drive alone, andhis daughter had vanished. 

He gave her time to take off her boots, then he sent for her. 

He sat down at his writing-table and awaited her, feeling intenselyannoyed. 

How dared that mud-bespattered young man speak to her?

How could Mary be so wanting in dignity as to reply?

What was Marjory about to allow it?

Those children had far too much latitude. 

He was in that frame of mind which, during the middle ages, resulted inthe immurement of such disturbing daughters in the topmost turrets oftheir fathers' castles. 

Mary came in, shut the door softly, and waited just inside it to saynervously:

"You sent for me, father?"

"Come here, " said Mr Ffolliot. 

Mary crossed the big room and stood at the other side of the knee-holetable facing him. 

"I sent for you, " Mr Ffolliot began slowly, and paused. Angry as hewas, he found a moment in which to feel satisfaction at her purecolouring . . . "to make enquiries" he continued, "as to your latecompanion. Who is that exceedingly muddy person with whom you weretalking in the front drive a few minutes ago?"

Yes; her colouring was certainly admirable. A good healthy blushsweeping over the white forehead till it reached the pretty growth ofhair round the temples and dying away as rapidly as it had arisen, wasquite a forgivable weakness in a young girl. 

"I believe, " said Mary cautiously, "that he is Mr Gallup, the newLiberal candidate. "

"Did he tell you so?"

"No, father. He told me his name, but it was Grantly who thought hewas that one. "

"And may I ask what reason Mr Gallup had for imparting his name toyou--did no one introduce him?"

"No, father. "

"Well, how did the man come to speak to you?" Mr Ffolliot demanded, irritably. "You must see that the matter requires explanation. "

"He was lost, " Mary said mournfully, "and so I showed him the way. "

"Lost, " Mr Ffolliot repeated scornfully; "lost in Redmarley!"

"No, father, in the wood. "

"And what was he doing in our woods, pray?"

"He had tried to come by a short-cut and got muddled and he fell down, and I couldn't pass by without speaking, could I . . . He might havebroken his leg or something. "

"What were you doing in the woods alone? I have told you repeatedlythat I will not have you scouring the country by yourself. You haveplenty of brothers, let one of them accompany you. "

"I wasn't exactly alone, " Mary pleaded; "Parker was with me. "

"Mary, " Mr Ffolliot said solemnly, "has it ever occurred to you thatyou are very nearly eighteen years old?"

"Yes, father. "

"Well, that being the case, don't you think that decorum in yourconduct, more dignity and formality in your manner are a concession youowe to your family. You know as well as I do that a young girl in yourposition does not converse haphazard with any stranger that she happensto find prone in the woods. It's not done, Mary, and what is more, _I_will not have it. This impertinent young counter-jumper probably wasonly too ready to seize upon any excuse to address you. You shouldhave given him the information he asked and walked on. "

"But we were going the same way, " Mary objected; "it seemed so snobbyto walk on, besides . . . " again that glorious blush, "he didn't speakto me first, I spoke to him. "

Mr Ffolliot sighed. "Remember, " he said solemnly, "that should you seehim again you do not know that young man. . . . "

Silence on the part of Mary. Deep thought on the brow of Mr Ffolliot. 

"To-morrow, " he said at last, "you may do up your hair. "

"Oh, father, mayn't I do it up to-night before church. I should loveto, do let me. "

"No, my child, to-morrow is more suitable. "

Mary did not ask why. None of the children except the Kitten everquestioned any of Mr Ffolliot's decisions . . . To him. 

"Have you done with me, father?" Mary asked. "I think it must betea-time. "

"Yes, Mary, you may go, but remember, nothing of this sort must everoccur again; it has distressed and annoyed me. "

"I'm sorry, father, I didn't think . . . "

"You never do, " said Mr Ffolliot, "that is what I complain of. "

Thus it came about that Mr Ffolliot was himself directly responsiblefor the friendly smile which greeted Eloquent as Mary passed him in theaisle of Redmarley church that evening. 

She had not been allowed to put up her hair that evening. She was nota grown-up lady yet. 

Therefore would she grin at whomsoever she pleased. 

CHAPTER VII

THE KITTEN

The Kitten was born on a Whitsunday morning about eight o'clock. MrFfolliot went himself to announce the news to Ger, who was sitting inhis high chair eating bread and milk at nursery breakfast. Ger was allalone with Thirza, the under-nurse, and he was thunderstruck to see hisfather at such an unusual hour, above all, in such an unusual place ashis nursery. 

"Ger, " said Mr Ffolliot, quite genially for him, "you've got a newlittle sister. "

Ger regarded his father solemnly with large, mournful eyes, then saidaggrievedly, "Well, _I_ can't help it. "

Mr Ffolliot laughed. "You don't seem overjoyed, " he remarked. 

"Are you sorry, father?" Ger asked anxiously. 

"Sorry, " Mr Ffolliot repeated, "of course not; why should you think I'msorry?"

"Well, you see, " said Ger, "it makes another of us. "

Mr Ffolliot ignored this remark. He moved towards the door. At thedoor he paused; "You may, " he said graciously, "go and see your littlesister in an hour or two; mother said so. "

As the door was closed behind him, Thirza sat down again with a sort ofgasp. "Whatever did you mean, my dear, talking to Squire like that?"she demanded shrilly. 

"Like what?" asked Ger. 

"Sayin' as it wasn't your fault, and seemin' so down about it all. Why, you ought to be glad there's a dear little new baby, and you suchan affectionate child an' all. "

"It makes another of us, " Ger persisted, and Thirza gave him up as anenigma. 

In due time he went to the dressing-room off the big spare bedroom, andthere sat the kind, comfortable lady he knew as "mother's nurse" (Gerhad not seen her as often as the others, but still she came from timeto time "just to see how they were all getting on, " and he liked her). There she sat on a small rocking-chair with a bundle on her knee. 

"Come, my darling, and see your little sister, " she cried cheerfully. 

Ger advanced. She opened the head flannel and displayed a small, darkhead, and a red, puckered countenance. 

"When will she be able to see?" asked Ger. 

As if in answer the baby opened a pair of large dark eyes and staredfixedly at the round, earnest face bent above her. 

"See, bless you!" mother's nurse exclaimed, "see! why, she isn't akitten. She can see right enough. Look how she's taking you in. Shehas stared about from the minute she was born, as if she'd been herebefore and was looking round to see that things were all the same. She's the living image of Squire. "

"I think she's rather like a kitten, " Ger persisted, "but I'm glad shecan see. I think she likes me rather. "

And that was how the Kitten got her name. 

She was not a Grantly. She was all Ffolliot, and she was the only oneof the children absolutely fearless in the presence of her father. 

Small and dark and delicately made, with quick-sighted falcon-colouredeyes that nothing escaped. Unlike her big, healthy brethren, she wasnever in the slightest degree shy or clumsy, and she cared not a singlegroat for anyone or anything in the whole wide world so long as she gother own way. And this, being a member of the Ffolliot family, she didnot get nearly as often as she would have liked. But she understoodher father as did none of the others, and she could "get round him" ina fashion that filled those others with astonished admiration. 

She also considerably astonished Mr Ffolliot, for from the very firstshe was familiar, and familiarity on the part of his children heneither encouraged nor desired. Moreover, she was ubiquitous andelusive. No army of nurses could restrain the Kitten in herperegrinations. She could speak distinctly, run, and run fast, whenshe was little over a year old, and she possessed a singularlyenquiring mind. She was demonstrative but not affectionate; she wasenchanting, and stony-hearted was the creature who could resist her. She liked an audience, and she loved to "tell" things. To this end shewould sit on your knee and lay one small but determined hand upon yourcheek to turn your face towards her, so that she could make sure youwere attending. She kept the small hand there, soft and light, afairy-like caress, unless your attention wandered. If this happened, asharp little pinch quickly diverted your thoughts into the properchannel. As she pinched you, the Kitten dropped her eyes so that younoticed how long and black were her eyelashes. Then, having punishedyou, she raised her eyes to yours with so seraphic an expression thatyou thought of "large-eyed cherubim" and entirely forgot that she hadpinched you at all, unless next day as you looked in the glass youhappened to notice a little blue mark on your cheek. The Kitten couldpinch hard. 

She was Ger's greatest joy and his unceasing anxiety. From the veryfirst he had constituted himself her guide, philosopher . . . Andslave. Yet the dictatorial little lady found out very early in theday, that in certain things she had to conform to her indulgentbrother's standards, the family standards; and though she might be allFfolliot in certain matters, the Grantly ethics were too strong forher. That Ger should love her, that he should be always kind andprotective and unselfish she took as a matter of course; but she wantedhim to admire her too, and ready as he was to oblige her in mostthings, she found that here he was strangely firm. If she told talesor complained of people, or persisted in tiresome teasing when askedpolitely to desist, Ger withdrew the light of his countenance, and theKitten was uncomfortable. 

To tell tales, or complain, or try to get another into trouble for anyreason whatsoever was forbidden. The others had each in their turnaccepted this doctrine as they accepted day and night, the sun and moonand stars. The Kitten had to be taught these things, and Ger it waswho saw to it that she learned them. 

There was a law in the family that if any member of it, after enduringfor a space a certain line of conduct from another, said, "_Please_stop it, " that person had to stop, or nemesis, by no meansleaden-footed, overtook the offender. It took quite a long time to getit into the Kitten's head that it was a law. 

She had an extraordinarily loud and piercing cry when she was angry--acry that penetrated to the sacred study itself, no matter where shemight be in the house. 

One day when she was about three years old she was so naughty, sodisobedient, so entirely unmanageable at nursery tea, that Nana, thelong-suffering, fairly lost her temper. The Kitten placed the finalstone on a pillar of wrongdoing by drawing patterns on the tableclothwith a long line of golden syrup dropped from a blob she had secured onher small finger, and Nana gave the chubby hand belonging to the fingera good hard smack. The Kitten opened her mouth and gave vent to a yellalmost demoniacal in its volume and intensity. 

Mr Ffolliot, reading the _Quarterly Review_ in dignified seclusion, heard it in his study, was convinced that his youngest child was beingtortured by the others, and hastened hot-foot to the nursery. 

Ger had his fingers in his ears. Nana, flushed and angry, stirred hertea pretending that she didn't hear; Thirza murmured pacific and whollyuseless nothings. At her father's sudden and wholly unexpectedappearance, accompanied as it was by the swift uprising of both thenurses, the Kitten stopped her clamorous vociferation, and with bunchesof tears still hanging on her lashes smiled radiantly at the Squire, announcing with a wave of her sticky little hand. 

"'At's fahver. "

"What, " Mr Ffolliot demanded angrily, "what in heaven's name has beendone to that child to make her shriek like that? What happened?"

"Miss Kitten, sir, " Nana said slowly, "has not been very good at teathis afternoon. "

"But what made her shriek like that?" Mr Ffolliot continued--"a morealarming cry I never heard. "

"She smacked me, " said the Kitten, glowering at Nana, "she 'urted me";and at that moment she met Ger's eyes. 

The Kitten turned very red. 

"Who smacked you?" asked Mr Ffolliot unwisely. 

Ger stared at the Kitten, and the Kitten wriggled in her chair. 

"Say what _you_ did, " muttered Ger, still holding his small sister incompelling gaze. 

Nana smiled. She had started with Grantly, and knew the family. 

"Fahver, " said the Kitten in her most seductive tones, "take me, " andshe held out her arms. 

Mr Ffolliot succumbed. He went round to his youngest daughter andlifted her out of her high chair, only to put her down with exceedinghaste a moment later. 

"The child is all over some horrible sticky substance, " he cried, irritably. 

"'At was it, " said the Kitten. 

Mr Ffolliot fled to wash his hands and change his coat. Nana andThirza sat down again. Ger shook his head at his small sister. "You_are_ a rotter, " he said, sadly. 

The Kitten began to cry again, but this time she cried quite softly, and Nana, in spite of the libations of golden syrup, took her upon herknee to comfort her. 

Every evening the children went down to the hall to play with theirmother, and when their grandparents were there things were more thanusually festive. Ganpie never seemed to mind how many children swarmedover him--in fact, he rather seemed to like it; and Grannie assuredlyknew more entrancing games than anyone else in the world. 

One Christmas Eve, just after tea, the whole family, including MrFfolliot, were gathered in the hall. Fusby had just taken the tray, the General was sitting by the fire with Ger on his knee, the Kittensat on the opposite side of the hearth on her father's, while the restof the young people indulged in surreptitious "ragging. " Uz and Buz, by some mischance, charged into a heavy oaken post crowned by a largepalm, with such force that they knocked it over, and the big flower-potmissed their grandfather and Ger by a hair's breadth. 

When the universal consternation had subsided, the scattered earth beenswept up, and the twins had been suitably reprimanded, the Kittenscrambled down from her father's knee, and trotted across to hergrandmother, was duly taken up, and with small insistant hand turnedher Grannie's face towards her. 

"Which would you rather?" she asked in her high clear voice, "thatGanpie had been killed or Ger?"

Mrs Grantly shuddered--"Baby, don't suggest such dreadful things, " sheexclaimed. 

"But which would you rather?" the Kitten persisted. "You're all saying'another inch and it would have killed one of zem'--which one would yourather?"

But Mrs Grantly flatly refused to state her preference, and the Kittenwas clearly disappointed. 

That night she added an additional clause to her prayers: "Thank you, God dear, for not letting the flower-pot kill Ganpie or Ger, and I'msure Grannie's very much obliged too. "

At her prayers the Kitten always knelt bolt upright with her handstightly clasped under her chin, her nightgown draped in graceful foldsabout her--a most reverent and saintly little figure, except that shehad from the very first firmly refused to shut her eyes. 

She was fond of adding a sort of P. S. To her regular prayers, andenjoyed its effect upon her mother, who made a point of, herself, attending the orisons of her two youngest children. One evening whenMrs Ffolliot had been reading her a rather pathetic story of amotherless child, the Kitten added this petition, "Please, God, takecare of all the little girls wiv no mummies. "

Mrs Ffolliot was touched and related the story afterwards to Uz andBuz, who grinned sceptically. 

Next night, when the Kitten had been very naughty, and Mrs Ffolliot hadpunished her, she repeated her prayers with the greatest unction, andwhen she reached the usual postscript, fixed her eyes sternly on hermother's face as she prayed fervently, "And please, dear God, takegreat care of the poor little girls what _have_ got mummies. "

A mystically minded friend of Mrs Ffolliot's had talked a good deal ofguardian angels to Ger and the Kitten. Ger welcomed the belief withenthusiasm. It appealed at once to his friendly nature, and thethought of an angel, "a dear and great angel, " all for himself, specially concerned about him, and there always, though invisible saveto the eye of faith, was a most pleasing conception. 

Not that it would have pleased Ger unless he had been assured thateveryone else had one too. And he forthwith constructed a theory thatwhen people got tired of doing nothing in heaven they came back againand looked after folks down here. 

His views of the angel's actual attributes would much have astonishedhis mother's friend had he expressed them. But Ger said nothing, andquietly constructed an angel after his own heart, who was in point offact an angelic sort of soldier servant, never in the way, but alwaysthere and helpful if wanted. 

He could not conceive of any servant who was not also a friend, andhaving received much kindness from soldiers in the ranks he fixed uponthat type as the most agreeable for a guardian angel. And although hegreatly admired the two framed pictures of angels the lady had giventhem to hang in the nursery--Guercino's Angel and Carpaccio's "Tobiasand the angels"--his own particular angel was quite differently clad, and was called "Spinks" after a horse gunner he had dearly loved, whowas now in India. 

The Kitten, far less impressionable, and extremely cautious, waspleased with the idea when it was first mooted, and discussed thequestion exhaustively with Ger, deciding that her angel had large wingslike the one with the child in the picture. 

"Does it stay with me in the night-nursery all night?" she enquired. 

"'He, ' not 'it, '" Ger corrected; "but perhaps yours is a 'she. '"

"I won't have a she, " the Kitten said decidedly, for even at four yearsold she had already learnt that her own sex had small patience with hervagaries. 

"You'll have to have what's sent you, " Ger said solemnly. 

"I won't have a lady angel, so there, " said the Kitten, "I'll have aman angel. "

"I daresay they'll let you, " Ger said soothingly. "A great, big, kindman with wings like you said. "

"Has yours got wings?" the Kitten demanded. 

"I don't think so, " said Ger, "he's not that sort; but, " he addedproudly, "he's got spurs. "

"Will it stay in the nursery _all_ night?" the Kitten asked againrather nervously. 

"Of course that's what he's for, to take care of you, so that you'llfeel quite safe and happy. "

"Oh, " said the Kitten, and her voice betrayed the fact that she foundthis statement far from reassuring. 

She said nothing to her mother, and Mrs Ffolliot heard her say herprayers as usual, kissed her, blessed her, and tucked her in. Nosooner, however, had Mrs Ffolliot gone down the passage than the mostvigorous yells brought her back to the night-nursery, while both Nanaand Thirza hastened there also. 

The Kitten was sitting up in bed, wide-eyed and apparently moreindignant than frightened. 

"Take it away, " she exclaimed; "open the window and let it out. "

"Let what out?" asked the bewildered Mrs Ffolliot. 

"The angel, " sobbed the Kitten, "I don't want it, I heard its wingsrustling and it disturbed me dreffully--I don't want it, open thewindow wide. "

"The window is open at the top, " said Mrs Ffolliot; "but why do youwant to get rid of an angel? Surely that's a lovely thing to have inthe room. "

"No, " said the Kitten firmly, "I don't like it, and I don't want it. Idon't want no angel I haven't seen. I don't like people in my roomwhen I go to sleep. "

Nana and Thirza had melted away, only too thankful not to be calledupon to arbitrate in the angel question. Mrs Ffolliot and her smalldaughter stared at each other in the flickering firelight. 

"I'm sure, " said Mrs Ffolliot, trying hard to steady her voice, "thatno self-respecting angel would stay for a minute with a little girlthat didn't want him. You may be certain of that. "

"A she might, " the Kitten suggested suspiciously. 

"No angel would, " Mrs Ffolliot said decidedly. 

"Do you think, " the Kitten asked anxiously, "that there's enough roomat the top for it to squeege froo? I can't _bear_ those wingsrustling. "

Mrs Ffolliot switched on the light. "You can see for yourself. "

"Thank you, mummy dear, I'll be much happier by myself, really, " andthe Kitten lay down quite contentedly. 

CHAPTER VIII

GENTLEMAN GER

It was the 22nd of December, the younger Ffolliots were gathered in theschoolroom, and Ger was in disgrace. 

The twins were back from school, and that afternoon they had unbentsufficiently to take part in a representation of "Sherlock Holmes" inthe hall. The whole family, with the exception of the Kitten, had seenthe play in the Artillery Theatre at Woolwich during their last visitto grandfather. 

It is a play that not only admits of, but necessitates, varied and loudnoises. 

Everything ought to have gone without a hitch, for earlier in theafternoon Mr Ffolliot had departed in the carriage to take the chair ata lecture in Marlehouse; and a little later Grantly had driven hismother to the station in the dogcart to meet a guest. 

Unfortunately the lecture on Carpaccio at the Literary Institute was ofunusually short duration, and Mr Ffolliot returned tired and rathercross, just as Ger was enacting the hansom cab accident at the foot ofthe staircase, by beating a deafening tattoo on the Kitten's bath witha hair-brush. 

The twins and the Kitten (who had proved a wrapt and appreciativeaudience) melted away with Boojum-like stealth the moment the hall doorwas opened; but Ger, absorbed in the entrancing din he was making, noticed nothing, and his father had to shake him by the shouldersbefore he would stop. 

"I suppose, " Ger remarked thoughtfully, "that we must look upon fatheras a cross. "

"He certainly _is_ jolly cross, " Uz murmured. "He should hear the rowwe kick up at school when we've won a match, and nobody says asyllable. "

"But I mean, " Ger persisted, wriggling about on his seat as though theproblem tormented him, "that if father were as nice as mother we'd betoo happy, and it wouldn't be good for us; like the people in Fairystories, you know, when they're too well off, misfortunes come. "

"I don't think, " Buz said dryly, "that we have any cause to dreadmisfortunes on that score. But cheer up, Ger, it'll soon be time forthe pater to go abroad, and then nobody will get jawed for six longweeks. "

"I shouldn't mind the jawings so much or the punishments, " said Ger, after a minute's pause, "if it wasn't for mother. She minds so, shenever seems to get used to it. I'm glad she was out thisafternoon--though we did want her to see the play--but whatever willshe say when I can't go down to meet Reggie with the rest of you? Andwhat'll _he_ think?"

Ger's voice broke. Punishment had followed hard on the heels of thecrime, and banishment to the schoolroom for the rest of the evening wasGer's lot. Had Mr Ffolliot belonged to a previous generation he wouldprobably, when angry, have whacked his sons and whacked them hard. They would infinitely have preferred it. But his fastidious tasterevolted from the idea of corporal punishment, and his ingenuity indevising peculiarly disagreeable penalties in expiation of theirvarious offences, was the cause of much tribulation to his indignantoffspring. 

"Here _is_ mother!" cried Buz, "and she's got Reggie. Come down andsee him you others, but for heaven's sake, come quietly. "

The Reggie in question was a young Sapper just then stationed atChatham, and a "very favourite cousin. "

The Ffolliot children were in the somewhat unusual position of havingno uncles and aunts, and no cousins of their own, for the sad reasonthat both their parents were "onlies. " Therefore did they right thisomission on the part of providence in their own fashion, by adopting asuncles, aunts, and cousins all pleasant guests. 

Reggie wasn't even a second cousin; but his people being mostly inIndia, he had for many years spent nearly all his holidays, and lateron his leave, at Redmarley, and he was very popular with the wholefamily. Even Mr Ffolliot unbent to a dignified urbanity in hispresence. He approved of Reggie, who had passed seventh into Woolwichand first into the Sappers, and Grantly always thanked his lucky starsthat he was destined for Field Artillery, and was not expected tofollow in Reggie's footsteps in the matter of marks. 

Ger worshipped Reggie, and it was with a heart full of bitterness, andeyes charged with hot tears that blurred the firelight into long bandsof crimson, that he leant against the schoolroom table, alone, whilethe others all trooped off on tiptoe into the hall to give rapturousthough whispered greeting to their guest. 

Reggie did not whisper though; the warning cards had no sort of effectupon him, and the forlorn little figure drooping against the tablesprang erect and shook the big drops from his cheeks as he heard hiscousin's jolly voice "Where's my friend Ger?"--a murmuredexplanation--then, "O _bad_ luck! I'll go to him--No don't come withme--not for two minutes. "

How Ger blessed him for that forethought! To be found in disgrace wasbad enough; but to be seen in tears, and by his whole family! . . . 

Hastily scraping his cheeks with a corner of his dilapidated Norfolkjacket--if you have ever tried to do this you'll know that it is moreor less of a test of suppleness--he went slowly to the door, and inanother minute was lifted high into the air and shaken violently by aslight, rather plain young man, who bore with the utmost meekness apassionate embrace highly detrimental to his immaculate collar: and thebest of it all was, that he was quite unconscious of the fact that Gerhad not met him with the others, nor seemed aware of anything unusualbeyond the pleasantness of once more sitting in the big slipperyleather-covered arm-chair beside the schoolroom fire, while the rest ofthe family, having given him exactly the two minutes' start he haddemanded, came flocking back to sit all over him and shout their newsin an excited chorus. 

Next morning, while his father was out in the village, Ger ensconcedhimself in one of the deep-seated windows of the study, as a quiethaven wherein he might wrestle in solitude with the perfect andpluperfect of the verb _esse_, which he had promised his mother hewould repeat to her that morning. 

Their governess had gone home for the holidays, but Ger was so backwardthat his father insisted that he must do a short lesson (with MrsFfolliot) every morning. Ger could not read. It was extraordinary howdifficult he found it, and how dull it appeared to him, this art thatseemed to come by nature to other people; which, once mastered, appeared capable of giving so much pleasure. 

It puzzled Ger extremely. 

Mrs Ffolliot had, herself, instructed all her sons in the rudiments ofthe Latin Grammar, and very well and thoroughly she did it, but sopleasantly, that in their minds the declensions and the conjugationswere ever vaguely associated with the scent of violets. The reason forthis being, that the instructed one invariably squeezed as close aspossible to his teacher, and as there were violets at Redmarley nearlyall the year round, Mrs Ffolliot always wore a bunch tucked into herwaistband. 

It was characteristic of the trust the squire had in his wife'straining that he had not the slightest objection to the children usingthe library when he, himself, was not there to be disturbed, beingquite certain that as they had promised her not to touch his writingtable, the promise would be faithfully kept. Besides, like all truebook-lovers, he was generous in the matter of his books, and providedthe children treated them with due care and respect, had no objectionto their taking them out of the shelves and reading them. 

For a long time there was no sound in the room but an occasionalwhispered, "_fui, fuisti, fuit_. " Presently Grantly and Mary came into discuss a fancy-dress dance to which they were bidden that eveningat a neighbour's; then, in rushed Reggie in coat and hat with a newlyarrived parcel in his hand. Ger had seen the railway van come up thedrive, but as he had promised his mother not to move until he hadmastered his verb, he did not make his presence known to anyone. 

Reggie went over to Mr Ffolliot's desk, and seeing a shilling lying onthe table seized it and fled from the room. Three minutes later Gersaw him bowling down the drive in the dog-cart, then Mr Ffolliotreturned, and Ger, feeling tolerably certain of the "perfect andpluperfect and future perfect, " went slowly upstairs to his mother torepeat it. 

All went on peacefully and quietly in the schoolroom for the next halfhour, when suddenly Grantly and Mary whirled into the room in a stateof such excited indignation as took their mother quite five minutes todiscover what all the fuss was about. When at last they had beeninduced to tell their story separately, and not in a chorus almostoratorio-like in its confusion, Mrs Ffolliot discovered to her dismaythat they were accused of meddling with a shilling which their fatherhad placed on the book-club collecting card, ready for the collectorwhen she should call. 

When she _did_ call the shilling was gone, and as Grantly and Mary wereknown to have been in the study, the squire came to the conclusion thatone of them must have knocked against his table and brushed it off, andhe gave it out that "unless they found it, and thus repaired themischief and annoyance their carelessness had caused, he would notallow them to go to the dance that evening!"

He never suspected that any member of his family would take theshilling, but he was ready to believe all things of their clumsiness. In vain did Grantly and Mary protest that they had never been near hisdesk; the squire might have been Sherlock Holmes himself, so certainwas he as to the exactitude of his deductions. 

"The card has been pushed from where it was originally placed to theextreme edge of the table; the shilling must have been knocked off, andhad doubtless rolled under some article of furniture; let them see toit that it was found; they might hunt there and then if they liked, ashe would not require the room for half an hour. "

The consciousness of their innocence in no way sustained Grantly andMary under the appalling prospect of losing the party. They had ofcourse hunted frantically everywhere, but naturally had found no traceof the shilling. 

Ger sat quite still during the recital of their wrong's, his facegrowing paler and paler, and his honest grey eyes wider and wider inthe horror of his knowledge. For he knew who had taken the shilling, and he knew also that it was his plain duty to right his innocentbrother and sister. But at what a cost! He could not tell of Reggie, and yet it was so unlike Reggie for it was . . . Even to himself Gerhardly liked to confess what it was--and he had gone off in such ahurry! To Ger, a shilling seemed a very large sum, his own greatestwealth, amassed after many weeks of hoarding, had once reached fivepence halfpenny, nearly all in farthings; and he even found himselfconjecturing the sort of monetary difficulty into which Reggie hadfallen, and from which a shilling might extricate him. He knew therewere such things as "debts, " and that the army was "very expensive, "for he had heard his grandfather say so. Like many extremely uprightpeople Ger was gentle in his judgments of others. Himself of the mostcrystalline honesty, he could yet conceive of circumstances wherein alike probity might be hard for somebody else: at all costs poor Reggiemust be screened, but it was equally clear to him that his brother andsister must not lose the pleasure long looked-forward-to as the openingjoy of the holidays. 

Now there was about Ger a certain loyalty and considerateness in hisdealings with others, that had earned for him the _sobriquet_ of"Gentleman Ger. " He was very proud of the title, and his mother, whomhe adored, had done all in her power to foster the feeling of _noblesseoblige_; so Ger felt that here and now a circumstance had arisen whichwould try what stuff he was made of. The excited talk raged round himlike a storm, but after the first he heard none of it. He slippedquietly off his chair, and unnoticed by the group round his mother, left the room and crept down the back staircase. All doubt andquestioning was at an end. His duty seemed quite clear to him: hewould take the blame of that shilling, Mary and Grantly would go totheir party, and Reggie . . . Reggie would not be back till quitelate, when he, too, was going to the fancy-dress dance. Reggie neednever know anything about it. 

By this time he had reached the study door, and stood with his handupon the handle. And as he waited, screwing his courage to thesticking point, there came into his mind the words of a psalm that hehad learned by heart only last Sunday to repeat to his mother. Helearned it more easily than usual because he liked it; when she read itto him he found he could remember it, and now, just as a dark room istransiently illumined by the falling together of the fire in suddenflame, there came into Ger's mind the words, "He that sweareth to hisown hurt and changeth not. " He turned the handle and went in. 

The squire was sitting in his big armchair in front of the fire reading_Marius the Epicurean_, and trying to compose his nerves, which stillvibrated unpleasantly after all the fuss about the shilling. He hadeven quoted to himself somewhat testily something about "fugitivethings not good to treasure"; but whether he referred to the nimblydisappearing shilling, or to the protestations of Grantly and Mary, wasnot clear. He generally solaced himself with Pater when perturbed, andhe had nearly persuaded himself that he was once more nearly attuned to"perfect tone, fresh and serenely disposed of the Roman Gentleman, "when Ger opened the door, and walked over towards him without shuttingit--an unpardonable offence at any time. 

"Gervais, " exclaimed the squire, and his tone was the reverse ofserene, "Why are you not in the schoolroom? What on earth do you want?"

Ger went back and shut the door carefully and quietly, and once morecrossed the room till he stood directly in front of his father. Thesquire noted with a little pang of compunction how pale the child was. "What is it?" he said more gently. 

"Father, I've come about that shilling. I took it. "

"_You_ took it, " exclaimed the squire in amazement. "Why?"

Here was a poser. Ger was so absolutely unused to lying that he wasquite unprepared for any such question as this, so he was silent. 

"Why did you take it?" angrily reiterated his father. "And what haveyou done with it? Answer at once. You know perfectly well that it isa most shocking breach of good manners to ignore a question in thisfashion. "

"I took it, " repeated Ger stupidly, his large grey eyes looking intospace beyond his father. 

"So I hear, " said the squire, growing more and more annoyed. "But whydid you take it? and where have you put it?"

"I can't tell you, father, " said Ger firmly, and this time he met hisfather's eyes unflinchingly. To himself he said, "I won't tell more'n_one_ lie for mother's sake. "

The squire was dumfoundered by this obstinacy. It was unheardof--absolutely without parallel in his domestic annals--that one of hischildren should actually flout him! yes! actually flout him with suchan answer as this. 

"Go and stand over there in that corner, " he thundered, "and you shan'tmove until you can answer my questions, if you stand there for the restof the day. If you children have nothing else, I am determined thatyou shall have good manners. "

 * * * * * *

It was nearly five o'clock, and Ger still stood in the same corner ofthe study watching the last streak of red fade from the chill Januarysky. There was no sound in the room save only the soft "plop" of acinder as it fell on to the tiled hearth. The fire had burned low, andhe was very cold. Never in all his life had he gone without his dinnerbefore, and although he was no longer hungry, everything seemed, as hesaid afterwards, "funny and misty. "

The squire had fulfilled his threat. After sending the culprit away towash his tear-stained face and hands, and to procure a cleanhandkerchief, he bade him return to stand in the same corner till heshould arrive at a proper sense of the respect due to a parent. He hadlocked the door upon Ger when he went to lunch, and forbade any memberof the family, including his wife, to hold any sort of communicationwith the culprit. Parker the fox-terrier, however, did not obey thesquire, and remained in the study with Ger regardless of the fact thatthe servants' dinner bell had rung, which was also the signal for hisown. And to Parker Ger confided the whole story, and very puzzled andunhappy it made him, for he ran between Ger and the door snuffing andwhining till the squire came back and turned him out, when he remainedupon the mat outside uneasily barking at intervals. 

Mrs Ffolliot was almost beside herself with grief and consternation. It was such an inexplicable piece of obstinacy on Ger's part, and hewas not usually obstinate. 

Grantly and Mary, while relieved that they would still have theopportunity of wearing the dresses which had been the object of so muchthought, were really concerned about Ger; it seemed so senseless ofhim, "why couldn't he say why he wanted the beastly shilling and havedone with it?"

The squire himself was very seriously disturbed. He had stormed andraged, he had argued, he had even spoken very kindly and eloquently onthe subject of dishonesty, and the necessity there was for fullconfession before forgiveness could be obtained (this last appealsorely trying Ger's fortitude), but all to no avail. As the needlepoints ever to the north, so all the squire's exhortations ended withthe same question, to be met with the same answer, growing fainter intone as the hours wore on, but no less firm in substance. "I can'ttell you, father. "

Mr Ffolliot could no longer bear the little white-faced figure standingso silently in the corner of the room. He went forth and walked aboutthe garden. He really was a much tried man just then. Only last nightBuz, lying in wait for Reggie as he came to bed, had concealed himselfin an angle of the staircase, and when his cousin, as he thought, reached his hiding-place, pounced out upon him, blowing out his lightedcandle, and exclaiming in a sepulchral voice, "Out, out, damnedcandle!" (Buz was doing _Macbeth_ at school and had a genius for inept, and generally inaccurate quotation)--then flew up the dark staircasetwo steps at a time fully expecting hot pursuit, but none came. Deadsilence, followed by explosive bursts of smothered laughter from Reggieand Grantly who had followed the squire upstairs. It did not comfortMr Ffolliot at the present moment to reflect that Buz had had to writeout the whole scene in which the "germ, " as his father called it, ofhis misquotation occurred. At present his mind was full of Ger, andever and anon like the refrain of a song, there thrust into histhoughts a sentence he had been reading when the little boy hadinterrupted him that morning, "and towards such a full and completelife, a life of various yet select sensation, the most direct andeffective auxiliary must be, in a word, insight. " "Could it bepossible?" he asked himself, "that he was in some way lacking in thisquality?"

He turned somewhat hastily and went back into the house. Once more Gerheard the key turn in the lock, and his father came in, followed byFusby, bearing tea upon a tray. 

The front door banged, and Ger's heart positively hammered against hisribs, for no one but Reggie ever dared to bang the Manor House frontdoor. In another minute he had come in, and was standing on thehearth-rug beside Mr Ffolliot, bringing with him a savour of frostyfreshness into the warm, still room. 

"I got through sooner than I expected, " said Reggie, in his big cheeryvoice, "and caught the two twenty-five, so I walked out. I've been tothe stables to tell Heaven he needn't drive in for me after all. Otea! That's good, --where's Aunt Marjory? By the way, uncle, I owe youa shilling. A parcel came for me just as I was starting, and there wasa shilling to pay on it. I had no change and was in a tearing hurry, so I took one I saw lying on your desk--hope it was all right. "

There was a little soft thud in the far corner of the room, as Ger fellforward on his face, worn out by his long watch, and the rapture ofthis immense relief. 

When things grew clear again the room was full of light and he waslying in his mother's arms. Reggie was kneeling beside him trying toforce something in a spoon between his lips, something that smelt, soGer said, "like a shop in Woolwich" and tasted very queer and hot. 

"Lap it up, old chap, " whispered Reggie, and Ger wondered why he seemedto have lost his voice. "There now, that's all right. You'll be asfit as possible directly, " and Reggie scrambled up from his knees andbolted from the room. 

Ger sat up and looked at his father who was standing beside him. Thelamp shone full on the squire's face, and he, too, like Reggie, seemedto have got a cold in his eyes; but in spite of this peculiarity, therewas that in their expression which told Ger that everything was allright again, and that in this instance absolution without confessionhad been fully and freely granted. 

So Ger, from the safe shelter of his mother's arms, explained, "Icouldn't tell more'n one lie because of mother, you know, and I thoughthe wanted it for debts or something. Is those sangwidges anchovy orjam, do you think?"

CHAPTER IX

THE DANCE

Reggie Peel was not quite sure whether he liked Mary with her hair upor not. The putting up of the hair necessitated a readjustment of hiswhole conception of her, and . . . He was very conservative. 

With Mary the tom-boy child, with Mary the long-legged flapper and goodchum, he was affectionately at his ease. He had petted and tormentedher by turns, ever since as a boy of ten he had first seen her, a babya year old, in his Aunt Marjory's arms. Throughout her turbulent butvery cheerful childhood he had been her firm, if patronising, friend. Then as she developed into what Ger had described to Eloquent as "a bitof a gawk, " he became more than ever her friend and champion. "UncleHilary was so beastly down on Mary;" and Mary, though she did knockthings over and say quite extraordinarily stupid things on occasion, was "such a good old sort. "

He had never considered the question of her appearance till thisChristmas. He supposed she was good-looking--all the Ffolliots weregood-looking--but it really didn't matter much one way or another. Shewas part of Redmarley, and Redmarley as a whole counted for a good dealin Reginald Peel's life. He, too, had fallen under its mysteriouscharm. The manor-house mothered him, and the little Cotswold villagecradled him in kindly keeping arms. His own mother had died when hewas seven, his father married again a couple of years later; but, as MrPeel was in the Indian Forest Department, and Reggie's young stepmothera faithful and devoted wife, he saw little of either of them, except ontheir somewhat infrequent leaves when they paid so many visits and hadto see so many people, that he never really got to know either them orhis half-brother and sister. 

The love of Redmarley had grown with his growth till it became part ofhim; so far he had looked upon Mary as merely one of the many pleasantcircumstances that went to the making of Redmarley. Now, somehow, sheseemed to have detached herself from the general design and to havetaken the centre of the picture. He was not sure that he approved ofsuch prominence. 

She startled him that first evening when, with the others, she met himin the hall. She was unexpected, she was different, and he hated thatanything at Redmarley should be different. 

"Mary's grown up since yesterday, " Uz remarked ironically, "she's likeyou when you first managed to pull your moustache. "

Of course Reggie suitably chastised Uz for his cheek, but all the samethere was a difference. 

To be sure she still wore her skirts well above her ankles, butnowadays quite elderly ladies wore short skirts, so that in no wayaccentuated her youth; and after all was she so very young?

Mary would be eighteen on Valentine's day. 

Arrayed in Elizabethan doublet and hose for Lady Campion's dance, Reggie stood before his looking-glass and grinned at himselfsardonically. 

"Ugly devil, " he called himself, and then wondered how Mary would lookas Phyllida the ideal milkmaid. 

Ugly he might be, but his type was not unsuited to the period he hadchosen. A smallish head, wide across the brows, well-shaped andpoised, with straight, smooth hair that grew far back on the templesand would recede even further as the years went on; humorous brightgrey eyes, not large, but set wide apart under slightly markedeyebrows; a pugnacious, rather sharply-pointed nose with a ripple init. Reggie declared that his nose had really meant well, but changedits mind half way down. His mouth under the fair moustache was not inthe least beautiful, but it was trustworthy, neither weak nor sensual, and the chin was square and dogged. His face looked long with thepointed beard he had stuck on with such care, and above the wide whiteruff, might well have belonged to some gentleman adventurer whofollowed the fortunes of Raleigh or Drake. For in spite of itsinsignificant irregularity of feature there was alert resolve in itsexpression; a curious light-hearted fixity of purpose that wasarresting. 

Reggie had never been popular or distinguished at Wellington; yet thosemasters who knew most about boys always prophecied that "he would makehis mark. "

It was the same at the "Shop"; although he never rose above a corporal, there were those among the instructors who foretold great things of hisfuture. His pass-out place was a surprise to everyone, himself most ofall. He was reserved and did not make friends easily; he got on quitepleasantly with such men as he was thrown with; but he was not a_persona grata_ in his profession. He got through such a thunderinglot of work with such apparent ease. 

"A decent chap, but a terrible beggar to swat, " was the general verdictupon Reginald Peel. 

To Mrs Ffolliot and the children he showed a side of his character thatwas rigidly concealed from outsiders, the truth being that as a littleboy he had been very hungry for affection. The Redmarley folk lovedhim, and his very sincere affection for them was leavened by suchpassionate gratitude as they never dreamed of. 

His face grew very gentle as he gazed unseeingly into the glass. Hewas thinking of loyal little Ger. 

The clock on the mantelpiece struck the quarter. He blew out thecandles on his dressing-table and fled. 

Few gongs or dinner bells were sounded at the Manor House. Mr Ffolliotdisliked loud noises. As he ran down the wide shallow staircase intothe hall he saw that Mary was standing in the very centre of it, whileher father slowly revolved round her in appreciative criticism, quotingthe while:--

 "The ladies of St James's! They're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays for ever, Their red it never dies; But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her colour comes and goes; It trembles to a lily, -- It warms to a rose--"

This was strictly true, for Mary flushed and paled under her father'sgaze, standing there tall and slender in russet gown and white bodice, a milking stool under her arm. She wore "buckled shoon" and a whitesunbonnet, and was as fair a maid as a man could see betweenChristmases. 

She was surprised that her father should express his approval thusgraciously, but she was not uplifted. It was Mr Ffolliot's way. Hehad been detestable all day, and now he was going to be charming. Hiscompliments counted for little with Mary. Yesterday he had told hershe moved like a Flanders mare, and hurt her feelings very much. Herdress was made in the house and cost about half the price of her shoesand stockings, but Mary was not greatly concerned about her dress. Shewanted to go to the dance, to dance all night and see other people. 

Mrs Ffolliot, looking tired and pale, was sitting with Ger on an oaksettle by the hearth. Ger had been allowed to stay up till dinner timeto see his family dressed. The twins were sitting on the floor infront of the fire. Reggie paused on the staircase four steps up, andbehind him came Grantly in smock frock (borrowed from the oldestlabourer in Redmarley) and neat gaiters as the typical Georgian"farmer's boy" to match Mary's milk-maid. 

"Aren't you coming, Aunt Marjory?" Reggie asked. "I thought you wereto appear as one of the Ladies of St James's as a foil for Mary. "

Mrs Ffolliot shook her head. "I did think of it, but I've got a badheadache. Mary doesn't really need me as a chaperon, it's only a boyand girl dance; besides, you and Grantly can look after her. "

Mr Ffolliot went and sat down on the settle beside his wife. "You'remuch better at home, " he said tenderly, "you'd only get tired outsitting up so late. "

Grantly and Mary exchanged glances. They knew well enough that MrsFfolliot had decided at the last moment that she had better stay athome to look after the twins, who were certain, if left to their owndevices, to get into mischief during her absence. 

"That rumpus with Ger upset her awfully, " Mary whispered to Reggie asthey went into dinner, "and she won't risk anything fresh. It is ashame, for she'd have loved it, and she always looks so ripping. "

The three young people left directly after dinner. Grantly stopped thecarriage at an old Ephraim Teakle's cottage in the village, and theyall went in to let him have a look at them, for it was his smock, amarvel of elaborate stitching, that Grantly was wearing. 

Ephraim was eighty-seven years old and usually went to bed very early, but to-night he sat up a full hour to see "them childer, " as he calledthe Ffolliots. He was very deaf, but had the excellent sight of ageneration that had never learned to read. He stood up as the youngpeople came in, and joined in the chorus of "laws, " of "did you evers, "indulged in by his granddaughter and her family. 

"'Er wouldn' go far seekin' sarvice at mop, not Miss Mary wouldn't, " hesaid; "an' as for you, Master Grantly, you be the very moral of me whenI did work for Farmer Gayner over to Winson. Maids did look just likethat when I wer a young chap--pretty as pins, they was. "

But Mrs Rouse, his granddaughter, thought "Mr Peel did look far an'away the best, something out o' the common 'e were, like what a bodysees in the theatre over to Marlehouse . . . But there, I suppose 'tisdressin' up for the likes o' Master Grantly, an' I must saylaundry-maid, she done up grandfather's smock something beautiful. "

Abinghall, Sir George Campion's place, was just outside Marlehousetown. The house, large and square and comfortable, was built by thefirst baronet early in the nineteenth century. The Campions always didthings well, and "the boy and girl dance" had grown very considerablysince its first inception. Indeed, had Mrs Ffolliot realised whatproportions it had assumed since she received the friendly informalinvitation some five weeks before, she would have risked therecklessness of the twins, and made a point of chaperoning Mary herself. 

For the last three generations the Campions had been strong Liberals, therefore it was quite natural that with an election due in a fortnightthere should be bidden to the dance many who were not included in LadyCampion's rather exclusive visiting list. 

It is extraordinary how levelling an election is, especially atChristmas time, when peace and goodwill are acknowledged to be theprevailing and suitable sentiments. 

Even the large drawing-room at Abinghall wouldn't hold the dancers, soa floor and a huge tent had been imported from London, and joined tothe house by a covered way. A famous Viennese band played on a stageat one end, and around the sides were raised red baize seats for thosewho wanted to watch the dancing. Lady Campion received her guests atthe door of the large drawing-room; she caught Mary by the arm and heldher to whisper rapidly, "I don't know half the people, Mary, do helpme, and if you see anyone looking neglected, say a kind word, and getpartners, like a dear. I depended on your mother, and now she hasfailed me. "

Naturally the Liberal candidate was bidden to the dance, and Eloquentarrayed in the likeness of one of Cromwell's soldiers, a dress he hadworn in a pageant last summer, was standing exactly opposite theentrance to the tent, when at the second dance on the programmePhyllida and the Farmer's Boy came in, and with the greatest good-willin the world proceeded to Boston with all the latest and dreadfulvariations of that singularly unbeautiful dance. Grantly had importedthe very newest thing from Woolwich, Mary was an apt pupil, and the twoof them made a point always of dancing the first dance togetherwherever they were. They were singularly well-matched, and tonighttheir height, their quaint dress, their remarkable good looks andtheir, to Marlehouse eyes, extraordinary evolutions, made themimmediately conspicuous. 

Eloquent, stiff, solemn, and uncomfortable in his wide-leaved hat andflapping collar, watched the smock-frock and russet gown as they bobbedand glided, and twirled and crouched in the mazes of that mysteriousdance, and the moment they stopped, shouldered his way through theusual throng of pierrots, flower-girls, Juliets, Carmens, Sikhs, andChinamen to Lady Campion, who was standing in the entrance quite nearthe milk-maid who was already surrounded by would-be partners. 

"Lady Campion, will you present me to Miss Ffolliot, " Eloquent asked ina stand-and-deliver sort of voice, the result of the tremendous effortit had been to approach her at all. 

She looked rather surprised, but long apprenticeship to politics hadtaught her that you must bear all things for the sake of your party, soshe smiled graciously on the stiff, rosy-faced Cromwellian, and dulymade the presentation. 

"May I, " Eloquent asked, with quite awful solemnity, "have the pleasureof a dance?"

"I've got twelve or fourteen and an extra, but I can't promise to danceany one of them if other people are sitting out, because I've promisedLady Campion to help see to people. I'll give you one if you'llpromise to dance it with someone else--if necessary----"

Eloquent looked blue. "Isn't that rather hard?" he asked meekly. 

"Everyone's in the same box, " Mary said shortly, "and you, of allpeople, ought simply to dance till your feet drop off. Let me see yourcard--What? no dances at all down? Oh, that's absurd--come with me. "And before poor Eloquent could protest he found himself being whiskedfrom one young lady to another, and his card was full all excepttwelve, fourteen, and the second extra--which he rigidly reserved. 

"There, " said Mary, smiling upon him graciously, "that's well over. I've been most careful; you are dancing with just about an equal numberof Liberal and Tory young ladies, and you ought to take at least fivemamas into supper; don't forget; look pleased and eager, and be carefulwhat you say to the pretty girl in pink, she's a niece of our presentmember. "

Here a partner claimed Mary, and Eloquent, feeling much as the WhiteKing must have felt when Alice lifted him from the hearth to the table(he certainly felt dusted), went to seek one Miss Jessie Bond whosename figured opposite the number on his programme that was justdisplayed on the bandstand. 

He really worked hard. He danced carefully and laboriously--he had hadlessons during his last year in London--and entirely without anypleasure. So far, he had fulfilled Mary's instructions to the veryletter, except in the matter of looking "pleased and eager. " Hisround, fresh-coloured face maintained its habitual expression of ratherprim gravity. The Liberal young ladies, while gratified that he shouldhave danced with them, thought him distinctly dull, the Tory youngladies declared him an insufferable oaf; but Phyllida the tallmilk-maid, when she came across him in the dance, nodded and smiled athim in kindly approval. He noticed that she danced several times withthe plain young man in the Elizabethan ruff, and that they seemed verygood friends. 

At last number twelve showed on the bandstand. Eloquent was not veryclear as to whether Mary had given him this dance or not, but he wentto her to claim it. It came just before the supper dances. 

"Yes, this is our dance, " said Mary, "shall we one-step for a change?"

"It seems to me, " said Eloquent mournfully, "that one does nothing butchange all the time. Now this is a waltz, how can you one-step to awaltz?"

"Poor man, " Mary remarked pityingly. "It _is_ muddling if you're notused to it. Let us waltz then, that will be a change. "

Once round the room they went, and Eloquent felt that never before hadhe realised the true delight of dancing. He was very careful, veryaccurate, and his partner set herself to imitate exactly his archaicstyle of dancing, so that they were a model of deportment to the wholeroom. But it was only for a brief space that this poetry of motion wasvouchsafed to him. 

Mary stopped. 

"Do you see, " she asked, "that old lady near the band. She has beensitting there quite alone all the evening and she must be dying forsomething to eat. Don't you think you'd better take her to have somerefreshment?"

"No, " said Eloquent decidedly, "not just now. I've been dancing withall sorts of people with whom I didn't in the least desire to dancesolely because you said I ought, and now I'm dancing with you and I'mnot going to give it up. May we go on again?"

Again they waltzed solemnly round. Again Eloquent felt the thrill thatalways accompanies a perfect achievement. Again Mary stopped. 

"That old lady is really very much on my conscience, " she said; "if youwon't take her in to have some supper, I must get Reggie, he'd do it. "

"But why now?" Eloquent pleaded. "If, as you say, she has sat thereall night, a few minutes more or less can make no difference--whyshould we spoil our dance by worrying about her? Do you know her?"

"I don't think I know her, " Mary said vaguely, "but I have an idea shehas something to do with coal. She's probably one of yourconstituents, and I think it's rather unkind of you to be souninterested; besides, what does it matter whether one knows her ornot, she's here to enjoy herself, it's our business to see that shedoes it. . . . "

"Why our business?" In a flash Eloquent saw he had made a mistake. Mary looked genuinely surprised this time. 

"Why, don't you think in any sort of gathering it's everybody'sbusiness . . . If you see anyone lonely . . . Left out . . . Onetries. . . . "

"I've been lonely and left out at dozens of parties in London, where Ididn't know a soul, and I never discovered that anyone was in the leastconcerned about me. At all events no one ever tried to ameliorate mylot. "

"But you're a man, you know. . . . "

"A man can feel just as out of it as a woman. It's worse for him infact, for it's nobody's business to look after him. "

Eloquent spoke bitterly. 

"But surely since you, yourself, have suffered, you ought to be themore sympathetic with that stout lady----"

"I will go, since you wish it; but I don't know her and she may thinkit impertinent. . . . "

"I'll come too, " said Mary. "_I_ don't know her but I can introduceyou . . . We'll both go. "

The lady in question was stout and rubicund, with smooth, tightly-braided brown hair, worn very flat and close to the head, andbright observant black eyes. She wore a high black satin dress, andhad apparently been poured into it, so tight was it, so absolutelymoulded to her form. A double gold chain was arranged over her amplebosom, and many bracelets decorated her fat wrists. She was quitealone on the raised red seat. For the last two hours Mary had noticedher sitting there, and that no one, apparently, ever spoke to, or cameto sit by her. 

There she remained placidly watching the dancers, her plump unglovedhands folded in her lap. She appeared rather cold for she wore nowrap, and what with draughts and the breeze created by the dancers, thetent was a chilly place to sit in. 

Mary mounted the red baize step and sat down beside the solitary one. 

"Don't you think it's time you had something to eat?" she shouted . . . They were _so_ near the band, which at that moment was braying thewaltz song from the "Quaker Girl. " The old lady beamed, but shook herhead:

"I'm very well where I am, my dear, I can see nicely and I'm glad Icame. "

"But you can come back, " Mary persisted. "This gentleman"--indicatingEloquent--"will take you to have some supper, and then he'll bring youback again just here if you like. . . . May I introduce Mr Gallup?Mrs . . . I fear I don't know your name. . . . "

Eloquent stood below bowing stiffly, and offered his arm. The ladystood up, chuckled, winked cheerfully at Mary, and stepped down on tothe floor. 

"Well, since you _are_ so obliging, " she said, and took the profferedarm. "You don't know me, Mr Gallup, " she continued, "but you will dobefore the election's over. Don't look so down in the mouth, I shan'tkeep you long, just a snack's all I want, and to stamp my feet a bit, which they're uncommonly cold, and then you can go back to the sweetpretty thing that fetched you to do the civil--oh, I saw it all! what apity she's the other side, isn't it? what a canvasser she'd make withthat smile . . . Well, well, there's many a pretty Tory lady married aRadical before this _and_ changed her politics, so don't you loseheart . . . Soup, yes, I'd fancy some soup . . . Well, what a sight tobe sure . . . And how do you feel things are going in theconstituency? . . . "

But Eloquent had no need to answer. His charge kept up a continualflow of conversation, only punctuated by mouthfuls of food. When atlast he took her back to the seat near the band, Mary had gone tosupper and was nowhere to be seen. 

"I'm much obliged to you, Mr Gallup, " said the lady, "though youwouldn't have done it if you hadn't been forced. Now let an old womangive you a bit of advice. . . . _Look_ willin' whether you are or not. "

Poor Eloquent felt very much as though she had boxed his ears. A fewminutes later he saw that the Elizabethan gentleman and Mary wereseated on either side of his recent partner and were apparently wellamused. 

How did they do it?

And presently when Reggie Peel and Mary passed him in the Boston heheard Peel say, "Quite the most amusing person here to-night. I shallsit out the next two dances with her, I'm tired. "

"I was tired too, that's why . . . " they went out of earshot, and henever caught the end of the sentence. 

Eloquent danced no more with Mary, nor did he sit out at all with theindomitable old lady, who, bright-eyed and vigilant, still watched fromher post near the band. The end was really near, and he stood againstthe wall gloomily regarding Mary as she flew about in the arms--veryclosely in the arms as ruled by the new dancing--of a young barrister. He was staying with the Campions and had, all the previous week, beenhelping heartily in the Liberal cause. He had come down from Londonespecially to do so, but during Christmas week there was a truce onboth sides, and he remained to enjoy himself. 

Just then Eloquent hated him. He hated all these people who seemed tofind it so easy to be amusing and amused. Yet he stayed till the verylast dance watching Phyllida, the milkmaid, with intense disapproval, as, her sun-bonnet hanging round her neck, she tore through the PostHorn Gallop with that detestable barrister. He decided that themanners of the upper classes, if easy and pleasant, were certainly muchtoo free. 

It was a fine clear night and he walked to his rooms in Marlehouse. Hefelt that he had not been a social success. He was much more at homeon the platform than in the ball-room, yet he was shrewd enough to seethat his lack of adaptability stood in his way politically. 

How could he learn these things?

And as if in answer to his question, there suddenly sounded in his earsthe fat chuckling voice of the black satin lady:

"Well, well, there's many a pretty Tory lady married a Radical beforethis, _and_ changed her politics, so don't you lose heart. "

CHAPTER X

"THE GANPIES"

"Father's mother, " living alone far away in the Forest of Dean, rarelycame to Redmarley, and the children never went to visit her. A frailold lady to whom one was never presented save tidily clad and freshfrom the hands of nurse for a few moments, with injunctions stillringing in one's ears as to the necessity for a quiet and decorousdemeanour. 

This was grandmother, a shadow rather than a reality. 

The Ganpies were something very different. The name, an abbreviationfor grandparents, was invented by Grantly when he was two years old, and long usage had turned it into a term of endearment. People whoknew them well could never think of General and Mrs Grantly apart, eachwas the complement of the other; and for the Ffolliot children theyrepresented a dual fount of fun and laughter, understanding andaffection. They were the medium through which one beheld thenever-ending pageant unrolled before the entranc�d eyes of such happychildren as happened to "belong" gloriously to one "commanding the R. A. Woolwich. " And intercourse with the Ganpies was largely leavened byconcrete joys in the shape of presents, pantomimes, tips, and allthings dear to the heart of youth all the world over. 

Such were the Ganpies. Nothing shadowy about them. They were aglorious reality; beloved, familiar, frequent. 

They were still comparatively young people when their daughter married, and Mrs Grantly was a grandmother at forty-one. They would have likeda large family themselves, but seeing that Providence had only seen fitto bestow on them one child, they looked upon the six grandchildren asan attempt to make amends. 

Mrs Grantly's one quarrel with Marjory Ffolliot was on the score ofwhat she called her "niggardliness and greed, " in refusing to hand overentirely one of the six to their grandparents. 

It is true that the large house on the edge of Woolwich Common wasseldom without one or two of the Ffolliot children. Mr Ffolliot wasmost accommodating, and was more then ready to accept the General'sconstant invitations to his offspring; but in spite of theseconcessions Mrs Grantly was never wholly satisfied, and it wassomething of a grievance with her that Marjory was so firm in herrefusal to "give away" any one of the six. 

Casual observers would have said that Mrs Grantly was by far thestronger character of the two, but people who knew General Grantlywell, realised that his daughter had her full share of his quietstrength and determination. Mrs Ffolliot, like her father, waseasy-going, gentle, and tolerant; it was only when you came "upagainst" either of them that you realised the solid rock beneath thesoft exterior. 

Now there was nothing hidden about Mrs Grantly. She appeared exactlywhat she was. Everything about her was definite and decided, thoughshe was various and unexpected as our British weather. She was anextraordinary mixture of whimsicality and common sense, of heroiccourage and craven timidity, of violence and tenderness, ofimpulsiveness and caution. In very truth a delightful bundle ofparadox. Quick-witted and impatient, she had yet infinite tolerationfor the simpleton, and could on occasion suffer fools with a gladnessquite unshared by her much gentler daughter or her husband. But thesnob, the sycophant, and, above all, the humbug met with short shriftat her hands, and the insincere person hated her heartily. She spokeher mind with the utmost freedom on every possible occasion, and as shehad plenty of brains and considerable shrewdness her remarks weregenerally illuminating. 

The villagers at Redmarley adored her, for, from her very first visitshe made her presence felt. 

It had long been the custom at Redmarley for the ladies in the villageand neighbourhood to meet once a week during the earlier winter monthsto make garments for presentation to the poor at Christmas, and thefirst meeting since the Manor House possessed a mistress took placethere under Mrs Ffolliot's somewhat timid presidency. It coincidedwith Mrs Grantly's first visit since her daughter's marriage, and sheexpressed her willingness to help. 

At Mrs Ffolliot's suggestion it had already been arranged that a blouseinstead of a flannel petticoat should this year be given to the youngerwomen. The other ladies had fallen in graciously with the idea (theywere inclined to enthuse over the "sweet young bride"), and accordingto custom one Miss Tibbits, a spinster of large leisure and masterfulways, had undertaken to procure the necessary material. For yearsdonors and recipients alike had meekly suffered her domination. Shechose the material, settled what garments should be made and in whatstyle, and who should receive them when made. 

On the afternoon in question Miss Tibbits duly descended from herbrougham, bearing a parcel containing the material for the blouseswhich Mrs Grantly volunteered to cut out. Miss Tibbits undid theparcel and displayed the contents to the nine ladies assembled roundthe dining-room table. 

Mrs Grantly was seen to regard it with marked disapproval, and hers wasan expressive countenance. 

"May I ask, " she began in the honeyed, "society" tone that in her ownfamily was recognised as the sure precursor of battle, "why the poorshould be dressed in dusters?"

The eight ladies concentrated their gaze upon the roll of materialwhich certainly did bear a strong resemblance to the bundles offered bydrapers at sale times as "strong, useful, and much reduced. "

"It is the usual thing, " Miss Tibbits replied shortly, "we have toconsider utility, not ornament. "

Mrs Grantly stretched across the table, swiftly seized the material, gathered it up under her chin, and with a dramatic gesture stood up sothat it fell draped about her. 

"Look at me!" she exclaimed. "If I had to wear clothes made of stufflike this, I should go straight to the Devil!"

And at that very moment, just as she proclaimed in a loud voice thedownward path she would tread if clad in the material Miss Tibbits hadselected, the door was opened, and Mr Molyneux was announced. 

The ladies gasped (except Marjory Ffolliot, who had dissolved intohelpless laughter at the sight of her large and portly parent draped inyards of double-width red and brown check), but Mrs Grantly was no whitabashed. 

"Look at me, Mr Molyneux, " she cried. "Can you conceive anyself-respecting young woman ever taking any pleasure in a garment madeof _this_?"

"A garment, " the vicar repeated in wonderment, "is it for a garment?"

"Yes, and not an undergarment either, " Mrs Grantly retorted. "Now youare here, you shall tell us plainly . . . Are the things we are to makesupposed to give any pleasure to the poor creatures or not. "

"I should say so most assuredly, " the vicar replied, his eyes twinklingwith fun. "What other purpose could you have?"

Miss Tibbits cleared her throat. "I have always understood, " she saidprimly, "that the sewing club was instituted to make useful garmentsfor deserving persons, who were, perhaps, so much occupied by familycares that they had little time available for needle-work. "

"That is, " said the vicar solemnly, "the laudable object of the sewingclub. "

"But I don't suppose, " Mrs Grantly remarked briskly, still standingdraped in the obnoxious material, "that there is any bye-law to theeffect that the garments should be of an odious and humiliatingdescription. "

"Of course not, " the ladies chorussed, smiling. They were beginning, all but Miss Tibbits, who was furious, to enjoy Mrs Grantly. 

"Then let us, " Mrs Grantly's voice suddenly became soft and seductive, and she flung the folds of material from her, "give them somethingpretty. They don't have much, poor things, and it's just as easy tomake them pretty as ugly. Ladies, I've been to a good many sewingmeetings in my life, and I always fight for the same thing, a presentshould be just a little bit different--don't you think--not hard andhideous and ordinary. . . . "

"That material is bought and paid for, " Miss Tibbits interrupted, "itmust be used. "

"It shall be used, " cried Mrs Grantly, "I'll buy it, and I'll make itinto dusters for which purpose it was obviously intended, and everywoman in Redmarley shall have two for Christmas as an extra. A goodstrong duster never comes amiss. "

"Perhaps, " Miss Tibbits said coldly, "you will undertake to procure thematerial. "

"Certainly, " said Mrs Grantly, "but I'll buy it in blouse lengths, andevery one different. Why should a whole village wear the same thing asthough it was a reformatory?"

It appeared that the vicar had called with his list of the "deservingpoor. " In five minutes Mrs Grantly had detached each person, and madea note of her age and circumstances. She had only been in the villagea week, and she already knew every soul in it. 

She whirled off the vicar in a gale of enthusiasm, nobody else got aword in edgewise. Finally she departed with him into the hall, and sawhim out at the front door, and her last whispered words werecharacteristic:

"You've let that Tibbits woman bully you for twenty years, now I'mgoing to bully you for a bit instead, and between us we'll give thosepoor dears a bit of cheer this Christmas. "

From that moment the vicar was Mrs Grantly's slave. 

Nobody knew how the affair leaked out, but the whole thing was known inthe village before a week had passed, with the result that fifteenwomen visited the vicar, one after the other, and after muchcircumlocution intimated that "If so be as 'e would be so kind, they'dbe glad if 'e'd 'int to the ladies as they 'adn't nearly wore out lastChristmas petticoat, and, if it were true wot they'd 'eard as they wastalkin' of givin' summat different, might Mrs Mustoe, Gegg, Uzzel, orRadway, etc. , have anything they did choose to make as warn't apetticoat. "

There was a slump in petticoats. 

In despair he went to Mrs Grantly, and she undertook to see the matterthrough. 

"It's absurd, " Mrs Grantly remarked to her daughter, "in a little placelike this where one knows all the people, and exactly what they'relike, to make things all the same size. Fancy me trying to get into ablouse that would fit that skinny Miss Tibbits! A little common senseis what's needed in this sewing society, and, Marjory, my dear, I'mgoing to do my best to supply it. "

 * * * * * *

Throughout the years that followed, Mrs Grantly continued to supplycommon sense to the inhabitants of Redmarley. She found places foryoung servants, both in her own household and those of her friends, till gradually there were many links between the village and "'Orse andField and Garrison. "

More than one Redmarley damsel married a gunner "on the strength. " Hadthe intending bridegroom been anything else, Mrs Grantly would herselfhave forbidden the banns!

CHAPTER XI

CHRISTMAS AT REDMARLEY

That year Christmas Day fell on a Sunday, and on the Saturday afternoonEloquent drove out from Marlehouse to Redmarley to spend the week-endwith his aunt. She was out when he arrived, and he went straight tothe vicarage, asked for the vicar, and was shown into the study, whereMr Molyneaux sat smoking by the fire in a deep-seated high-backed chair. 

Even as he entered the room, Eloquent was conscious of the pleasurablethrill that things beautiful and harmonious never failed to evoke. Thewindows faced west; the red sun, just sinking behind Redmarley Woods, shone in on and was reflected from walls covered from floor to ceilingwith books; books bound for the most part in mellow brown and yellowcalf, that seemed to give forth an amber light as from sun-warmedturning beeches. 

The vicar had discarded his clerical coat, and wore a shabby grey-greenNorfolk jacket frayed at the cuffs; nevertheless, Eloquent sincerelyadmired him as he rose to give courteous greeting to his guest. 

The old vicar was stout and bald, and the grey hair that fringed hishead was decidedly rumpled. A long face, with high, narrow foreheadand pointed beard, cheeks heavy and creased, straight nose, withstrongly marked, sensitive nostrils. The mouth, full-lipped andshutting firmly under the grey moustache, cut straight across the upperlip; the eyes, rather prominent blue eyes, had once been bold andmerry, and were still keen. A fine old face, deeply lined andsorrowful, bearing upon it the impress of great possibilities that hadremained--possibilities. He was somehow in keeping with his room, thiswarm, untidy, comfortable room that smelt of tobacco and old leather, where there was such a curious jumble of things artistic and sporting:a few pictures and bas-reliefs, nearly all of the pre-RenaissanceItalian School, a big stuffed trout in a glass case, a fox's brush andmask, an old faded cricket cap; and over the carved mantelshelf, theportrait of a Georgian beauty in powder and patches, whose oval face, heavy-lidded eyes, and straight features were not unlike the vicar'sown. 

There was in the vicar's manner the welcoming quality that puts theshyest person at his ease. He was secretly much surprised that youngGallup should call upon him; but no hint of this appeared in hismanner, and Eloquent found no difficulty in stating the object of hisvisit with business-like directness. 

"I came to ask you, " he remarked with his usual stiff solemnity, "ifyou would care for me to read the lessons at morning serviceto-morrow. . . . I do not read badly. . . . I have studied elocution. "

The humorous lines round the old vicar's eyes deepened, but he answeredwith equal gravity, "That is very good of you, and I gratefully acceptyour kind offer. General Grantly has promised to read the firstlesson, but I shall be glad if you will read the second. Will you doboth at the afternoon service? There's no evensong on Christmas Day. "

This was rather more than Eloquent had bargained for, but . . . Shemight come to the afternoon service as well. "I shall be most happy, "he said meekly, "to do anything I can to assist. "

The vicar rang for tea, but Eloquent arose hastily, saying he hadpromised to have tea with his aunt. He had no desire to prolong theinterview with this urbane old gentleman now that its object wasachieved. Mr Molyneux saw him to the front door and watched him for amoment as he bustled down the drive. "So that, " he said to himself, ashe went back to the warm study, "is our future member . . . Foreveryone says he will get in. Why does he want to read the lessons, Iwonder? It will certainly do him no good with his dissentingconstituents, and it is they who will get him in--what can his objectbe?"

The Ffolliot family formed quite a procession as they marched up theaisle on Christmas morning. General and Mrs Grantly were there;Reggie, Mr and Mrs Ffolliot, and the six young Ffolliots. Theyoverflowed into the seat behind, and the Kitten, whom nothing ever awedor subdued, was heard to remark that since she couldn't sit withWillets, the keeper, who always had "such instasting things in hispottets, " she'd sit "between the Ganpies. " Reggie, Mary, and her fourbrothers filled the second seat: Mary sat at the far end, and Gernearest the aisle, that he might gaze entrancedly at his grandfatherwhile he read the lesson. Reggie came next to Ger, and Grantlyseparated Uz and Buz, so that Eloquent only caught an occasionalglimpse of Mary's extremely flat back between the heads of otherworshippers. 

"Oh come, all ye faithful!" the choir sang lustily as it started inprocession round the church, and the faithful responded vigorously. The Kitten pranced on her hassock, and always started the new versebefore everyone else in the clearest of pure trebles. The Ffolliotboys shouted, and for once Mr Ffolliot forebore to frown on them. Nowoman with a houseful of children can remain quite unmoved on Christmasmorning during that singularly jubilant invocation, and Mrs Grantly andMargery Ffolliot ceased to sing, for their eyes were full of tears. MrFfolliot fixed his monocle more firmly, and bent forward to look at theKitten, and to catch her little pipe above the shouts of her brothersbehind. 

The Kitten sang words of her own composition during the Psalms, hergrandparents both singing loudly themselves in their efforts not tohear her, for the Kitten's improvisations were enough to upset thegravity of a bench of bishops. 

The General read the first lesson in a brisk and business-likemonotone, and when he had finished his grandsons applauded noiselesslyunder the book-board. 

The Kitten was very much to the fore during "Praise him and magnify himfor ever, " and then came the second lesson. 

Eloquent walked up the aisle and took his stand at the lectern with theutmost unconcern. Shy and awkward he might be in ordinary socialintercourse, but whenever it was a matter of standing up before hisfellow-creatures and haranguing them, his self-consciousness droppedfrom him like a discarded garment, and he instantly acquired a mentalpoise and serene self-confidence wholly lacking at other times. 

The second lesson on Christmas morning contains the plainest possiblestatement of a few great facts, and Eloquent proclaimed them in asingularly melodious voice with just exactly the emphatic simplicitythey demanded. 

The perfect sincerity of great literature is always impressive. Allover the church heads were turned in the direction of the lectern, andwhen the short lesson ended the Kitten demanded in a quite audiblevoice, "Why did he stop so soon for?"

Eloquent looked at Mary as he passed down the aisle to his place, half-hoping she might meet his glance with the frank confident smile hefound so disturbing and delicious. But her eyes were bent upon herprayer-book and she appeared quite unconscious that someone had justbeen reading the Bible exceptionally well. 

He felt chilled and disappointed. "It is quite possible, " he reflectedbitterly, "that in this out-of-the-way old church they don't know goodreading from bad. "

There is no sermon at Redmarley on Christmas morning, and people whohave been at the early service get out soon after twelve o'clock. Eloquent waited in the churchyard and watched the young Ffolliots andReggie Peel come out. Mary saw him and nodded cheerfully, but she didnot, as he felt might have been expected, come up to him and exclaim, "How beautifully you read!"

No one did. 

Such of the congregation as had already been to early service hurriedhome to look after the dinner; or, as in the case of the youngFfolliots, to deposit prayer-books and take violent exercise untillunch time. 

In the afternoon Eloquent read the lessons to a very meagre assembly. The Manor House seats were empty and his enthusiastic desire to be ofassistance to the vicar cooled considerably. His aunt during dinnerannounced with the utmost frankness that wild horses would not drag herto church "of an afternoon"; she "liked her forty winks peaceable. "She, however, further informed him that "he read very nice"; but as shehad said the same thing of Grantly Ffolliot's performance, her nephewcould not feel uplifted by her praise. 

The vicar poured a little balm on his wounded spirit by hastening afterhim as he walked slowly and gloomily homewards, to thank him with warmurbanity for his kind help, but he made no remark upon his reading. They parted at the vicarage gate, and Eloquent pursued his way alone. 

He felt restless and curiously disappointed. Everything was exactly asit had been before, and somehow he had expected it to be different. 

So far he had encountered no special desire on the part of the "upperclasses" to cultivate him. He was quite shrewd enough to perceive thatthose he had met--the Campions at Marlehouse and the few who hadoffered him hospitality in London--had done so purely on politicalgrounds. 

Only one, so far, had shown any kindness to him, the shy, wistfullyself-conscious young man, hungry for sympathy and comprehension. Onlyone, Mary Ffolliot, had seemed to recognise in him other possibilitiesthan those of party: but had she?

Anyway, here was he in the same village with her not a mile away, andyet a gulf stretched between them apparently impassable as a river inflood to a boatless man who could not swim. 

That evening Miss Gallup decided that her nephew did not possess muchgeneral conversation. 

CHAPTER XII

MISS ELSMARIA BUTTERMISH

The twins were not in the least alike, either in disposition orappearance, but they were inseparable. They were known to their largecircle of friends and still more numerous censors as "Uz" and "Buz, "but their real names were Lionel and Hilary, a fact they rigidlysuppressed at all times. 

Buz was tall for his age, slender and fair, with regular, Grantlyfeatures, and eyes like his mother's. Uz was short and chubby, tirelessly mischievous, and of an optimistic cheerfulness that neithermisfortune nor misunderstanding could diminish. Buz was the readingFfolliot, imaginative, and easily swayed by what he read; and his wasthe fertile brain that created and suggested all manner of wrong-doingto his twin. Just then the mania of both was for impersonation. "Todress up, " and if possible to mislead their fellow-creatures as totheir identity, was their chief aim in life. Here, the "prettiness"that in his proper person Buz deplored and abhorred came in useful. Hemade a charming girl, his histrionic power was considerable, and onboth accounts he was much in demand at school theatricals; moreover, his voice had not yet broken, and when he desired to do so he couldspeak with lady-like softness and precision. 

"Who's the chap that read the second lesson?" he asked Ger, who proudlywalked between the twins on their way from church. Ger adored thetwins. 

"He's the muddy young man who came last Sunday, " Ger answered promptly. Proud to be able to afford information, he continued, "His aunt's ournice Miss Gallup, and he's going to get in at the Election, nurse says. "

"Oh, is he?" cried Uz, whose political views were the result of strongconviction unbiassed by reflection. "We'll see about that. "

"I feel, " Buz murmured dreamily, "that it is my duty to find out thatyoung man's views on Female Suffrage. The women in this districtappear to me sadly indifferent as to this important question. It'sdoubtful if any of them will tackle him. Now I'm well up in it justnow, owing to that rotten debate last term. "

"When that long-winded woman jawed for nearly an hour, d'you mean?"asked Uz "Exactly. I never dreamt she would come in useful, but younever know. "

"Shall you call?" Uz gurgled delightedly. "Where'll you get theclothes? Mary's would be too big, besides everyone about here knows'em, they're so old, and she'd never lend you anything decent. '

"I shouldn't ask her if I really wanted them; but in this instance Iscorn the mouldy garments of Sister Mary. "

"Whose'll you get?" Uz asked curiously. 

"My son, " Buz rejoined, "I shall be like the king's daughter in thePsalms. Never you fear for my appearance. As our dear French prosebook would remark: 'The grandmother of the young man so attractive hasa maid French, of the heart excellent, and of the habits most chic. '"

"You mean Ad�le will lend them?"

"You bet. She says I speak her tongue to the marvel, is it not?"

On Boxing-Day Eloquent called upon as many of the vote-possessinginhabitants of Redmarley as could be got in before his aunt's earlydinner. He found but few at home, for on that morning there is alwaysa meet in the market-place at Marlehouse, and the male portion of theinhabitants is sporting both by inclination and tradition. He foundthe wives, however, and on the whole they were gracious to him. Hisvisit pleased, for the then member, Mr Brooke, had not been nearRedmarley for years, and left the whole constituency to his agent, whowas nearly as slack as the member for Marlehouse himself. 

Eloquent, who had by no means made up his mind as to Female Suffrage, was much relieved that not a single woman in Redmarley had so much asbreathed its name. His inclinations led him to follow where Mr Asquithled, but his long training in the doctrines of expediency gave himpause. He decided that he could not yet range himself alongside of theanti-suffrage party. As his old father was wont to remark cautiously, "You must see where you are first, " and as yet Eloquent had not clearlydiscovered his whereabouts. 

He ate his cold turkey with an excellent appetite, feeling that he hadspent a useful if arduous morning. The give-and-take of ordinaryconversation was always a difficult matter for Eloquent, but on thisoccasion he related his experiences to his aunt, and was quitetalkative; so that, to a certain extent, she revised her unfavourableimpression as to his conversational powers, and became more hopeful forhis success in the Election. His gloom and taciturnity on ChristmasDay had filled her with forebodings. 

In the afternoon he devoted himself to his correspondence. His auntgave up the parlour to him and went out to see her friends, while hesat in stately solitude at a table covered with papers plainlyparliamentary in kind. 

For about an hour he worked on undisturbed. Presently he heard thefront gate creak, and looking up beheld a bicycle, a lady's bicycle, propped against the garden wall. Someone rapped loudly at the frontdoor, and whoever it was had hard knuckles, for there was no knocker. 

Presently Em'ly-Alice, Miss Gallup's little maid, appeared holding acard between her finger and thumb, and announced--"A young lady come tosee you, please, sir. "

For one mad moment Eloquent thought it might perhaps be Mary with somemessage for his aunt, but the card disillusioned him. It was a veryshiny card, and on it was written in ink in round, very distinctwriting--

"Miss Elsmaria Buttermish. "

He had barely time to take this in before Miss Buttermish herselfappeared. 

"I'm glad to have found you at home, Mr Gallup, " she announced easily;"I come on behalf of our beloved leaders to obtain a clear statement ofyour views as to 'Votes for Women, ' for on those views a great dealdepends. Kindly state them as clearly and concisely as you can. "

Miss Buttermish drew up a chair to the table, sat down and produced anote-book and pencil; while Eloquent, speechless with astonishment anddismay, stood on the other side of it holding the shiny visiting-cardin his hand. 

Miss Buttermish tapped with her pencil on the table and regarded himenquiringly. 

Apparently quite young, she was also distinctly pleasing to the eye. She wore an exceedingly well cut, heavily braided black coat and skirt, the latter of the tightest and skimpiest type of a skimpy period. Herhat was of the extinguisher order, entirely concealing her hair, exceptthat just in the front a few soft curls were vaguely visible upon herforehead. A very handsome elderly-looking black fox stole threw up thewhiteness of her rounded chin in strong relief, and her eyes lookedlarge and mysterious through the meshes of her most becoming veil. Eloquent was conscious of a certain familiarity in her appearance. Hewas certain that he had seen her before somewhere, and couldn't recalleither time or place. 

"I'm waiting, Mr Gallup, " she remarked pleasantly. "You must have madeup your mind one way or other upon this important question, and it willsave both my time and your own if you state your views--may I say, asbriefly as possible. "

Eloquent gasped . . . "I fear, " he said, "that I have by no means madeup my mind with any sort of finality--it is such a largequestion. . . . I have not yet had time to go into it as thoroughly asI could wish. . . . There is so much to be said on both sides. "

"There, " Miss Buttermish interrupted, "you are mistaken; there is_nothing_ to be said for the '_antis_. ' Their arguments arepositively . . . Footling. "

"I cannot, " Eloquent said stiffly, "agree with you. "

"Sit down, Mr Gallup, " Miss Buttermish said kindly, at the same timegetting up and seating herself afresh on a corner of the sofa. "We'vegot to thresh this matter out, and you've got to make up your mindwhether you are for or against us. You are young, and I think that youhardly realise the forces that will be arrayed against _you_ if youjoin hands with Mr Asquith on this question. "

Miss Buttermish sat up very stiff and straight on the end of the sofa, and Eloquent, still standing with the table between them, felt ratherlike a naughty boy in the presence of an accusing governess. Theallusion to his youth rankled. He did not sit down, but stood where hewas, staring darkly at his guest. After a very perceptible pause hesaid:

"It is impossible for me to give you a definite opinion . . . "

"It's not an _opinion_ I want, " Miss Buttermish interrupted scornfully, "it's a definite guarantee. Otherwise, young man, you may make up yourmind to incessant interruption and . . . To various other annoyanceswhich I need not enumerate. We don't care a bent pin whether you are aLiberal or a Tory or a red-hot Socialist, so long as you are sound onthe Suffrage question. If you are in favour of 'Votes for Women, ' thenwe'll help you; if not . . . I advise you to put up your shutters. "

Eloquent flushed angrily and, strangely enough, so did Miss Buttermishat the same moment. In fact, no sooner had she spoken the lastsentence than she looked extremely hot and uncomfortable. 

"I see no use, " he said coldly, "in prolonging this interview. Icannot give you the guarantee you wish for. It is not my custom tomake up my mind upon any question of political importance withoutconsiderable research and much thought. Intimidation would never turnme from my course if, after such investigation, I should decide againstyour cause. Nor would any annoyance your party may inflict upon menow, affect my support of your cause should I, ultimately, come tobelieve in its justice. "

Miss Buttermish rose. "Mr Gallup, " she said solemnly, "there is atpresent a very wide-spread discontent among us. Till we get the votewe shall manifest that discontent, and I warn you that the lives ofmembers of Parliament and candidates who are not avowedly on our sidewill be made"--here Miss Buttermish swallowed hastily . . . "mostunpleasant. Those that are not for us are against us, and . . . We arevery much up against them. I am sorry we should part in anger . . . "

"Pardon me, " Eloquent interrupted, "there is no anger on my side. Irespect your opinions even though as yet I may not wholly share them. "

Miss Buttermish shook her head. "I'm really sorry for you, " shemurmured; "you are young, and you little know what you are lettingyourself in for. "

Eloquent opened the parlour door for her with stiff politeness, and shepassed out with bent head and shoulders that trembled under the heavyfur. Surely this militant young person was not going to cry!

He followed her in some anxiety down to the garden gate, held it openfor her to pass through, which she did in absolute silence, and hewaited to watch her mount her bicycle. 

This she did in a very curious fashion. She started to run with it, leapt lightly on one pedal, and then, to Eloquent's amazement, essayedto throw her other leg over like a boy. 

The lady's skirt was tight, the Redmarley roads were extremely muddy, the unexpected jerk caused the bicycle to skid, and lady and bicyclecame down sideways with considerable violence. 

"Damn!" exclaimed Miss Buttermish. 

"Oh, those modern girls!" thought the shocked Eloquent as he ranforward to assist. He pulled the bicycle off Miss Buttermish, andstood it against the wall. She sat up, her hat very much on one side. 

"Do you know, " she said rather huskily, "I do believe I've broken myconfounded arm. "

She held out her left hand to Eloquent, who pulled her to her feet. Her right arm hung helpless, and even through her bespattered veil hecould see that she was very white. 

"Pray come in and rest for a little, " he said concernedly, "and we cansee what has happened. "

"I'm sure it's broken, I heard the beastly thing snap----" the girlstumbled blindly, Eloquent caught her in his arms, and saw that she hadfainted from pain. 

He carried her into the house and laid her on the horsehair sofa, put acushion under her arm, and seizing the large scissors that his orderlyaunt kept hanging on a hook at the side of the fire, cut her jacketcarefully along the seam from wrist to shoulder. She wore a verymannish, coloured flannel shirt. This sleeve, too, he cut, anddisclosed a thin arm, extremely brown nearly to the elbow, and veryfair and white above, but the elbow was distorted and discoloured; abad break, Eloquent decided, with mischief at the joint as wellprobably. He had studied first-aid at classes, and he shook his head. It did not occur to him to call the little servant to assist him. Withhis head turned shyly away he removed the young lady's hat and loosenedher heavy furs. Then he flew for water and a sponge, thinking thewhile of her curious Christian name "Elsmaria. " She lookedpathetically young and helpless lying there. Eloquent forgot hermilitancy and her shocking language in his sorrow over her pain. As heknelt down by the sofa to sponge her face he started so violently thathe upset a great deal of the water he had brought. 

It was already growing dark, but even in the dim light as he lookedclosely at Miss Buttermish without her hat, her likeness to MaryFfolliot was striking. She wore her hair cropped close. "Could shehave been in prison?" thought Eloquent, remembering how light she waswhen he carried her in. 

With hands that trembled somewhat he pushed the wet curly hair backfrom the forehead so like Mary's. There were the same wide brow, thesame white eyelids with the sweeping arch and thick dark lashes, thedelicate high-bridged nose and well-cut, kindly mouth; the same pureoval in the line of cheek and chin. 

Certainly an extraordinary resemblance. She must at least be a cousin;and, in spite of his sincere commiseration of the young lady'ssuffering, he felt a jubilant thrill in the reflection that thisaccident must bring him into further contact with the Ffolliots. 

There was no brandy in the house, for both he and his aunt were totalabstainers, so he fetched a glass of water and held it to the younglady's lips as she opened her eyes. She drank eagerly, lookedsearchingly at him, then she glanced down at her bare arm and the cutsleeve. The colour flooded her face, and with real horror in her voiceshe exclaimed, "You've never gone and _cut_ that jacket!"

"I had to. Your arm ought to be set at once, and goodness knows wherethe doctor may be to-day. You'd best be taken to Marlehouse Infirmary, I think; it's a bad break. "

"But it's her best coat, quite new, " Miss Buttermish persistedfretfully, "quite new; you'd no business to go and cut it. I promisedto take such care of it. "

"I'm very sorry, " Eloquent replied meekly; "but it really was necessarythat your arm should be seen to at once, and I dared not jerk it about. "

"Can it be mended, do you think, so that it won't show?" There wasreal concern in her voice. 

"I'm sure of it, " he answered, much astonished at this fuss about acoat at such a moment; "I cut it carefully along the seam. "

"I say, " exclaimed Miss Buttermish, "I must get out of this"--and sheprepared to swing her feet off the sofa--rather big feet, he noted, instout golfing shoes. Forcibly he held her legs down. 

"Please don't, " he implored. "You must not jar that arm any more thancan be helped. Shall I go up to the Manor House and get them to send aconveyance for you?--you really mustn't think of walking, and I don'tknow where else we could get one to-day. "

Miss Buttermish closed her eyes and frowned heavily. Then in a faintvoice--

"How do you know I'm from the Manor House?"

"Well, for one thing, you're very like . . . The family. "

"_All_ of them?" she asked anxiously. 

"You are very like certain members of the family I have seen, " he saidcautiously. "May I go? I'll send the servant to sit with you----"

Miss Buttermish clutched at him violently with her left hand, exclaiming, "No, no--don't send anybody yet; I must get out of thisbeastly skirt before anyone comes. . . . Look here, you're a verydecent chap and I'm sorry I rotted you--will you play the game when yougo home and hide these beastly clothes before anyone comes? Theblessed thing hooks at the side, see; it's coming undone now; if you'lljust give a pull I can wriggle out without getting up. . . . Oh, confound . . . I'm Buz, you know, I dressed up on purpose to rotyou . . . But if you _could_ not mention it . . . "

Her head fell back and she nearly fainted again from pain. Eloquentdivested her of her skirt, and with it the last remnant of MissButtermish disappeared--a slim slip of a boy in running shorts, withbare knees, and a gym-belt lay prone on the sofa, very pale andshivering. 

In absolute silence Eloquent folded the skirt and the coat, and layinghat and furs on the top, placed them in a neat heap on a chair in thecorner. 

He went to his bedroom, fetched the eiderdown off his own bed andcovered the boy with it. As he was tucking in the eiderdown at theside Buz put out a cold left hand and held him by the coat sleeve, saying curiously--"Are you in an awful bait? are you going to be reallystuffy about it?"

Eloquent looked straight into the quizzical grey eyes that held his. The boy's voice belied the eyes, for it was anxious. 

"Of course not, " he said quite seriously, "I'm only too sorry yourtrick should have had such a disastrous conclusion. Who shall I askfor up at the house, and what shall I do with the things?"

"Oh take them with you--could you? Give 'em to Fusby, and tell him toput them in their rooms--the furs are granny's. He'll do it and neversay a word; decent old chap, Fusby. I say, I'm awfully sorry to besuch a nuisance. I'm certain I could walk home if you'll let me. "

"That you certainly must not do, I'll go at once. Here's thehand-bell. I'll tell the maid that she is to come if you ring. Iexpect my aunt will be in directly--I'll be as quick as I can--cheerup. "

Eloquent bustled about putting the remains of Miss Buttermish tidilyinto his suit-case while the grey eyes followed his movements withamused interest. 

"I'm most awfully obliged, " said Buz in a very low voice; "I do feelsuch an ass lying here. "

There was a murmur of voices in the passage. The front door was closedwith quiet decorum and the little sitting-room grew darker. Two bigtears rolled over and Buz sniffed helplessly, for his handkerchief wasin the pocket of the jacket lately worn with such gay impudence by MissElsmaria Buttermish. 

CHAPTER XIII

THE THIN END

Eloquent rode the bicycle left outside by Miss Buttermish, rodecarefully, bearing the suit-case in his left hand. The village wasquite deserted and he reached the great gates of the Manor Houseunchallenged. The gates stood open and he entered the dark shadowydrive without having encountered a living soul. Lights gleamed fromthe lower windows of the house, but the porch was in darkness. He rangloudly, and Fusby, the old manservant, switched on the light as heopened the door and revealed a square, oak-panelled room and thewarning cards. The inner door leading to the hall was closed, but thesound of cheerful voices reached Eloquent. 

Fusby stood expectant, and in spite of his imperturbable and almostbenedictory manner he looked mildly surprised. 

"Is Mrs Ffolliot at home?" Eloquent asked rather breathlessly. 

"She is, sir, " Fusby answered, but in a tone that subtly conveyed theunspoken "to some people, " fixing his eyes the while on the suitcase. 

"Do you think she could speak to me here?" Eloquent continued humbly. 

"I think not, sir; the mistress at present is dispensing tea to thefam'ly. She does not as a rule see people at the door. Can I take amessage?"

"I fear I must disturb her, " said Eloquent, conscious all the time thatFusby's mild gaze was concentrated on the suit-case. "One of hersons"--for the life of him he couldn't remember the boy's ridiculousname--"has broken his arm. "

"Master Buz, sir?" asked Fusby, quite unmoved by the intelligence;"it's generally 'im. "

"Yes, Master Buz, and he asked me to give you this. . . . It's somethings of his. I'll send for the suit-case--put it out of the waysomewhere--he was dressed up . . . These are the clothes----"

"He will 'ave 'is frolic, " Fusby murmured indulgently; "a verylight-'earted young gentleman he is--step this way, please, sir. "

Fusby opened a door behind him, and announced in the voice of oneissuing an edict, "Mr Gallup. "

There seemed to Eloquent crowds of people in the hall, mostly gatheredabout a round table near the fire. He discerned Mrs Ffolliot in thevery act of "dispensing tea" and General Grantly standing on thehearthrug warming his coat tails. Mary, too, he saw give a cup of teainto her grandfather's hands, and he was conscious of the presence ofMrs Grantly seated on an oaken settle at the other side of the firefrom Mrs Ffolliot. These four were clear to him as he came into thehall. There was a fire of logs in the open fireplace and a good manylights, and Eloquent, coming out of the soft darkness of that winterafternoon, felt dazzled and intolerably hot. 

The four people he saw first suddenly seemed to recede to animmeasurable distance, and he became conscious of others whom he couldnot focus. His tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and he wasconscious that at his entrance dead silence had fallen upon the groupby the fire. Then Mrs Ffolliot rose and held out a kind fair hand tohim, and said something that he could not hear. Somehow he reached thesuccouring hand and clung to it like a drowning man, mumbling thewhile, "Sorry to intrude upon you, but one of your sons"--again thename eluded him--"has broken his arm, and he's in my aunt's cottage. "

"Look at Ganpie's tea!" exclaimed a shrill clear voice, and the Kittendiverted attention from Eloquent to the General, who was calmly pouringthe tea from his newly filled cup upon the bear-skin hearthrug, as hegazed fixedly at this bringer of ill-tidings. 

Eloquent could never remember clearly what happened between the dualannouncement of the accident and the spilling of the General's tea, till the moment when he found himself sitting on the settle beside MrsGrantly with a cup of tea of his own, which Mary had poured out. Everyone else seemed to have melted away, Mrs Ffolliot to telephone tothe doctor, the General to order his motor, the Kitten and Ger to thenursery, and the rest of the party to the four winds. 

But he, Mrs Grantly, and Mary were still sitting at the fire, and Maryhad asked him if he took sugar. 

"Two lumps, " he said. 

"So do I, " said Mary, and it seemed a most wonderful coincidence ofkindred tastes. 

In thinking it over afterwards it struck him that the whole family tookthe accident very coolly. There was no fuss, very little exclamation;and to Eloquent, sitting as a guest in that old hall where, as a smallboy, he had sometimes peeped wonderingly, there came a curious feelingthat either he had dreamt of this moment or that it had all happenedaeons of ages ago, and that if it was a dream then Mary was in a dreamtoo, that he had always wanted her, been conscious of her, only thenshe was an immense way off; vaguely beautiful and desirable, but set ina luminous haze of impossibilities, remote, apart as a star. 

Now she was friendly and approachable, only a few yards away, lookingacross at him with frank kind eyes and the firelight shining on herbright hair. 

The time seemed all too short till Mrs Ffolliot, dressed for driving, in a long fur coat, came back to tell them that the doctor was at acase five miles off, at a house where there was no telephone, and thatshe had arranged to take Buz into the Marlehouse Infirmary to have thearm set there, and, if necessary, he must stay there till he could bemoved. . . . 

"Could they drive Mr Gallup back?"

So there was nothing for it but to accompany the General and MrsFfolliot. 

Mr Ffolliot did not appear at all. 

General Grantly went outside with the chauffeur, and Eloquent againexperienced the queer dream-like sense of doing again something he haddone already as he followed Mrs Ffolliot into the motor. He had neverlost his awestruck admiration for her, and it never occurred to him tosit down at her side. He was about to put down one of the little seatsand sit on that, when she said, "Oh, please, sit here, Mr Gallup, " andhe sank into the seat beside her, confused and tremulous. Mary and MrsGrantly had come into the porch with them, and stood there now callingout all sorts of messages and questions. The inner door stood open, and the hall shone bright behind them. 

The motor purred and slid swiftly down the drive. 

Mrs Ffolliot switched off the light behind her head, and Eloquentbecame conscious of a soft pervading scent of violets. The twentyyears that lay between her first visit to his father's shop and thiswonderful new nearness seemed to him but as one short link in a chainof inevitable circumstances. Like a picture thrown on a screen he sawthe little boy standing at her knee, the giggling shop assistants, andhis father flushed and triumphant. And he knew that through all theyears he had always been sure that such a moment as this would come, when he would sit beside her as an equal and a friend. . . . And herehe was, sitting with her in her father's motor, sharing the same furrug. What was she saying?

Something kind about the trouble he had taken . . . And the motorstopped at his aunt's gate. 

 * * * * * *

Uz was in the midst of a large bite of plum-cake when Eloquentannounced his errand. Uz hastily took another bite, and just as theKitten drew attention to her grandfather's tea he quietly opened thedoor of the hall, shut it after him softly, did the same by the frontdoor, and hatless, coatless, and in his pumps--for his boots wereexceedingly dirty, and Nana had caught him and turned him back tochange before tea--he started down the drive at a good swinging run. His wind was excellent, and he reached Miss Gallup's gate in about fiveminutes. Only once had he stopped, when the piece of cake he wascarrying broke off short and dropped in the mud; he peered about for itduring some four seconds, then gave it up and ran on. 

The lamp was lit in Miss Gallup's sitting-room, but the blind was notpulled down. He looked in at the window and saw his brother lying onthe sofa under the eiderdown, opened the front door--no one ever locksa door in Redmarley unless they go out, and then the key is alwaysunder the scraper--and walked in. 

"Hullo, " said Buz; "isn't this rotten?"

"Little man's just come, so I did a bunk. I didn't wait to hear hisrevelations about the lovely suffragette----"

"I don't believe he'll tell, " Buz said; "he's not a bad little chap, hewasn't a bit shirty, helped me out of those beastly clothes and neversaid a word; took them with him too, so's they shouldn't be found here. I say, by the way, tell Ad�le to get the jacket mended and I'll pay itwhenever I can get any money. I'm frightfully sorry about that--he cutthe sleeve right up to get my arm out. Who got the togs?"

"I don't know, he hadn't 'em when he came in----"

"Gave 'em to Fusby, I expect; he'll see they're properlydistributed----"

"What happened, did you have a lark?"

"He rose like anything, " Buz chuckled delightedly. "Chuck us yourhandkerchief, old chap, mine's in that coat--I'm only sorry for onething. "

"What's that?"

"I told him if he wouldn't declare for Votes for Women he'd better putup his shutters, and I know he thought I meant to rub it in about hisfather's shop--I didn't, it would have been beastly; but I'm certain hethought so by the way he flushed up. He's a game little beggar, hewouldn't give in, or palaver or promise. . . . Hullo, here's two moreof the family----"

The two more were Reggie Peel and Grantly. The Ffolliots were notdemonstrative, but they always shared good-luck or ill, thereforeReggie and Grantly made a bee-line for Miss Gallup's cottage wheneverthey understood what had happened. They knew nothing of MissButtermish, and neither of the younger boys enlightened them. 

Miss Gallup returned to find her parlour full of Ffolliots; and justafter her came her nephew, accompanied by General Grantly and MrsFfolliot, who bore Buz away in the motor to Marlehouse wrapped in ablanket and with the broken arm in a sling. 

When they had all gone--the motor towards Marlehouse, the three othersto the Manor--Eloquent stood at the open gate for a minute or two andthen went out, shutting it after him very softly, so that neither thethree walking up the road, nor his aunt waiting at her open door, should hear. Then he, too, set off in the direction of Marlehouse. Hehad no intention whatever of walking there, but he could not face hisaunt just then, nor bear the torrent of questions and comments that heknew would submerge him. 

The last hour had been for him an epoch-making, a profound experience, and he wanted, as his aunt would have said, "to squeege his orange dry. "

A course of action intensely irritating to Miss Gallup, who awaited hisreturn, after seeing the Ffolliots off, with the utmost impatience. 

"Wherever could he have got to?"

Em'ly-Alice, however, was longing to be questioned, and Miss Gallupindulged her. 

"How did the poor young gentleman break his arm?"

"Fell off 'is bike, 'e did, and it must 'ave bin but a minute or twoafter the young lady'd gone----

"Young lady! What young lady?" Miss Gallup demanded sternly. 

"A young lady as come to see Mr Gallup. Miss Buttermish was 'er name;I remember it most pertikler, because I thought what a funny name. "

"Buttermish, Buttermish, " Miss Gallup repeated; "where did she comefrom?"

"That I can't tell you, Miss; I was in the kitchen polishing the teapotfor your tea when there comes a knock at the door, and when I opens it, there stood the young lady. 'Can I see Mr Gallup?' she says, andknowing he was in the parlour I as't her in. She didn't stop long andno sooner was she gone than I hears Mr Gallup runnin' upstairs an' inand out, and presently 'e called out, 'Master Ffolliot's broken 'isarm, ' and went off in ever such an 'urry. I see 'im run down thegarden, and 'e 'ad 'is portmanteau in 'is 'and----"

"Nonsense, " Miss Gallup said crossly; "what would he be doing with aportmanteau?"

"That I can't say, mum, but 'e 'ad it, and when 'e'd gone I took thelamp in to the poor young gentleman wot was lyin' all 'uddled up on thesofa--'e said 'thank you' in a muffled voice that mournful, and I madeup the fire and waited a minute but 'e didn't say no more, so I comeaway, an' in a few minutes the 'ouse seemed chock-full o' people. Where they come from passes me----"

"Well, get tea now, as quick as you can. I can't think where Mr Gallupcan have got to. "

Miss Gallup lit a candle and went straight upstairs to her nephew'sroom. His clothes were still in the drawers as she, herself, hadarranged them--but the suit-case, the smart new leather suit-case, withE. A. G. In large black letters upon its lid, was gone. 

Miss Gallup sank heavily on a chair. What could it mean?

She immediately connected the advent of the strange young lady and thedisappearance of her nephew's suit-case. 

She took off her bonnet and cloak and did not put them away, but leftthem lying on her bed; a sure sign of perturbation with Miss Gallup, who was the tidiest of mortals. 

She sought Em'ly-Alice in the bright little kitchen. "What was theyoung lady like?" she asked. 

"Oh a superior young person, Miss, all in black. "

"Young, was she?" Miss Gallup remarked suspiciously. 

"Yes, Miss, quite young, I should say--about my own age; I couldn't see'er face very well, but she did talk like the gentry, very soft anddistinct. "

"Did Mr Gallup seem pleased to see her?"

"That I couldn't say, Miss, I'm sure. I left 'em together and come outand shut the door. "

Miss Gallup went back to the parlour shaking her head. 

"There's a lot of them will be after him now 'e's stood forParliament, " she reflected grimly; "but I did _not_ think they'd havethe face to track him to his aunt's house. She's hanging about thelanes for him now I'll warrant. Miss Buttermish indeed!"

CHAPTER XIV

THE ELECTION

Eloquent had taken a small furnished house in Marlehouse, and wasinstalled there with a housekeeper and manservant for the fortnightpreceding the election. The Moonstone, chief, and in fact only, hotelin the town, was "blue, " and although the proprietor would have beenglad enough to secure Eloquent's custom, it was felt better "for allparties" that he should make his headquarters elsewhere. He workedhard and unceasingly, his agent was equally tireless, and it was onlyat the last that Mr Brooke's supporters awoke to the fact that if hewas to represent Marlehouse again no stone should be left unturned. But it was too late: Mr Brooke, elderly, amiable, and lethargic, wasquite incapable of either directing or controlling his more ardentsupporters, and their efforts on his behalf were singularly devoid oftact. The Tory and Unionist ladies were grievous offenders in thisrespect. They started a house-to-house canvass in the town, and thosepossessed of carriages or motors parcelled out the surrounding villagesand "did" them, their methods being the reverse of conciliatory. Indeed, had Mr Brooke in the smallest degree realised how these zealoussupporters were injuring his cause, his smiling optimism would havebeen sadly shaken. 

The day after the accident Eloquent called at Marlehouse Infirmary toask for Buz, and was informed that the arm had been set successfully, that it was a bad break, but that the Rontgen rays had been used, andit was going on satisfactorily. 

He wondered if he ought to send flowers or fruit to the invalid, but avivid recollection of the look in Buz's eyes as he watched him pack hissuit-case decided him that any such manifestation of sympathy would beunsuitable. He then, although he was so rushed that he could hardlyovertake his engagements, hired a motor to drive out to the ManorHouse, and so hurried the chauffeur that they fell straightway into apolice trap and were "warned. "

He asked for Mrs Ffolliot, and Fusby blandly informed him that she wasin Marlehouse with Master Buz. 

"Is Miss Ffolliot at home?" Eloquent asked boldly. 

"Miss Ffolliot is out huntin' with the young gentlemen, " Fusby remarkedstiffly. 

So Eloquent was fain to get into his motor again, and quite forgot tolook in on his aunt on the way back. 

The night before the election there was a Liberal meeting in the TownHall, and a certain section of the Tory party, a youthful andirresponsible section it must be confessed, had arranged to attend themeeting, and if possible bring it to nought. The ringleader in thisscheme was a young man named Rabbich, whose people some years beforehad bought a large property in a village about four miles fromRedmarley. 

Mr Rabbich, senr. , was an extremely wealthy man with many irons in thefire, a man so busy that he found little time to look after either hisproperty or his family, and though he, himself, was generally declaredto be a "very decent sort" with no nonsense or "side" about him, and ofa praiseworthy liberality in the matter of subscriptions, his wife andchildren did not find equal favour either in the eyes of the villagersor those of his neighbours. 

Mrs Rabbich was a foolish woman whose fetich was society with a big"S, " and she idolised her only son, a rather vacuous youth who had justmanaged to scrape into Sandhurst. 

On the night before the election then, young Rabbich gave a dinner atthe Moonstone to some twenty youths of his own age, and GrantlyFfolliot was of the party. Grantly did not like young Rabbich, and asa rule steered clear of him in the hunting-field and elsewhere, thoughcivil enough if actually brought into contact with him. But thoughGrantly did not like young Rabbich, he dearly loved any form of "rag, "and as party feeling ran very high just then, the chance of disturbingthe last Liberal meeting before the election was far too entrancing tobe missed. He obtained his father's permission to go to the dinner (MrFfolliot was never difficult when his sons asked for permission to gofrom home), told his mother he would be late, obtained the key of theside door from Fusby, and quite unintentionally left his family underthe impression that he was dining at the Rabbich's. 

Mine host of the Moonstone provided an excellent dinner, and youngRabbich kept calling for more champagne, so that it was a veryhilarious and somewhat unsteady party that presently, in a solidphalanx, got wedged in at the very back of the Town Hall, which wasfilled to overflowing. Twenty noisy young men in evening clothes, andall together, made a fairly conspicuous feature in the meeting, and thecrowd, which was almost wholly Liberal in its sympathies, guessed theywere out for trouble. 

During the first couple of speeches, which were short and introductory, they were fairly quiet, only indulging in occasional derisive comments. When Eloquent arose to address the meeting he was greeted by such astorm of cheering from his supporters, as quite drowned the hisses andcat-calls of the "knuts" at the back of the hall. 

But when he started to speak, their interruptions were incessant, irrelevant, and in the case of young Rabbich, offensive. 

Eloquent, who was long-sighted, clearly perceived Grantly Ffolliot, flushed, with rumpled hair and gesticulating arms, in the group at theback of the hall. Young Rabbich, whose father had made the greaterpart of his money in butter and bacon, kept urging Eloquent to "go backto the shop, " inquired the present price of socks and pyjamas, andwhether the clothes he wore just then were made in Germany?

Eloquent saw Grantly Ffolliot frown and say something to his companionas young Rabbich continued his questions, and then quite suddenly thewhole of that end of the hall was in a turmoil, and one by one theinterrupters were hauled from their seats and forcibly ejected from themeeting, in spite of desperate resistance on their part. After that, peace was restored, and Eloquent continued his speech amidst thegreatest enthusiasm. 

His supporters cheered him to his house, and then departed to paradethe town, while their band played "Hearts of Oak, " the chosen war-songof the "Yallows. " Meanwhile the Rabbich party had returned to theMoonstone to compare their bruises and to get more drinks, and thenthey sallied forth again to join a "Blue" procession, headed by a bandthat played "Bonnie Dundee, " which is the battle-cry of the Blues. 

The rival bands met, the rival processions met and locked, and therewas a regular shindy. Eloquent, very tired and rather depressed, as aman usually is on the eve of any great struggle, heard the distanttumult and the shouting, and thought he had better go out and see whatwas afoot. 

He had hardly got outside his own front door, which was in alittle-frequented street not far from the police-station, when he sawtwo policemen on either side of a hatless, dishevelled, and unsteadyyouth, who held one of them affectionately by the arm while the otherheld him. 

Another glance and he perceived that the hatless one was GrantlyFfolliot. 

"Hullo!" cried Eloquent, "what's to do here?"

"Gentleman very disorderly, sir, throwing stones at windows of yourcommittee-room, fighting and brawling, and resisted violently--so we'retaking him to the station. "

"He seems quiet enough now, " Eloquent suggested. 

Grantly smiled at him sleepily. "Good chaps, policemen, " he murmured;"fine beefy chaps. "

"Look here, " said Eloquent, "I'd much prefer you didn't charge him. His people are well known; it will only create ill-feeling. I'll lookafter him if you leave him with me. "

The policemen looked at one another. . . . "Of course, " said the oneto whom Grantly clung so lovingly, "we couldn't swear as it was him whothrew the stones, though he was among them as did. "

"He's only a boy, " Eloquent continued, "and he's drunk . . . It wouldbe a pity to make a public example of him . . . Just now--don't youthink?--If you could oblige me in this . . . I'm very anxious that theelection should be fought with as little ill-feeling as possible. "

Something changed hands. 

"What about the other young gentlemen, sir?" asked the youngerpoliceman. 

"With the other young gentlemen, " Eloquent said ruthlessly, "you candeal exactly as you please, but if it can be managed don't charge anyof them. "

With difficulty policeman number one detached himself from Grantly'sembrace and handed him over to Eloquent. 

"Good-bye, old chap, " Grantly called fondly as his late prop departed, "when I'm as heavy as you, you won't cop me so easy--eh, what?"

Eloquent took the boy firmly by the arm and led him in. His steps wereuncertain and his speech was thick, but he was quite biddable, andbrimming over with loving kindness for all the world. 

Eloquent took him into the sitting-room and placed him in a largearm-chair. Grantly pushed his hair off his forehead and gazed aboutthe room in rather bewildered fashion, at the round table strewn withpapers, at the tray with a glass of milk and plate of sandwichesstanding on the bare little sideboard, at his pale, fagged host, whostood on the hearthrug looking down at him. 

As he met Eloquent's stern gaze he smiled sweetly at him, and he was solike Mary when he smiled that Eloquent turned his eyes away in veryshame. It seemed sacrilege even to think of her in connection withanything so degraded and disgusting as Grantly's state appeared to himat that moment. His Nonconformist conscience awoke and fairly shoutedat him that he should have interfered to prevent the just retributionthat had overtaken this miserable misguided boy . . . But he was herbrother; he was the son of that gracious lady who was set as a fixedstar in the firmament of his admirations; he could not hold back whenthere was a chance of saving him from this disgrace. For to be chargedwith being "drunk and disorderly" in the Police Court appeared toEloquent just then as the lowest depths of ignominy. 

"Now what in the world, " he asked presently, "am I to do with you? Youcan't go home in that state. "

"Bed, my dear chap, bed's what I'm for, . . . So sleepy, can hardlyhold up my head . . . Any shake-down'll do----"

Grantly's head fell back against the chair, and he closed his eyes inproof of his somnolence. 

"All right, " said Eloquent, "you come with me. "

With some difficulty he got Grantly upstairs and into his own room. Before the meeting he had told the servants they need not sit up forhim; his own was the only other bed made up in the house. Grantly laydown upon it, muddy boots and all, and turned sideways with a sigh ofsatisfaction; but just before he settled off he opened his eyes andsaid warningly:

"I say, if I was you I wouldn't go about with young Rabbich--he's awrong 'un--you may take it from me, he really is--he'll do you nogood--Don't you be seen about with him. "

"Thank you, " Eloquent said dryly, "I will follow your advice. "

"That's right, " Grantly murmured, "never be 'bove taking advice. "

And in another minute he was fast asleep. Eloquent covered him with arailway rug, thinking grimly the while that it seemed to have becomehis mission in life to cover up prostrated Ffolliots. 

He went downstairs, made up the fire, and lay down on the hard sofa inhis dining-room, and slept an intermittent feverish sleep, in whichdreadful visions of Mary between two policemen, mingled with thedeclaration of the poll, which proclaimed Mr Brooke to have beenelected member for Marlehouse by an enormous majority. 

At six o'clock he got up. In half an hour his servants would bestirring, and Grantly must be got out of the house before they appeared. 

He went to the kitchen, got a little teapot and cups, and made sometea. Then he went to rouse Grantly. 

This was difficult, as he couldn't raise his voice very much because ofthe servants, and Grantly was sleeping heavily. At last, by a seriesof shakes and soft punches, he succeeded in making him open his eyes. Eloquent had already turned up the gas, and the room was full of light. 

There is a theory extant that a man shows his real character when he issuddenly aroused out of sleep. That if he is naturally surly, he willbe surly then; if he is of an amiable disposition, he is good-naturedthen. 

Grantly sat up with a start and swung his feet off the bed. "MrGallup, " he said very gently, "I can't exactly remember what I'm doinghere, but I do apologise. "

"That's all right, " Eloquent said awkwardly. "I thought perhaps you'dlike to get home before the servants were about, and it's six o'clock. Come and have a cup of tea. "

"May I wash my face?" Grantly asked meekly. 

This accomplished, he went downstairs and drank the cup of tea Eloquenthad provided for him. His host lent him a bicycle and speeded him onhis way. At the door Grantly paused to say in a mumbling voice: "Idon't know, sir, why you've been so awfully decent to me, but will youremember this? that if ever I can do anything for you, it would be verygenerous of you to tell me--will you remember this?"

"I will remember, " said Eloquent. 

As Grantly rode away Eloquent was filled with self-reproach, for he hadnot said one word either of warning or rebuke, and he had been broughtup to believe in the value of "the word in season. "

Grantly pedalled as hard as he could through the dark deserted roads, and though his head was racking and he felt, as he put it, "likenothing on earth, " he covered the five miles between Marlehouse andRedmarley in under half an hour. He went round to the side door andfelt for the key, as he hoped to slip in without meeting any of theservants who were, he saw by stray lights, just astir. 

That key was nowhere to be found. 

He tried every pocket in his overcoat, his tail coat, his whitewaistcoat, his trousers, all in vain. That key was gone; lost!

There was nothing for it but to try Mary's window. Parker slept in herroom, but Parker would never bark at any member of the family. All thebedroom windows at Redmarley were lattice, and Mary's, at the back ofthe house on the first floor, stood open about a foot. 

"Parker, " Grantly called softly, "Parker, old chap, rouse her up andask her to let me in. "

An old wistaria grew under the window with thick knotted stems. Grantly climbed up this, and although it was very dark he was aware ofsomething dimly white at the window. Parker, much longer in the legthan any well-bred fox-terrier has a right to be, was standing on hishind legs thrusting his head out in silent welcome. 

"Go and rouse her up, old chap, " Grantly whispered. "I want her toopen the window wide enough for me to get through. "

All the windows at the Manor House, open or shut, had patent catchesthat it was impossible to undo from the outside. 

He heard Parker jump on Mary's bed and probably lick her face, then asleepy "What is it, old dog, what's the matter?" and a soft movement asMary raised herself on her elbow and switched on the light. 

"Mary, " in a penetrating whisper, "let me in, I've lost that confoundedkey. "

In a moment Mary was over at the window, undid the catches, and Grantlyscrambled through. 

"Grantly!" Mary exclaimed. "What on earth is the matter? You lookawful. "

Grantly caught sight of himself in her long glass and agreed with her. 

He was covered with mud from head to foot, his overcoat was torn, hiswhite tie was gone, his beautiful smooth hair, with the neat ripple atthe temples, stood on end in ragged locks; in fact he was as unlike the"Knut" of ordinary life as he could well be. 

"Get into bed, Mary, " he said, "you'll catch cold . . . "

Mary, looking very tall in her straight white nightgown, turned slowlyand got into bed. "Now tell me, " she said. 

Grantly went and sat at the end of her bed and Parker joined him, cuddling up against him and trying to lick his face. It matterednothing to Parker that he was ragged and dirty and disreputable;nothing that he might have committed any crime in the rogues' calendar. He was one of the family, he was home, he had evidently been introuble, he needed comfort, therefore Parker made much of him. Grantlyfelt this and was vaguely cheered. 

"Now, " said Mary again, and switched off the light; "you can have theeiderdown if you're cold. "

"Well, if you must know, " said Grantly, "we went to the Radical meetingand got chucked out. "

"Who went? I thought you were dining with the Rabbiches. "

"Not _the_ Rabbiches, _a_ Rabbich, and an insufferable bounder at that;but he gave us a jolly good dinner, champagne flowed. "

"And you got drunk? Oh, Grantly!"

"Well, no; I shouldn't describe it thus crudely--like the Irishman, Iprefer to say 'having drink taken. '"

"Well, 'having drink taken'--then?"

"After we were chucked out for interrupting (it _was_ a rag) we wentback to the Moonstone. "

"To the Moonstone, " Mary repeated; "why there?"

"Because we dined there, my dear. Young Rabbich gave the feast; it wasall arranged beforehand. We meant to spoil that meeting, but we begantoo soon, and they were too strong for us, and . . . He's an ass, andshouted out all sorts of things he shouldn't--we deserved what we got. "

"And then?"

"I'm not very clear what happened then, except that there was the mosttremendous shindy in the street, and fur was flying like anything, andthe next I know was two bobbies had got me, and your friend Gallupsquared them and took me home and put me to bed . . . And here I am. "

"Mr Gallup, " Mary repeated incredulously; "you've been to bed in hishouse?"

"You've got it, my sister; lay on his bed just as I am . . . And hewoke me at six and sent me home on his bicycle. "

"But why--why should he have interfered? I should have thought he'dhave been _glad_ for you to be taken up, interrupting his meeting andbeing on the other side . . . And everything. "

"Well, anyway, that's what he did, and whatever his motives may havebeen it was jolly decent of him . . . And . . . " here Grantly loweredhis voice to the faintest mumble, "he never said a word of reproof orexhortation . . . I tell you he behaved like a gentleman. What's tobe done?"

"Nothing, " said Mary decidedly. "You've played the fool, and by themercy of Providence you've got off uncommonly cheap. It would worrymother horribly if she knew, and as for father . . . Well you know what_he_ thinks of people who can't carry their liquor like gentlemen, andgrandfather too . . . And . . . Oh, Grantly--father's not going Southtill the very end of January; he decided to-night that as the weatherwas so mild he'd wait till then. So it would _never_ do if it was tocome out, your life would be unbearable, all of our lives; he'd say itwas the Grantly strain coming out--you know how he blames every bit ofbad in us on mother's people. "

"I know, " groaned Grantly, "I know. "

"Well, anyway, " Mary said in quite a different tone, "there's one thingwe've got to remember, and that is we must be uncommonly civil to thatyoung man if we happen to meet him--he's put us under an obligation. "

"I know . . . I know, that's what I feel, and I shall never have aneasy minute till I've done something for him . . . And I don't seeanything I can do with the pater like he is and all. Isn't it a_beastly_ state of things?"

In the darkness Mary leant forward and stroked the tousled head bentdown over Parker. 

"Poor old boy, " she said softly, "poor old boy, " and Parker lickedsomething that tasted salt off the end of his nose. 

When Grantly left his sister's room Parker went with him. 

 * * * * * *

Eloquent's housekeeper found the missing key under his bed, and he sentit out to the Manor House that morning, addressed to Grantly, in asealed envelope by special messenger. 

In the evening the poll was declared in Marlehouse, and the Liberalcandidate was elected by a majority of three hundred and forty-ninevotes. 

CHAPTER XV

OF THINGS IN GENERAL

The result of the election was no surprise to the defeated party. Thehonest among them acknowledged that they deserved to be beaten, andthey felt no personal rancour against Eloquent. 

If Marlehouse was unfortunate enough to be represented by a Radical, they preferred that the Radical should be a Marlehouse man and not some"carpet-bagger" imported from South Wales. Eloquent's bearing, bothduring the contest and afterwards, was acknowledged to be modest and"suitable. " If he was lacking in geniality and address, he was, at allevents, neither bumptious nor servile. His lenity towards the youthswho had done their best to break up his meeting and wreck his committeerooms had leaked out, and gained for him, if not friends, at leasttoleration among several leading Conservatives who had been hisbitterest opponents. 

Mary, Grantly, and Buz Ffolliot all felt a sneaking satisfaction thathe _had_ got in. A satisfaction they in no wise dared to express, forMr Ffolliot was really much upset at the result of the election;feeling it something of a personal insult that one so closelyassociated with a ready-made clothes' shop, a shop in his own nearesttown, should represent him in Parliament. Mr Ffolliot would havepreferred the "carpet-bagger. "

Mary, who cared as little as she knew about politics, was pleased. Because Eloquent had been "decent" to Grantly, she was glad he had gotwhat he wanted, though why he should ardently desire that particularthing she did not attempt to understand. Grantly was sincerelygrateful to Eloquent for getting him out of what would undoubtedly havebeen a most colossal row, had any hint of his conduct at Marlehouse onthe eve of the election reached his father's ears. 

Neither Grantly nor Mary knew anything of the Miss Buttermish episode. For Buz, since the accident, was basking in the sympathy of his family, and had no intention of diverting the stream of favours that flowedover him by any revelations they might not wholly approve. Buz, therefore, had his own reasons, unshared by anyone but Uz (who wassilent as the grave in all that concerned his twin), for gratitude toEloquent. Grantly and Buz unconsciously shared a rather unwillingadmiration for the little, common-looking man who could do a good turnand hold his tongue, evidently expecting neither recognition norremembrance. For Eloquent expected neither, and yet he could notforget the real earnestness of Grantly Ffolliot's parting words. 

Could such a foolish youth be trusted to mean what he said? or was itonly the surface courtesy that seemed to come so easily to the"classes" Eloquent still regarded with mistrust and suspicion?

He longed to test Grantly Ffolliot. 

An opportunity came sooner than he expected. Parliament did not meettill the end of the month, and although he went to London a good dealon varied business, he kept on the little house in his native town, wrote liberal cheques for all the charities, opened a Baptist bazaar, and generally did his duty according to his lights and the instructionsof his agent. 

In the third week of January he was asked to "kick off" at a "soccer"match to be held in Marlehouse. This was rather an event, as twoimportant teams from a distance were for some reason or other to playthere. The Marlehouse folk played "Rugger" as a rule, but this matchwas regarded in the light of a curiosity; people would come in frommiles round, and hordes of mechanics would flock over from Garchester, the county town. It was considered quite a big sporting event, and hisagent informed Eloquent that a great honour had been done him. 

Eloquent appeared duly impressed and accepted the invitation. 

Then it occurred to him that never in his life had he seen a footballmatch of any kind. 

Games were not compulsory at the Grammar School, and Eloquent had nonatural inclination to play them. When a little boy he had generallygone for a walk with his father or his aunt on a half-holiday. As hegrew older he either attended extra classes at the science school orread for himself notable books bearing upon the political history ofthe last fifty years. Games had no place in his scheme of existence. His father, most certainly, had never played games and had no desirethat Eloquent should do so; as for going to watch other people playthem--such a proceeding would have been dismissed by the elder MrGallup as "foolhardy nonsense. " Serious-minded men had no time forsuch frivolity. 

Nevertheless it became increasingly evident to Eloquent that a largenumber of his constituents--whether they actually took part in what hepersisted in calling "these pastimes" or not--were very keenlyinterested in watching others do so, and Eloquent was consumed byanxiety as to how he was to discover what it was he was expected to do. 

There were plenty of his political supporters who were not only ablebut would have been most willing to solve his difficulty, but hedreaded the inevitable confession of his ignorance. They would be kindenough, he was sure of that, but would they make game of his ignoranceafterwards? Would they _talk_?

He was pretty sure they would. 

Eloquent hated talk. Grantly and Buz Ffolliot had each recognised andadmired that quality in him, and it is possible that he had vaguelydiscerned a kindred reticence in these feather-brained boys. 

He distrusted all his political allies in Marlehouse in this matter ofthe kick-off. 

Why then should Grantly Ffolliot occur to him as a person able andlikely to help him in this dilemma?

He was pretty sure that Grantly played football. Soldiers did thesethings, and Grantly was going to be a soldier. A soldier, inEloquent's mind, epitomised all that was useless, idle, luxurious, anddestructive. Mr Gallup and his friends had disapproved of theTransvaal War; our reverses did not affect them personally, for theyhad no friends at the front, and our long-deferred victories left themcold. The flame of Eloquent's enthusiasm was fanned at school, only tobe quenched at home by the wet blanket of his father's disapproval. Sturdy Miss Gallup snapped at them both, and knitted helmets andmittens and sent socks and handkerchiefs and cocoa to the Redmarley menin South Africa; and her brother gave her the socks and handkerchiefsout of stock, but under protest. 

Eloquent knew no soldiers, either officers or in the ranks. He hadbeen taught to look upon the private as almost always drawn from theless reputable of the working classes, and although he acknowledgedthat officers might, some of them, be hard-working and intelligent, hewas inclined to regard them with suspicion. 

Suppose he did ask Grantly Ffolliot about this ridiculous kick-off, andGrantly went about making fun of him afterwards?

"Then I shall know, " he said to himself. All the same it appeared tohim that Grantly Ffolliot was the only possible person _to_ ask. 

It came about quite easily. One morning he was coming down the stepsof the bank in Marlehouse and saw Grantly on horseback waiting at thecurb till someone should turn up to hold his horse while he went in. He had ridden in to cash a cheque for his mother. The main street wasvery empty and no available loafer was to be seen. 

As Grantly caught sight of Eloquent descending the steps he smiled hischarming smile. "Hullo, I've never seen you since the election. Heartiest grats, " the boy called cheerily. Eloquent went up to him andheld out his hand. He looked up and down the street, no one was withinearshot. "I've a favour to ask you, Mr Ffolliot, " he said in a lowtone, "but you must promise to refuse at once if you have anyobjection. "

Grantly leant down to him, smiling more broadly than ever. "That'sawfully decent of you, " he said, and he meant it. 

Again Eloquent cast an anxious look up and down the street. "They'veasked me to kick-off at the match on Saturday, and . . . You'll thinkme extraordinarily ignorant . . . I've no idea what one does. Can Ilearn in the time?"

Eloquent's always rosy face was almost purple with the effort he hadmade. 

Grantly, on the contrary, appeared quite unmoved. He fixed his eyes onhis horse's left ear and said easily: "It's the simplest thing in theworld. All we want is a field and a ball, and we've got both at home. At least . . . Not a soccer ball--but I don't think that matters. Whenwill you come?"

"When may I come?"

"Meet me this afternoon in the field next but one behind the church. There's never anyone there, and we'll fix it up. "

"All right, " said Eloquent. "Many thanks . . . I suppose you think itvery absurd?" he added nervously. 

This time Grantly did not look at Mafeking's left ear, he lookedstraight into Eloquent's uplifted eyes, saying slowly:

"I don't see that I'm called upon to think anything about it. You'vedone another kind thing in asking me. Why should you think I don't seeit?"

And in spite of himself Eloquent mumbled, "I beg your pardon. "

"This afternoon then, at three-thirty sharp--good-day. "

A loafer hurried up at this moment and Grantly swung off his horse andran up the steps into the bank. 

Eloquent looked after the graceful figure in the well-cut ridingclothes and sighed--

"If I'd been like himself he'd have asked me to hold his horse while hewent in, but things being as they are, he wouldn't, " he reflectedbitterly. 

 * * * * * *

Only one belonging to a large family knows how difficult it is to doanything by one's self. 

That afternoon it seemed to Grantly that each member of the Manor Houseparty wanted him for something, and he offended every one of them byungraciously refusing to accompany each one in turn. 

His mother and Mary were driving into Marlehouse and wanted him to comeand hold the horse while they went into the different shops, but heexcused himself on the score of his morning's errand, and Uz was toldoff for the duty, greatly to his disgust. Reggie asked Grantly to ridewith him, but Grantly complained of fatigue, and Reggie, who knewperfectly well that the excuse was invalid, called him a slacker andstarted forth huffily alone, mentally animadverting on the "edge"displayed by the new type of cadet. 

Nearly ten years' service gave Reggie the right to talk regretfully ofthe stern school he had been brought up in. 

Ger, on the previous day, had been sent to his grandparents at Woolwich"by command"; and the Kitten was going with Thirza to a children'sparty. She was therefore made to lie down for an hour after lunch--soshe was disposed of. There remained only Buz, and Buz was on the prowlseeking someone to amuse him. His arm was still in a sling and heexpected sympathy. He shadowed Grantly till nearly half-past three, when that gentleman appeared in the back passage clad in sweater andshorts, with a Rugger ball under his arm. 

"Hullo, " cried Buz, "where are you off to?"

"I'm going to practise drop-kicks . . . By myself, " Grantly answeredgrumpily. 

"Why can't I come? I could kick even if I can't use this beastly arm. "

"No, it's too cold for you to stand about. "

"Bosh; I can wrap myself in a railway rug if it comes to that. "

"It needn't come to that. You go for a sharp walk or else take a bookand amuse yourself. I must be off. "

"Well you _are_ a selfish curmudgeon, " Buz exclaimed in realastonishment. "Why this sudden passion for solitude?"

Grantly banged the door in Buz's face, regardless of the warning cards, and set off to run. Buz opened the door and looked after him, notedthe direction, nodded his head thrice and nipped upstairs to Grantly'sroom, where he abstracted his field-glasses from their case hanging ona peg behind the door. He hung them round his neck by the short blackstrap, tied a sweater over his shoulders, and went out by the side doorin quite a different direction from that taken by his brother. 

 * * * * * *

Oblivious of the surgeon's strict injunctions that he was on no accountto run or risk a fall of any kind, holding the glasses with his freehand so that they shouldn't drag on his neck, directly he was clear ofthe house he broke into the swinging steady trot that had won him thehalf-mile under fifteen in the last school sports; climbed two gatesand jumped a ditch, finally arriving at the top of a small hill, thevery highest point on the Manor property. From this eminence hesurveyed the country round, and speedily, without the aid of thefield-glasses, discerned his brother kicking a football well into thecentre of the field, while the Liberal member for Marlehouse ran afterit and tried somewhat feebly to kick it back. 

"Well I'm jiggered!" Buz exclaimed in breathless astonishment; "so heknows him too. Whatever are they playing at?"

He fixed the field-glasses, watching intently, then dropped them andrubbed his eyes, took them up again and gazed fixedly, and so absorbedwas he that he positively leapt into the air when he heard his father'svoice close beside him asking mildly, "What are you watching sointently, Hilary?"

The lovely winter afternoon had tempted Mr Ffolliot out. Usually MrsFfolliot accompanied him on his rare walks, but this afternoon he onlydecided to go out after she had left for Marlehouse. Like Buz, hesought the highest point of his estate, in his case that he mightcomplacently survey its many acres. 

Buz dropped the glasses so that they hung by their strap and swunground, facing his father with his back to the distant figures with thefootball, seized the glasses again and gazed into the copse, exclaimingeagerly, "A fox, sir; perhaps you could see him if you're quick, "pulled the strap over his head, gave the glasses a dextrous twist, entirely destroying their focus, and handed them to his father, whofiddled about for some time before he could see anything at all. 

"A fox, " Mr Ffolliot repeated, "in the copse. We had better go andwarn Willets to look out for his ducks and chickens. "

"I don't suppose he'll stay, sir, but perhaps it would be as well. Shall I take the glasses, father, they're rather heavy?"

But Mr Ffolliot had got them focussed and was leisurely surveying thedistant scene; gradually turning so that in another moment he wouldbear directly on the field where Grantly and Eloquent were now to beseen standing in earnest conversation. 

"There he is, " shouted the mendacious Buz, seizing his father by thearm so violently that he almost knocked him down, "over there towardsthe house; don't you see him? a big dog fox with a splendid brush----"

Imperceptibly Buz had propelled his father down the slope on the sidefarthest from his brother. 

"My dear Hilary, " Mr Ffolliot exclaimed, straightening his hat, whichhad become disarranged in the violence of his son's impact, "one wouldthink no one had ever seen a fox before; why be so excited about it?"

"But didn't you see him, sir?" Buz persisted. "There he goes close bythe garden wall; oh, do look. "

Mr Ffolliot looked for all he was worth. He twiddled the glasses andput them out of focus, but naturally he failed to behold the mythicalfox which was the product of his offspring's fertile brain. 

They were at the bottom of the slope now, and Buz gave a sigh of relief. 

"I thought I saw two youths in the five-acre field, " Mr Ffolliotremarked presently; "what were they doing?"

"Practising footer, I fancy, " Buz said easily, thankful that at last hecould safely speak the truth. 

"Ah, " said Mr Ffolliot, "it is extraordinary what a lot of time theworking classes seem able to spend upon games nowadays. Still, I'malways glad they should play rather than merely watch. It is thatwatching and not doing that saps the moral as well as the physicalstrength of the nation. "

"It's Thursday, you see, father--early closing, " Buz suggested. 

"Well, well, I'm glad they should have their game. Shall we strollround and have a look at them?"

"Oh I wouldn't, if I were you, father, they'd stop directly. Thesevillage chaps are always so shy. It would spoil their afternoon. "

"Would it?" Mr Ffolliot asked dubiously; "would it? I should havethought they would have found encouragement in the fact that theirSquire took an interest in their sports. "

"I don't think so, " Buz said decidedly; "they hate to be looked at whenthey're practising. "

"Very well, very well, if you think so, " Mr Ffolliot said withsurprising meekness; "we'll go and see Willets instead, and tell himabout that fox. "

"I don't think I'd bother him, the fox is miles away by now. "

"Well, where shall we go?" Mr Ffolliot demanded testily; "I've come outto walk with you, and you do nothing but object to every direction Ipropose. "

"Let us, " said Buz, praying for inspiration, "let us go straight ontill we come to a cleaner bit. "

Mr Ffolliot looked ruefully at his boots. "It is wet, " he remarked, "mind you don't slip with that arm of yours. "

"Shall I take the glasses, father?" Buz asked politely. 

"Yes, do, though I'm not sure that I wholly approve of Grantly lendingthese expensive glasses to you younger ones. I must speak to him aboutit. "

Buz sighed heavily. 

 * * * * * *

Just once more did Eloquent see Mary before Parliament met. It was ina shop in Marlehouse the day after he had received his lesson inkicking off, and he was buying ties. Eloquent was critical about ties, he had by long apprenticeship penetrated to the true inwardness oftheir importance, and this afternoon he was very difficult to please. Many boxes were laid upon the counter before him, the counter wasstrewn with "neckwear, " and yet he had only found one to his liking. While the assistant was away seeking others from distant shelves, Eloquent busied himself in arranging the scattered ties carefully intheir proper boxes. For him it was a perfectly natural thing to do, but he happened to look into the mirror that faced the counter, and init he beheld Mary Ffolliot seated at the counter behind him, and shewas watching him with fascinated interest. Buz was with her and theywere buying socks. Eloquent's deft hands dropped to his sides and heturned furiously red. For no one knew better than he that it is notusual for a customer to arrange goods in a shop. 

The young lady in the mirror had discreetly turned her head away, theassistant came back, Eloquent bought two ties without having the leastidea what they were like, and then he heard a voice behind him saying, "How do you do, Mr Gallup--we've not seen you since the election tocongratulate you, " and Mary was standing at his side holding out herhand. 

He shook hands with Mary, he shook hands with Buz, he mumbled somethingincoherent, and they were gone. 

The Liberal member for Marlehouse rushed from the shop in an oppositedirection without taking or paying for his ties, and the astuteassistant packed them up, having added three that Eloquent did not buy, for the good of the trade. 

CHAPTER XVI

MAINLY ABOUT REGINALD PEEL

The holidays had started badly, there was no doubt about that. All theyoung Ffolliots were agreed about it. First Buz broke his arm onBoxing-day. That was upsetting in itself, and Buz, as an invalid, wasa terrible nuisance. Then the Ganpies had to return to Woolwich muchsooner than they had expected: another matter for gloom and woe. Andfinally came the crushing intelligence that Mr Ffolliot did not intendto start for his oasis till the beginning of February, after the twinshad gone back to school and Grantly to the Shop. And this wasconsidered the very limit. Fate had done its worst. 

No party: no relaxation of the rules as to absence of noise andpresence of perfect regularity and punctuality at meals: no cheerfulgathering together of neighbouring families for all sorts ofjunkettings; in fact, none of the usual features of the last fortnightof the Christmas holidays. And yet, in looking back afterwards, theyoung Ffolliots, with, perhaps, the exception of the unfortunate Buz, would have confessed that on the whole they had had rather a good time. Mary, in particular, would have owned frankly, had she been asked, thatshe had never enjoyed a holiday more. 

For one thing, the big boys had been "so nice to her, " and by "the bigboys" she meant Grantly and Reggie Peel. 

She and Grantly had always been great allies. When they were littlethey did everything together, for the three and a half years thatseparated Mary from the twins seemed, till they should all get into thetwenties, an immeasurable distance. But Grantly hitherto had been nomore polite and considerate than the average brother. He was bothcritical and plain-spoken, and poor Mary had suffered many things athis hands . . . Till this holiday; and it never occurred to her thatthis agreeable change in Grantly's attitude might be due to somealteration in herself rather than in him. 

Mary was far too interested in life with a big "L" to waste any timeupon self-analysis or introspection. Neither she nor Grantly had everreferred to the night of young Rabbich's dinner at the Moonstone, butsince that night she had been distinctly conscious of a slightly morerespectful quality in his manner towards her. The tendency wasindefinable, illusive, but it was there, and simple-minded Mary onlyreflected gratefully that Grantly was "growing up awfully nice. "

Regarding Reggie Peel, however, she did venture to think that she mustbe rather more attractive than she used to be; and complacentlyattributed his new gentleness to the fact that she had put up her hairsince she last saw him. 

Gentleness was by no means one of Reggie's chief characteristics. Hewas ruthless where his own ends were concerned, tirelessly hardworking, amusing, and of a caustic tongue: a cheerful pessimist whoexpected the very least of his fellow-creatures, until such time asthey had given some proof that he might expect more. Yet there were afavoured few, a very few, whom he took for granted thankfully, and Maryhad long known that her mother was one of those few. Lately she hadrealised with a startled thrill of gratification that she, too, hadstepped out of the rank and file to take her place among those chosenones, for Reggie had confided to her a secret that none of the others, not even her mother, knew. 

Among the many serious periodicals of strictly Imperial tone that MrFfolliot read, was one that from time to time indulged its readers withexceptionally well-written short stories. Quite recently a couple ofthese stories had dealt with military subjects, and were signed"Ubique. " The stories were striking, strong, and evidently from thepen of one who knew his ground. Mr Ffolliot admired them, andgraciously drew the attention of his family to them. One had appearedin the January number, and Mrs Ffolliot and Mary fell foul of itbecause it was too painful. They thought it pitiless, even savage, inits inexorable disregard of the individual and deification of theCause. Grantly, of course, upheld the writer. The male of the speciesprides itself on inhumanity in youth. Mr Ffolliot approved the storyfrom the artistic standpoint, and the General defended it on the scoreof its absolute truth. Reggie, quite contrary to custom, gave noopinion at all till he was asked by Mary, one day when they were ridingtogether. 

As she expected, he defended the writer's stern realism. But what shedid not expect was that he seemed to make a personal matter of it, almost imploring her to see eye to eye with him, which she whollyfailed to do. 

"I think he must be a terribly hard man, that 'Ubique, '" she said atlast, "with no toleration or compassion. He talks as thoughincompetence were an unpardonable crime. "

"So it is; if you undertake a job you ought to see that you're fit tocarry it out. "

"You can't always be sure. . . . You may do your best and . . . Fail. "

"I grant you some people's best is a very poor best, but in this casethe man let a flabby humanitarianism take the place of his judgment, and he caused far more misery in the end. Can't you see that?"

"All the same, " Mary said decidedly, "I wouldn't like to fall into thehands of that man, the Ubique man I mean, not the failure. He must bea cold-blooded wretch, or he couldn't write such things. It makes meshudder. "

And Mary shivered as she spoke. 

"He must be a beast, " she added. 

They were walking their horses along the turf at the side of the roadskirting the woods. Reggie pulled up and Mary stopped also a little infront. 

"Got a stone?" she asked carelessly. 

Reggie did not answer or dismount, and she turned in her saddle to lookat him, to meet his crooked, whimsical smile. Suddenly he dropped hisreins and beat his breast, exclaiming melodramatically: "And Nathansaid unto David, 'Thou art the man. '"

"What on earth do you mean?" Mary asked, bewildered. "What man? do youmean you'd behave like the man in the story, or you wouldn't, or . . . Oh, Reggie, you don't mean to say you wrote it yourself?"

"You have spoken. "

"You must be awfully clever!" Mary ejaculated with awe-struckadmiration. 

"My cleverness will not be of much comfort to me if you persist in yourwrong-headed opinion that the man who wrote that story is a beast. "

"Oh, that's different. I know you, you see, and you're not a beast. You aren't really like that. "

"But I am. That's the real me. It is truly; the real, deep-down me, the me that's worth anything. "

"No, " said Mary, shaking her head, "I don't believe it; you _have_ someconsideration for other people. "

"Not in that sense; if there was anything, any big thing, I had to putthrough--no one should stand in my way. And it's the same withanything I want very much. I go straight for it, and it mattersnothing to me who gets knocked down on the route . . . And so you'llfind, " Reggie added very low. 

They were looking each other straight in the face, Mary a littlebreathless and wondering: "And so you'll find, " Reggie repeated alittle louder, and there was a look in his eyes that caused Mary todrop hers, and she rode on. 

Reggie caught her up. 

"Are you sorry, Mary?" he asked gently. 

"About what?"

"Well . . . About everything. The story, and my ferocious mentalattitude, and all the rest of it. "

He laid his hand on her horse's neck, and leaned forward to look in herface. They were riding very close together, and Mary was too near thehedge to put more distance between them. 

"I can't be sorry you write so well, " she said slowly, "it is veryexciting--is the news for publication or not?"

"I'd be grateful if you'd say nothing as yet--you see I've only donethese two, and what's a couple of short stories? Besides, it's notreally my job, only it's amusing, and one can rub it in that way, andreach a larger class than by the strictly military article--no oneknows anything about it except the editor of _The Point of View_--andyou--I'd rather you didn't mention it, if you don't mind. "

"Of course I shan't mention it, but I shall look out for 'Ubique' withmuch greater interest. "

"And still think him a beast?"

"That depends on what he writes. "

"I'm not so much concerned about what you think of Ubique as that youshould remember that I mean what I say. "

"You say a good many absurd things. "

"Yes, but this is not absurd--when I want a thing very much . . . "

"Oh, you needn't say all that again. Be a silent, strong man like theheroes in Seton Merriman, they're much the best kind. "

"I'm not particularly silent, but I flatter myself that . . . "

"It's a shame to crawl over this lovely grass--come on and have acanter, " said Mary. 

That night Reggie Peel sat long by his bedroom fire. The bedroom firewas a concession to his acknowledged grown-upness. The young Ffolliotswere allowed no bedroom fires. Only when suffering from bad colds orin the very severest weather was a fire granted to any child out of thenursery. But Reggie, almost a captain now, was popular with theservants, especially with the stern Sophia, head-housemaid, and shedecreed that he had reached the status of a visitor, and must, therefore, have a fire in his bedroom at night. He sat before it now, swinging the poker which had just stirred it to a cheerful blaze. Hehad carefully switched off the light, for they were very economical ofthe electric light at Redmarley. It had cost such a lot to put in. 

Five years ago he and General Grantly between them had supervised itsinstallation, and the instruction of the head-gardener in themanagement of the dynamo-room; each going up and down, as often as theycould get away, to share the discomfort with Mrs Ffolliot, and lookafter the men. Mrs Grantly was, for once, almost satisfied, for shehad carried off all the available children. Mr Ffolliot had decreedthat the work should be done while he was in the South of France, andexpressed a strong desire that all should be in order before hisreturn; and it was finished, for he stayed away seven weeks. 

And Reggie sat remembering all this, five years ago; and how justbefore the children were sent to their grandmother Mary used to want tosit on his knee, and how he would thrust her off with insulting remarksas to her weight and her personal appearance generally. 

She was a good deal heavier now, he reflected, and yet--

Reggie had come to the parting of the ways, and had decided which hewould follow. 

Like most ambitious young men he had, so far, taken as his motto acouplet, which, through over-usage, has become a platitude--

 "High hopes faint on a warm hearth-stone, He travels the fastest who travels alone. "

Reggie had accepted this as an incontrovertible truth impossible todispute; but then he had never until lately felt the smallest desire totravel through life accompanied by any one person. He had fallen inand out of love as often as was wholesome or possible for sohard-working a young man, and always looked upon the experience as anagreeable relaxation, as it undoubtedly is. But never for one momentdid he allow such evanescent attachments to turn him a hair's breadthout of his course. Now something had happened to him, and he knew thatfor the future the platitude had become a lie, and that the onlyincentive either to high hopes or their fulfilment lay in the prospectof a hearth-stone shared by the girl who a few hours ago declared thatshe "would not like to fall into that man's hands. "

Reggie was very modern. He built no altar to Mary in his heart nor didhe set her image in a sacred shrine apart. He had no use for anyone ina shrine. He wanted a comrade, and he craved this particular comradewith all the intensity of a well-disciplined, entirely practicalnature. He was not in the least conceited, but he knew that if helived he would "get there, " and the fact that he never had had, or everwould have, sixpence beyond the pay he earned did not deter him in hisquest a single whit. Mary wouldn't have sixpence either. He knew theRedmarley rent-roll to a halfpenny. Mrs Ffolliot frankly talked overher affairs with him ever since he left Woolwich, and more than oncehis shrewd judgment unravelled some tangle which Mr Ffolliot'ssingularly unbusiness-like habits had created. He knew very well thatwere it not for General Grantly the boys could never have got thechance each was to get. That General Grantly was spending the money hewould have left his daughter at his death in helping her children nowwhen they needed it most. Mary and he were young and strong. Theycould rough it at first. Afterwards--he had no fears about thatafterwards if Mary cared. 

But would Mary care?

Reggie felt none of the qualms of a more sensitive man in making loveto a very young girl who might certainly, both as regarded looks andsocial position, be expected to make an infinitely better marriage. Hewas assailed by no misgivings as to what might be thought of the manwho made use of his position as almost a son of the house to make loveto this girl hardly out of the schoolroom. 

It was Mr Ffolliot's business to guard against such possibilities. 

If, however, he might be called unscrupulous on that score, his senseof fairness was stronger than his delicacy; for where the latter provedno obstacle, the former decided him that it would not be playing thegame to make open love to Mary till she had "been out a bit, " and helaid down the poker with a smothered oath. 

He had gone further than he intended that afternoon and he wassorry--but not very sorry. "There's no harm in letting her know I'm inthe running, " he reflected. "I hope it will sink in. Otherwise shemight stick me down in the same row with Grantly and the twins, whichis the last thing in the world I want. "

He was glad he had told her about that story, even if it revealed himin an unfavourable light. "If she ever cares for me, and God help meif she doesn't--she must care for me as I really am, an ugly devil withsome brains and a queer temper. I'll risk no disillusionmentafterwards. She must see plenty of other chaps first--confound them;but if any one out of the lot shows signs of making a dart I'll cut infirst, I won't wait another minute, I'm damned if I will. "

And suddenly conscious that he had spoken aloud, Reggie undressed andwent to bed, knowing full well that even though the hearth-stone shouldbe eternally cold, and the high hopes flattened beyond all possiblerecognition, there yet remained to him something passing the love ofwomen. 

For Reggie was not without an altar and a secret shrine, though noteven the figure of the woman he loved best would ever fill it. Thesacred fire of his devotion burned with a steady flame that illuminedhis whole life, though not even to himself did he confess the vows hepaid. 

"One must choose one's own mystery: the great thing is to have one. "And if prayer be the daily expression to the soul of the desire to dothe right thing, then Reggie prayed without ceasing that he might dohis WORK, and do it well. His profession was his God, and he servedfaithfully and with a single heart. 

 * * * * * *

Mary had no fire to sit over, but all the same she dawdled throughouther undressing and, unlike Reggie, wasted the precious electric light. She had a great deal to think about, for Grantly and Reggie were notthe only people to confide in Mary that holiday. The day before heleft, General Grantly had taken her for a walk, sworn her to secrecy, and then had sprung upon her a most astounding project. No other thanthat he and Mrs Grantly should take her mother with them when they wentto the South of France for March--their mother without any of them. 

"She has never had a real holiday by herself since she was married, "the General said, "and my idea is that she should come with us directlyyour father gets back. The boys will be at school--Grantly at theShop. There will only be the two little ones and your father toconsider, and you could look after them. I'd like to take you too, mydear, but I don't fancy your mother could be persuaded to leave yourfather unless there was someone to see to things for him. "

"She'd never leave father alone, " Mary said decidedly; "but she might, oh, she might go now I'm really grown up. I should love her to go. Don't you think"--Mary's voice was very wistful--"that she's beenlooking a little tired lately . . . Not quite so beautiful . . . Asusual?"

"Ah, you've noticed it too--that settles it--not a word, mind; if it'ssprung upon her at a few days' notice it may come off. If she has timeto think she'll discover insurmountable difficulties. Strategy, mydear, strategy must be our watchword. "

"But father, " Mary suggested dubiously, "who's going to manage him?"

"I think, " the General said grimly, "I think we may safely leave yourfather in Grannie's hands. She has undertaken to square him, and, whatshe undertakes--I have never known her fail to put through. "

"It will be most extraordinary to have mother go off for quite a longtime by herself, " Mary said thoughtfully. 

"She won't be by herself, she'll be with _her_ father and mother; hasit never occurred to you as possible that sometimes we might like ourdaughter to ourselves?"

Mary turned an astonished face towards her grandfather, exclaimingemphatically, "No, Ganpy, it certainly never has . . . Before. "

CHAPTER XVII

THE RAM-CORPS ANGEL

Grannie was writing letters. Grandfather had gone into London to theWar Office, and it was only ten o'clock. Grannie was safe for an houror two, for she was sending out notices about something, and thatalways took a long time. 

Ger was rather at a loose end, but with the admirable spirit of theadventurous for making the best of things, he decided to go forth andsee what he could see. No one was in the hall to question him as hewent out, and he made straight for the common, where something excitingwas always toward. He had forgotten to put on a coat, and the wind wascold, so he ran along with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Hiscap was old, his suit, "a descended suit, " was old, and his face, though it was still so early in the day, was far from clean. 

For once the common was almost deserted; but far away in front of the"Shop" a thin line of khaki proclaimed the fact that some of the cadetswere drilling. 

Ger loved the Shop. He had been there on several occasions, accompanied by one or other of his grandparents, to see Grantly, and heknew that he must not go in alone, or his brother would, as he put it, "get in a bate. " But there could be no objection to his standing atthe gate and looking in at the parade ground. He knew the porter, anice friendly chap who would not drive him away. 

He turned off the common into the road that runs up past the CadetHospital. He knew the Cadet Hospital, for once he had gone there withGrannie to visit "a kind of cousin" who had broken his collar-bone inthe riding-school. As he passed Ger looked in at the open door. Alittle crowd of rather poor-looking people stood in the entrance, amongthem a boy about his own age, with a great pad of cotton-wool fastenedover his ear by a bandage. 

A crowd of any sort had always an irresistible fascination for Ger. Heskipped up the path and pushed in among the waiting people to the sideof the boy with the tied-up head. 

"Got a sore ear?" he murmured sympathetically. 

"Wot's it to you wot I got?" was the discouraging reply. 

"Well, I'm sorry, you know, " said Ger with obvious sincerity. 

The boy looked hard at him and grunted. 

"What are you here for?" Ger whispered. 

"The Myjor, 'e got to syringe it, " the boy mumbled, but this time histone was void of offence. 

"Does it hurt?"

"'E don't 'urt, not much, 'e is careful; 'e's downright afraid ofurtin' ya'. . . . An' if 'e does 'urt, it's becos 'e can't 'elp it, an' so, " here he wagged his head impressively, "ya' just doesn't leton . . . See? Wots the matter wiv you?"

Here was a poser. Yet Ger was consumed by a desire to see thismysterious "myjor" who syringed ears and didn't hurt people. He hadfallen upon an adventure, and he was going to see it out. 

"I don't know exactly, " he whispered mysteriously, "but I've got to seehim. "

"P'raps they've wrote about ya', " the bandaged boy suggested. 

Ger thought this was unlikely, but let the suggestion passunchallenged. He watched the various people vanish into a room on theright, saw them come out again, heard the invariable "Next please"which heralded the seclusion of a new patient, till everybody had goneand come back and gone forth into the street again save only thebandaged boy and himself. 

"You nip in w'en I comes out, " the boy said encouragingly, "it's a bitlyte already, but 'e'll see ya' if yer slippy. "

It seemed a long time to Ger as he waited. The little crowd of womenand children had melted away. Men in blue cotton jackets passed to andfro across the hall, "Sister, " in a curious headdress and scarlet cape, looking like a picture by Carpaccio, came out of another room, went upthe staircase and vanished from view. No one spoke to him or asked hisbusiness, and Ger stood in a dark corner holding his cap in his handsand waiting. 

At last the boy came back with a clean bandage and a big new pad ofcotton-wool over the syringed ear. 

"'Urry up, " he whispered as he passed. "I told 'im as there was onemore. "

Ger hurried. 

Once inside that mysterious door he started violently, for a tallfigure clad in a long white smock was standing near a sink brushing hisnails. He wore a black band round his head, and on his forehead, attached to the band, was a round mirror. The very brightest mirrorGer had ever seen. 

So this was the Myjor. 

The uniform was quite new to Ger. 

The eyes under the mirror were very blue, and for the rest thisstrangely clad tall man had a brown moustache and a pleasant voice ashe turned, and drying his hands the while, said:

"Well, young shaver, what's the matter with you?"

In his eight years Ger had had but few aches and pains save such asfollowed naturally upon falls or fights, but he knew that if thisinterview was to be prolonged he must have something, so he hazarded anailment. 

"I've a muzzy feeling in my head sometimes, sir, a sort of ache, notbad, you know. "

The Myjor looked very hard at Ger as he spoke--evidently the littleboy's voice and accent were in some way unexpected. 

He sat down and drew him forward close to his knees. The round mirroron his forehead flashed into Ger's eyes and he winced. 

"Headache, eh?" said the Myjor cheerfully. "You don't look as thoughyou ought to get headaches. Can you read?"

"No, sir, that's just what I can't do, and there's awful rows about it. I can't seem to read, I don't want to much, but I do try . . . I doreally, but it's so muddly. "

"How long have you been learning?"

"Years and years, " said Ger mournfully. "They say Kitten 'll readbefore me, and she's only four. "

"Um, " said the Myjor, "that will never do. We can't have Kittenstealing a march on us that way. This must be seen into. By the way, what's your name?"

"Gervais Folaire Ffolliot, " Ger answered solemnly, as though he weresaying his catechism. 

"Ffolliot . . . Ffolliot . . . Where d'you live?"

"Redmarley . . . It's a long way from here. "

"What are you doing here, then?"

"I'm stopping with grannie and grandfather. "

"And who is grandfather?"

"General Grantly, " Ger answered promptly, smiling broadly. He alwaysfelt that his grandfather was a trump card anywhere, but in Woolwichmost of all, "and he's got such a lot of medals, teeny ones, you know, like the big ones. I can read _them_, " he added proudly. "I know themall. Grannie taught me. "

"But why have you come to me? And why on earth do you come in amongthe wives and children of the Shop servants?"

"The door was open, " Ger explained, "and I talked to the ear boy, andhe said you were most awfully gentle and didn't hurt and hated if youhad to--so I knew you were kind, and I'm awfully fond of kind people, so I wanted to see you--you're not cross, are you?" he asked anxiously. 

"Um, " again remarked the Myjor, and stared at Ger thoughtfully. "Well, " he said at last, "since you are here, what is it you find sohard about reading?"

"It's so muddly, " Ger complained, "nasty little letters and all so muchalike. "

"Exactly so, " said the Myjor. 

Then he drew down the blinds. 

Ger's heart beat fast. Here was an adventure indeed, and when you wereonce well in for an adventure all sorts of queer things happened. 

Unprecedented things happened to Ger, but he was never very clearafterwards as to what they were. So many things were "done to him"that he became quite confused. Lights flashed into eyes, lights sobrilliant that they quite hurt. Curious spectacles with heavy framesand glasses that took in and out were placed upon his nose, and he wasonly allowed to use one eye at a time, the other being blotted out by ablack disk in the spectacles. At last he looked through with both eyestogether at letters on a card, letters that were blacker and clearerthan any he had ever seen before . . . And the blinds were drawn up. 

"Will you please tell me, " Ger asked politely, "what is that curiousuniform you wear? I don't seem to have seen it before, an' I've seen agreat many. "

The Myjor laughed. "It's my working kit; don't you like it?"

"Very much, " said Ger, "I think you look like an angel. "

"Really, " said the Myjor. "I haven't met any, so I don't know. "

"I haven't exactly met any, " said Ger, "but I've seen portraits of two, and . . . I know a lot about them. "

"Now, young man, you listen to me, " said the Ram-Corps Angel. "Eyesare not my job really, but I'm glad you looked in to see me, for I'llsend you to someone who'll put you right and you'll read long beforethe Kitten. She'll never catch you. Right away you'll go, she won'tbe in the same field. You'd better go back now, or Mrs Grantly will bewondering where you are--cheer up about that reading. "

"Will I?" Ger asked breathlessly. "Shall I be able to get into theShop? They pill you for eyes, you know. "

"Your eyes will be all right by the time you're ready for the Shop. You see crooked just now, you know--and it wants correcting, that'sall. "

"What?" cried Ger despairingly. "Do I squint?"

"Bless you, no; the sight of your two eyes is different, that'sall--when you get proper glasses you'll be right as rain. Lots ofpeople have it . . . If you'd been a Board School you'd have been seento long ago, " he added, more to himself than to Ger. 

Then Ger shook hands with the Ram-Corps Angel and walked rather slowlyand thoughtfully across the common to grandfather's house though thewind was colder than ever. He forgot to look in at the Shop gate, butthe parade ground was empty. The cadets had finished drilling. Gerhad been so long in that darkened room. 

He had lunch alone with his grannie, for grandfather was lunching athis club. There was no poking of the Ffolliot children intoschoolrooms and nurseries for meals when they stayed with the ganpies. His face was clean and his hair very smooth, and he held back MrsGranny's chair for her just as grandfather did. She stooped and kissedthe fresh, friendly little face and told him he was a dear, which wasmost pleasant. 

He was hungry and the roast mutton was very good, moreover he was goingto the Zoo that afternoon directly after lunch, grannie's French maidwas to take him. They were to have a taxi from Charing Cross, andlunch passed pleasantly, enlivened by the discussion of this enchantingplan. 

Presently he asked, apropos of nothing: "Do all the Ram-Corps officerslook like angels?"

"Like angels!" Mrs Grantly repeated derisively. "Good gracious, no!Very plain indeed, some of them I've seen. "

"The one at the Cadet Hospital does, " Ger said positively, "like agreat big angel and a dear. "

"Who? Major Murray?" Mrs Grantly inquired, looking puzzled; "wherehave you seen him?"

But at this very moment someone came to tell Ger it was time to getready, and in the fuss and excitement of seeing him off, his grannieforgot all about the Ram Corps and its angelic attributes. 

It was her day. Guest after guest arrived, and she was pretty tired bythe time she had given tea to some five and twenty people. 

The General never came in at all till the last guest had gone. Then hesought his wife, and standing on the hearth-rug with his back to thefire he told her that Major Murray had been to see him, and hadrecounted Ger's visit of the morning, and the result of hisinvestigations. 

Mrs Grantly, which was unusual, never interrupted once. 

"So you can understand, " the General concluded, "I didn't feel likefacing a lot of people. "

"I shall write at once to Margie, " Mrs Grantly cried breathlessly, "andtell her she is a fool. "

"I wouldn't do that, " the General said gently; "poor Margie, she has agood deal on her shoulders. "

"All the same--do you remember that that unfortunate child has beenpunished--punished because he was considered idle and obstinate overhis lessons . . . Punished . . . Little Ger--friendly, jolly littleGer . . . I can't bear it, " and Mrs Grantly burst into tears. 

The General looked very much as though he would like to cry too. "It'san unfortunate business, " he said huskily, "but you see, none of ushave ever had any eye trouble, and the other children have all suchgood sight . . . It never occurred to me . . . I must confess . . . Ofcourse it can be put right very easily; you're to take him to theoculist to-morrow; I've telephoned and made the appointment. "

Mrs Grantly dried her eyes. 

"We're all to blame, " she exclaimed, "I'm just as much to blame asMargie . . . She'll be fearfully upset I don't know how to tell her. "

"Tell you what, " exclaimed the General, "I'll write to Ffolliot . . . I'll do it now, this instant, and the letter will catch the 7. 30post . . . "

At the door he paused and added more cheerfully, "I shall enjoy writingto Ffolliot. "

CHAPTER XVIII

WHAT FOLLOWED

As General Grantly had predicted, Mrs Ffolliot was very much upset whenshe heard about Ger's eyes, and was for rushing up to London herself, there and then to interview the oculist. But Mr Ffolliot dissuadedher. For one thing, he hated Redmarley without her even for a singlenight. For another, he considered such a journey a needless expense. This, however, he did not mention, but contented himself with thesuggestion that it would seem a reflection upon Mrs Grantly'scompetence to do anything of the kind; and that consideration weighedheavily with his wife where the other would have been brushed aside asimmaterial and irrelevant. "I can't understand it, " the Squireremarked plaintively; "I did not know there had ever been any eyetrouble in your family. "

"There never has, so far as I know; but surely, " and Mrs Ffolliot spokewith something less than her usual gentle deference, "we needn't seekfar to find where Ger gets his. "

"Do you mean that he inherits it from ME?"

"Well, my dear Larrie, surely _you've_ got defective sight, else whythe monocle?"

"But Ger isn't a bit like me. He is all Grantly. In character, Isometimes think he resembles your mother, he is so fond of society; inappearance he's very like the others, except the Kitten. Now, if theKitten's sight had been astigmatic . . . "

"We must take care that she doesn't suffer from neglect like poorlittle Ger, " Mrs Ffolliot interrupted rather bitterly. "I shall writeat once to their house-master to have the twins' eyes tested. I'll runno more risks. We know Grantly's all right because he passed hismedical so easily. Poor, poor little Ger. "

"It certainly is most unfortunate, " said Mr Ffolliot. 

He was really concerned about Ger, but mingled with his concern was thefeeling that the little boy had taken something of a liberty indeveloping that particular form of eye trouble. It seemed an unfilialreflection upon himself. Moreover, there was something in theGeneral's letter plainly stating the bare facts that he did not exactlylike. It was, he considered, "rather brusque. " He started for theSouth, of France four days earlier than he had originally intended. 

Ger was taken to the great oculist in London, who confirmed the"Myjor's" diagnosis of his case, and he was forthwith put into largeround spectacles. When he got them, his appearance brought the tearsto his grandmother's eyes--tears she rigidly repressed, for Ger was soenormously proud of them. The first afternoon he wore them he wentwith his grandfather to see Grantly playing in a football match at theShop, and among those watching on the field he espied his friend "theRam-Corps Angel. " Ger knew him at once, although he wore no whitegarment, not even khaki, just a plain tweed suit like his grandfather's. 

While the General was deep in conversation with the "Commy, " Gerslipped away and sought his friend. 

"Hullo, " said the 'Myjor, ' "so you've got 'em on. "

"Yes, sir, " said Ger, saluting solemnly, "and I'm very much obliged. It's lovely to see things so nice and clear. Please may I ask yousomething?"

The Major stepped back out of the crowd and Ger slipped a small handconfidingly into his. Ger had not been to school yet, so there wereexcuses for him. 

"Do you think, " he asked earnestly, "that if I'm very industr'us anddon't turn out quite so stupid as they expected, that by-and-by I mightget into the Ram Corps?"

Major Murray looked down very kindly at the anxious upturned face withthe large round spectacles. 

"But I thought the Shop was the goal of your ambition?"

"So it was, sir, at first. Then I gave it up because it seemed sodifficult, and I talked it over with Willets, and he said _he'd_ neverhad a great deal of book-learnin'--though he writes a beautiful hand, far better than father--and then I thought I'd be a gamekeeper. "

"And what did Willets think?"

"Well, he didn't seem to be very sure--and now I come to think of it, I'm not very fond of killing things . . . So if there was just achance . . . "

"I'd go into the Ram Corps if I were you, " said Major Murray; "by thetime you're ready, gamekeepers--if there are any--will have to passexams, like all the other poor beggars. You bet your boots on that. Some Board of Forestry or other will start 'em, you see if they don't. "

"Oh, well, if there's to be exams, that settles it. I certainly shan'tbe one, " Ger said decidedly; "I've been thinking it over a lot----"

"Oh, you have, have you?"

"An' it seems to me . . . "

"Yes, it seems to you?"

"That pr'aps you get to know people better if you mend all theiraccidents and things. I'm awfully fond of people, they're sointrusting, I'd rather know about them than anything. "

"What sort of people?"

"The men you know, and their wives and children; they're awfully nice, the ones I know--and if you see after them when they're ill and that, they're bound to be a bit fond of you, aren't they?"

Major Murray gave the cold little hand in his a squeeze. "It seems tome, " he said, "that you're just the sort of chap we want. You stick toit. "

"Is it _very_ hard to get in?"

"Well, it isn't exactly easy, but it's dogged as does it, and if youstart now--why, you've plenty of time. "

"That's settled then, " said Ger, "and when you're MedicalInspector-General or some big brass hat like the fat old gentleman whocame to see Ganpy yesterday--you'll say a good word for me, won't you?"

"I will, " Major Murray promised, "I most certainly will. "

"You see, " Ger continued, beaming through his spectacles, "if there'swar I should be bound to go, they can't get on without the Ram Corpsthen, and I'd be doing things for people all day long. Oh, it would begrand. "

"It strikes me, " said Major Murray, more to himself than to Ger, "thatyou stand a fair chance of getting your heart's desire--more than mostpeople. "

"I'm very partikler about my nails now, " said Ger. "I saw youscrubbing yours that day at the Cadet Hospital. "

When he got home Mrs Ffolliot retired to her room and cried long andheartily, but Ger never knew it. His spectacles to him were a joy anda glory, and he confided to the Kitten that _his_ guardian angel, Sergeant-Major Spinks, did sentry beside them every night so that theyshouldn't get lost or broken. 

"My angel's in prizzen, " the Kitten announced dramatically. 

"In prison!" exclaimed Ger, "whatever for?"

"For shooting turkeys, " the Kitten replied, "an' he's all overchicken-spots. "

"Why did he shoot turkeys for?"

"'Cause he wanted more feathers for his wings. "

"But that wouldn't give him chicken-spots. "

"No, _that_ didn't--he got them at a pahty, like you did lastChristmas. "

"Poor chap, " said Ger, "but I can't see why he stays in prison when hecould fly away. "

"They clipped his wings, " the Kitten said importantly, "an' I'm glad;he can't come and bother me no more now. "

"I hope Spinks won't go shooting fowls and things in his off-time, " Gersaid anxiously. "I must warn him. "

"Pheasants wouldn't matter so much, " the Kitten said leniently, "Iasked Willets; but turkeys is orful. "

"Not at all sporting to shoot turkeys, " Ger agreed, "though they are socross and gobbly. "

In the middle of February Mrs Ffolliot fell a victim to influenza, andshe was really very ill. 

At first she would not allow anyone to tell her husband about it, butwhen she became too weak to write herself, Mary took it upon her toinform her father of her mother's state. The doctor insisted onsending a nurse, as three of the servants had also collapsed, and MrsGrantly came down from Woolwich to see to things generally; though whenshe came, she acknowledged that Mary had done everything that could bedone. 

Mr Ffolliot curtailed his holiday by a week, and returned at the end ofFebruary, to find his wife convalescent, but thin and pale and weak ashe had never before seen her during their married life. 

He decided that he would take her for a fortnight to Bournemouth. 

But Mrs Grantly had other views. 

She, Mary, and Mr Ffolliot were sitting at breakfast the day after hisreturn, when he suggested the Bournemouth plan with what Willets wouldhave called his most "Emp'rish air. "

Mrs Grantly looked across at Mary and the light of battle burned in herbright brown eyes. 

"I don't think Bournemouth would be one bit of good for Margie, " shesaid briskly, "you can't be sure of sunshine--it may be mild, but it'smorally certain to rain half the time, and Margie needs cheerfulsurroundings--sunshine--and the doctor says . . . A complete change ofscene and people. "

"Where would you propose that I should take her?" Mr Ffolliot asked, fixing his monocle and staring steadily at his mother-in-law. 

"To tell you the truth, Hilary, I don't propose that _you_ should takeher anywhere. What I propose is that her father and I should take herto Cannes with us a week to-day. "

"To Cannes, " Mr Ffolliot gasped, "in a week. I don't believe she couldstand the journey. "

"Oh yes, she could. Her father will see that she does it ascomfortably as possible, and I shall take Ad�le, who can look afterboth of us. We'll stay a night in Paris, and at Avignon if Margieshows signs of being very tired. You must understand that Margie willgo as our guest. "

Mr Ffolliot dropped his monocle and leant back in his chair. "It ismost kind of you and the General, " he said politely, "but I doubt verymuch if she can be persuaded to go. "

"Oh she's going, " Mrs Grantly said easily, while Mary, with scarletcheeks, looked at her plate, knowing well that the subject had neverbeen so much as touched upon to her mother. "You see, Hilary, she hashad a good deal of Redmarley, and the children and you, during the lasttwenty years, and it will do her all the good in the world to get awayfrom you all for a bit. Don't you agree with me, Mary?"

Mary lifted her downcast eyes and looked straight at her father. "Thedoctor says it's mother's only chance of getting really strong, " shesaid boldly, "to get right away from all of us. "

"You, my dear Hilary, " Mrs Grantly continued in the honeyed tones herfamily had long ago learnt to recognise as the precursor of verbalcastigation for somebody, "would not be the agreeable and well-informedperson you are, did you not go away by yourself for a fairly long timeduring every year. I don't think you have missed once since Grantlywas born. How often has Margie been away by herself, even for a coupleof nights?"

"Margie has never expressed the slightest wish to go away, " Mr Ffolliotsaid reproachfully. "I have often deplored her extreme devotion to herchildren. "

"Somebody had to be devoted to her children, " said Mrs Grantly. 

Mr Ffolliot ignored this thrust, saying haughtily, "Since I understandthat this has all been settled without consulting me, I cannot see thatany good purpose can be served in further discussion of the arrangementnow, " and he rose preparatory to departure. 

"Wait, Hilary, " Mrs Grantly rose too. "I don't think you quiteunderstand that the smallest objection on your part to Margie would atonce render the whole project hopeless. What you've got to do is tosmile broadly upon the scheme----"

Here Mary gasped, the "broad smile" of the Squire upon anything oranybody being beyond her powers of imagination. 

"Otherwise, " Mrs Grantly paused to frown at Mary, who softly vanishedfrom the room, "you may have Margie on your hands as an invalid forseveral months, and I don't think you'd like that. "

"But who, " Mr Ffolliot demanded, "will look after things while she'saway?"

"Why you and Mary, to be sure. My dear Hilary, " Mrs Grantly saidsweetly, "a change is good for all of us, and it will be wholesome foryou to take the reins into your own hands for a bit. I confess I'veoften wondered how you could so meekly surrender the whole managementof this big place to Margie. It's time you asserted yourself a little. "

Mr Ffolliot stared gloomily at Mrs Grantly, who smiled at him in thefriendliest fashion. "You see, " she went on, "you are, if I may sayso, a little unobservant, or you would perhaps have personallyinvestigated what made Ger, an otherwise quite normally intelligentchild, so very stupid over his poor little lessons. "

"I've always left everything of that sort to his mother. "

"I know you have--but do you think it was quite fair? And for a longtime Margie has been looking thin and fagged. Her father was mostconcerned about it at Christmas--but I never heard you remark upon it. "

"She never complains, " Mr Ffolliot said feebly. 

"Complains, " Mrs Grantly repeated scornfully. "We're not a complainingfamily. But I should have thought _you_ with your strong love of thebeautiful would at least have remarked how she has gone off in looks. "

"She hasn't, " said Mr Ffolliot with some heat. 

"She looks her age, every day of it, " Mrs Grantly persisted. "When webring her back she'll look like Mary's sister!"

"How long do you propose to be away?"

"Oh, three weeks or a month; at the most a fortnight less than you havehad every year for nineteen years. "

Mr Ffolliot made no answer; he took out his cigarette case and lit acigarette with hands that were not quite steady. 

"You quite understand then, Hilary, that you are to put the wholeweight of your authority into the scale that holds France for Margie?"

"I thought you said it was settled?"

"My dear man, you know what a goose she is; if she thought you hatedit, nothing would induce her to go--you _must_ consider her for once. "

"I really must protest, " Mr Ffolliot said stiffly, "against yourgratuitous assumption that _I_ care nothing for Margie's welfare. "

"Not at all, " Mrs Grantly said smoothly, "I only ask for a modestmanifestation of your devotion, that's all. "

"Shall I go to her now?" said Mr Ffolliot with the air of a lamb led tothe slaughter. 

"Certainly not--she'll probably be trying to get up lest you shouldwant her for anything. _I'll_ go and keep her in bed till luncheon. You may come and see her at eleven. "

When Fusby came in for the breakfast tray, Mr Ffolliot was stillstanding on the hearth-rug immersed in thought. 

CHAPTER XIX

MARY AND HER FATHER

In the lives of even the strongest and most competent among us, therewill arise moments when decision of any kind has become impossible, andit is a real relief to have those about us who settle everythingwithout asking whether we like it or not. Such times are almost alwaysthe result of physical debility, when the enfeebled body so reacts uponbrain and spirit that no matter how vigorous the one or valorous theother, both seem atrophied. 

It is at such times that we have cause to bless the doctor who is astrong man, and fears not to give orders or talk straight talk; and therelations who never so much as mention any plan till it has beendecided, taking for granted we will approve the arrangements they havemade. 

We are generally acquiescent, for it is so blessed to drift passivelyin the wake of these determined ones, till such time as, with returningphysical strength, the will asserts itself once more. 

Thus it fell out that Mrs Ffolliot was surprisingly submissive when shewas told by the doctor, a plain-spoken country doctor, who did notmince his words, that she must seize the chance offered of going to theSouth of France with her parents, or he wouldn't answer for theconsequences. 

"You are, " he said, "looking yellow and dowdy, and you are feeling blueand hysterical; if you don't go away at once you'll go on doing bothfor an interminable time. "

Mrs Ffolliot laughed. "Then I suppose for the sake of the rest of thefamily I ought to go"--and she went. 

If Mr Ffolliot did not take Mrs Grantly's advice and look after thingshimself, he certainly was forced to attend to a good many tiresomedetails in the management of things outside the Manor House than hadever fallen to his lot before. Mary saved him all she could, butWillets and Heaven and Fusby seemed to take a malicious delight inconsulting him about trivial things that he found himself quite unableto decide one way or other. 

At first he tried to put them off with "Ask Miss Mary, " but Willetsshook his head, smiled kindly, and said firmly, "Twouldn't be fair, sir, 'twouldn't really. "

Ger and the Kitten had never seemed so tiresome and ubiquitous before, coming across his path at every turn; and Ger certainly nullified anyuneasiness on the Squire's part regarding his eyes by practising, inand out of season, upon a discarded bugle. A bugle bought for him byone of his friends in the Royal 'Orse for the sum of three andninepence. Ger had amassed three shillings of this sum, and thegood-natured gunner never mentioned the extra ninepence. 

Ger had a quick ear and could already pick out little tunes on thepiano with one finger, though, so far, he had found musical notation asdifficult as every other kind of reading. 

But he took to the bugle like a duck to water, and on an evil daysomeone in Woolwich had taught him the peace call, "Come to theCookhouse Door. "

The inhabitants of Redmarley were summoned to the cook-house door fromevery part of the village, from the woods, from the riverside, and fromthe churchyard. 

He played the bugle in the nursery and in the stableyard, he played itin the attics and outside the servants' hall when the servants' dinnerwas ready. 

He was implored, threatened and punished, but all without avail, forGer had tasted the joys of achievement. He had found what superiorpersons call "the expression of his essential ego, " and just then hiscosmos was all bugle. 

Not even his good-natured desire to oblige people was proof againstthis overwhelming desire to call imaginary troops to feed together onevery possible and impossible occasion. He did try to keep a good wayfrom the house, or to choose moments in the house when he knew hisfather was out, but he made mistakes. He could not discover byapplying his eye to the keyhole of the study door whether his fatherwas in the room or not, and, as he remarked bitterly, "Father alwayssat so beastly still" it was impossible to hear. 

He looked upon the Squire's objections as a cross, but the dread of hisfather's anger was nothing like so strong as his desire to play thebugle, and even the Squire perceived that short of taking the bugleaway from him, which would have broken his heart, there was nothing forit but to frown and bear it--in moderation. 

Mrs Grantly's very direct assault had made a small breach in the wallof Mr Ffolliot's complacency; and a fairly vivid recollection of theshilling episode inclined him to deal leniently with Ger while hismother was away. He rang the bell furiously for Fusby whenever themost distant strains of "Come to the Cook-house Door" smote upon hisears, and sent him post haste to stop that "infernal braying andbleating"; but beyond such unwelcome interruptions Ger tootled in peace. 

Mary was lonely and the days seemed long; she saw no one but herfather, the servants, the two children and Miss Glover, the meek littlegoverness, who seemed to spend most of her time in hunting for Geramong outhouses and gardens, and was scorned by Nana in consequence. 

When her mother was at home Mary was accustomed to wander aboutRedmarley unchallenged and unaccompanied save by the faithful Parker. But Mr Ffolliot took his duties as chaperon most seriously and expectedthat Mary should never stir beyond the gardens unless accompanied byMiss Glover. He even seemed suspicious as to her most innocentexpeditions, and every morning at breakfast demanded a minutetime-table planning her day. 

Mary didn't mind this. It was easy enough to say that after she hadinterviewed the cook (there was no housekeeper now at Redmarley) shewould practise, or read French with Miss Glover; or go into Marlehouseaccompanied by Miss Glover for a music lesson; or drive with MissGlover and the children to Marlehouse to do the weekly shopping; or gowith Miss Glover to the tailor to be fitted for a coat and skirt. Allthat was easy enough to reel off in answer to the Squire's inquiries. It was the afternoons that were difficult. She had been used to gointo the village and visit her friends, Willets, Miss Gallup, thelaundry-maid's mother, everybody there in fact, and now this seemed tobe forbidden her unless Miss Glover went too, which spoiled everything. 

Sometimes she walked with the Squire and tried to feel an intelligentinterest in Ercole Ferrarese, whose work Mr Ffolliot greatly admired. In fact he was just then engaged on a somewhat lengthy monographconcerning both the man and his work. 

Mary, in the hope of making herself a more congenial companion to herfather, even went as far as to look up "Ercole" in Vasari's _Lives_. But Vasari was not particularly copious in details as to ErcoleFerrarese, and the particulars he did give which impressed Mary werejust those most calculated to annoy her father. As, for instance, that"Ercole had an inordinate love of wine and was frequently intoxicated, in so much that his life was shortened by this habit. "

The difficulties that may arise from such an inordinate affection hadbeen brought home to her quite recently, and in one of their walkstogether after a somewhat prolonged silence she remarked to her father--

"It was a pity that poor Ercole drank so much, wasn't it?"

"Why seize upon a trifling matter of that sort when we are consideringthe man's work?" Mr Ffolliot asked angrily. "For heaven's sake, do notgrow into one of those people who only perceive the obvious; whose onlyknowledge of Cromwell would be that he had a wart on his nose. "

"I shouldn't say it was a very trifling matter seeing it killedhim--drink I mean, not Cromwell's wart, " Mary responded with morespirit than usual. "Vasari says so. "

"It is quite possible that he does, but it is not a salient feature. "

"A wart on the nose would be a very salient feature, " Mary ventured. 

"Exactly, that is what you would think and that is what I complain of. It is a strain that runs through the whole of you--except perhaps theKitten--a dreadful narrowness of vision--don't tell me your sight isgood--I'm only referring to your mental outlook. It is the fatalfrivolous attitude of mind that always remembers the wholly irrelevantstatement that the Earl of Warwick, the King-maker, was born when hismother was fourteen. "

"Was he?" Mary exclaimed with deep interest; "how very young to have ababy. "

Mr Ffolliot glared at her: "and nothing else, " he continued, ignoringthe interruption. 

"Oh, but I do remember other things about Ercole besides being adrunkard, " she protested; "he hated people watching him work, I canunderstand that, and he was awfully kind and faithful to his master. "

"All quite useless and trifling in comparison with what I, myself, havetold you of his work, which you evidently don't remember. It is aman's work that matters, not little peculiarities of temperament andcharacter. "

"I think, " Mary said demurely, "that little peculiarities oftemperament and character matter a good deal to the people who have tolive with them. "

"That is possible but quite unimportant. It is a man's intellect thatis immortal, not his temperament. "

Again a long silence till Mary said suddenly: "Mother has never writtenanything or painted anything or done anything very remarkable, and yetshe seems to matter a great deal to a lot of people besides us. Inever go outside the gates but people stop me and ask all sorts ofquestions about her. Surely character can matter too?"

Mr Ffolliot's scornful expression changed. He looked at his daughterwith interest. "Do you know, Mary, " he said quite amiably, "thatsometimes I think you can't be quite as stupid as you make yourselfappear. "

That was on Friday. On Saturday Mary was in dire disgrace. 

Nana had taken the children to a cinematograph show in Marlehouse. Miss Glover went with them in the bucket to visit a friend there. TheSquire had affixed a paper to the outside of the study door saying thathe was not to be disturbed till five o'clock, and it was a lovelyafternoon. The sort of afternoon when late March holds all the promiseof May, when early daffodils shine splendidly in sheltered corners, andlate snowdrops in a country garden look quite large and solemn. Whentrodden grass has a sweet sharp smell, and all sorts of pretty thingspeep from the crannies of old Cotswold walls: those loose grey wallsthat are so infinitely various, so dear and friendly in their constantbeautiful surprises. 

Mary saw the nursery party go, and stood and waved to them till theywere out of sight, when a faint and distant summons to the cook-housedoor proved that Ger had begun to play the instant the bucket hadturned out of the gates. 

Mary called Parker and went out. 

Down the drive she went, through the great gates and over the bridge toWillets' cottage. Willets was out, but Mrs Willets was delighted tosee her. Mrs Willets was a kind, comfortable person, who brewedexcellent home-made wines which she loved to bestow upon her friends. Mary partook of a glass of ginger wine, very strong and very gingery, and having given the latest news of the mistress (she, herself, was"our young lady" now), received in return the mournful intelligencethat Miss Gallup had had a touch of bronchitis, "reely downright badshe'd bin, and now she was about but weak as a kitten, and very low inher mind; if you'd the time just to call in and see 'er, I'm sure she'dtake it very kind, with your ma away, and all. "

So Mary hied her to Miss Gallup at the other end of Redmarley's onelong lopsided street. Her progress was a slow one, for at everycottage gate she was stopped with exclamations: "Why we thought you waslost, or gone to furrin parts with the mistress; none on us seen yousince Church last Sunday. "

At last she reached "Two Ways, " Miss Gallup's house, and Eloquent, ofall people in the world, opened the door to her. 

Mary merely thought "How nice of him to come and see his aunt, " andremarked aloud:

"Ah, Mr Gallup, I'm glad to see you've come to look after the invalid, I've only just heard of her illness. May I come in? Will it tire herto see me?"

And Eloquent could find no words to greet her except, "Please step thisway, " and he was nevertheless painfully aware that exactly so would hehave addressed her half a dozen years ago had he been leading her tothe haberdashery department of the Golden Anchor. 

Poor Eloquent was thrown off his mental balance altogether, for to himthis was no ordinary meeting. 

Picture the feelings of a young man who thinks he is opening the doorto the baker and finds incarnate spring upon the threshold. Spring inweather-beaten, well-cut clothes, with a sweet, friendly voice andadorable, cordial smile. 

There she was, sitting opposite Miss Gallup on one slippery horsehair"easy chair, " while her hostess, much beshawled, cushioned andfoot-stooled, sat on the other. 

"My dear, " Miss Gallup said confidentially, "Em'ly-Alice has gone tothe surgery for my cough mixture and some embrocation, and she takessuch a time. I'm certain she's loitering and gossiping, and she knowsI like my cup of tea at four, and you here, and all; if it wasn't thatmy leg's seem to crumble up under me I'd go and get it myself. "

"Dear Miss Gallup, don't be hard on Em'ly-Alice, " Mary pleaded; "it'ssuch a lovely afternoon I don't wonder she doesn't exactly hurry. Asfor tea, let me get you some tea----"

"I could, " Eloquent interposed hastily, "I'm sure I could, " and rosesomewhat vaguely to go to the kitchen. 

"Let us both get it, " Mary cried gaily, "we'll be twice as quick. "

And before Miss Gallup could protest they had gone to the kitchen andshe could hear them laughing. 

Mary was thoroughly enjoying herself. For three weeks she had pouredout tea for her father solemnly at five o'clock and been snubbed forher pains. 

Here were two people who liked her, who were glad to see her, whothought it kind of her to come. No girl can be wholly unconscious ofadmiration; nor, when it is absolutely reverential, can she resent it, and Mary felt no displeasure in Eloquent's. 

They could neither of them cut bread and butter. It was a plateful ofqueerly shaped bits that went in on the tray; but there was an egg forMiss Gallup, and the tea was excellent. 

Miss Gallup began to feel more leniently disposed towards Em'ly-Alice. "She's done for me pretty well on the whole, " she told Mary. "Doctor, he wanted me to have the parish nurse over to Marle Abbas, but I don'thold with those new-fangled young women. "

"She's a dear, " said Mary; "mother thinks all the world of her. "

"May be, may be, " Miss Gallup said dryly; "but when you come to my timeof life you've your own opinion about draughts. And as for thatconstant bathin' and washin', I don't hold with it at all. A bed's abed, I says, and not a bath, and if you're in bed you should stay thereand keep warm, and not have all the clothes took off you to have yourlegs washed. How can your legs _get_ dirty if you're tucked in withclean sheets, in a clean room, in a clean house. When I haves a bath Ilike it comfortable, once a week, at night in front of the kitchenfire, and Em'ly-Alice safe in bed. No, my dear, I don't hold withthese new-fangled notions, and Nurse Jones, she worries me to death. I'ad 'er once, and I said, never again--whiskin' in and whiskin' out, and opening windows and washin' me all over, like I 'was a baby--mostuncomfortable I call it. "

The clock on the mantelpiece struck five, Mary jumped up. "I mustfly, " she exclaimed, "it's time for father's tea; I've been enjoyingmyself so much I forgot all about the time. "

"You see Miss Mary as far as the gates, " Miss Gallup said to hernephew. "Em'ly-Alice is in, I 'eard 'er pokin' the fire the wastefulway she has. "

Mary did not want Eloquent, for she greatly desired to run, but hefollowed with such alacrity she had not the heart to forbid him. Hewalked beside her, or, more truly, he trotted beside her, through thevillage street, for Mary went at such a pace that Eloquent was almostbreathless. He found time, however, to tell her that he had paired atthe House on Friday, and took the week-end just to look after MissGallup, who had seemed rather low-spirited since her illness. They didthe distance in record time, and outside the gates they found MrFfolliot waiting. 

"I've been to see Miss Gallup, father, she has been ill, and I lookedin to inquire. . . . I don't think you know Mr Gallup. "

Mr Ffolliot bowed to Eloquent with a frigidity that plainly proved hehad no desire to know him. 

"I regret, " Mr Ffolliot said in an impersonal voice, "that Miss Galluphas been ill. Do you know, Mary, that it is ten minutes past five?"

"Good evening, Miss Ffolliot, " Eloquent said hastily; "it was most kindof you to call, and it did my aunt a great deal of good. Good-evening, Mr Ffolliot. " He lifted his hat and turned away. 

Mr Ffolliot stood perfectly still and looked his daughter over. Fromthe crown of her exceedingly old hat to her admirable boots he surveyedher leisurely. 

"Don't you want your tea, father?" Mary asked nervously, "or have youhad it?"

"I did want tea, at the proper hour, and I have not had it; but what Iwant much more than tea is an explanation of that young man's presencein your society. "

"I told you, father, I went to see Miss Gallup, who has had bronchitis, and he had come down from London for the week-end to see her, and so hewalked back with me. "

"Did you know he was there?"

"Of course not, " Mary flushed angrily, "I didn't know Miss Gallup hadbeen ill till Mrs Willets told me. I haven't been outside the groundsfor a fortnight except in the bucket, so I've heard no village news. "

"And why did you take it upon yourself to go outside the grounds to-daywithout consulting me?"

"I was rather tired of the garden, father, and it was such a lovelyday, and it seemed rather unkind never to go near any of the peoplewhen mother was away. "

"None of these reasons--if one can call them reasons--throws thesmallest light upon the fact that you have been parading the villagewith this fellow, Gallup. I have told you before, I don't wish to knowhim, I will not know him. His politics are abhorrent to me, and hisantecedents. . . . Surely by this time you know, Mary, that I do notchoose my friends from among the shopkeepers in Marlehouse. "

"I'm sorry, father, but this afternoon it really couldn't be helped. Icouldn't be rude to the poor man when he came with me. He seemed totake it for granted he should; Miss Gallup suggested it. I daresay hedidn't want to come at all. But they both meant it kindly--what couldI do?"

"What you can do, and what you must do, is to obey my orders. I willnot have you walk anywhere in company with that bounder----"

"He isn't a bounder, father. You're wrong there; whatever he may be heisn't that. "

Mr Ffolliot turned slowly and entered the drive. Mary followed, and insilence they walked up to the house. 

He looked at his tall daughter from time to time. She held her headvery high and her expression was rebellious. She really was anextremely handsome girl, and, in spite of his intense annoyance, MrFfolliot felt gratification in this fact. 

At the hall door he paused. "I must ask you to remember, Mary, thatyou are no longer a child, that your actions now can evoke both commentand criticism, and I must ask you to confine your friendships to yourown class. "

"I shall never be able to do that, " Mary answered firmly; "I love thevillage people far too much. "

"That is a wholly different matter, and you know very well that I havealways been the first to rejoice in the very friendly relations betweenus and--er--my good tenants. This Gallup person is not one of them. There is not the smallest necessity to know him, and what's more, Idecline to know him. Do you understand?"

"No, father, I don't. I can't promise to cut Mr Gallup or be rude tohim if I happen to meet him; he has done nothing to deserve it. Youdon't ask us to cut that odious Rabbich boy, who _is_ a bounder, if youlike. "

"I know nothing about the Rabbich boy, as you call him. If he is whatyou say, I should certainly advise you to drop his acquaintance; but Imust and do insist that you shall not further cultivate theacquaintance of this young Gallup. "

"He's going back to London to-morrow afternoon, father. What _is_there to worry about?"

Mr Ffolliot sighed. "I shall be glad, " he exclaimed, "when your motherreturns. "

"So will everybody, " said Mary. 

CHAPTER XX

THE GRANTLY STRAIN

Easter, that year, fell in the second week of April, and both Grantlyand the twins were home for it. Mrs Ffolliot was back too. TheRiviera had done wonders for her, and she returned beautiful and gay, and immensely glad to have her children round her once more. 

To celebrate Mrs Ffolliot's return, it was decided to give adinner-party. Dinner-parties were rare occurrences at the Manor. TheSquire allowed about two a year, and grumbled a good deal over each. If he would have left the whole thing to Mrs Ffolliot, she and everyoneelse would have enjoyed it; but he would interfere. Above all, heinsisted on supervising the list of guests, and settling who was to goin with whom. This time they were to number fourteen in all, and asGrantly and Mary were to be of the party, that left ten people to bediscussed. 

It was arranged with comparative ease till about a week before the dayfixed the bachelor intended for Mary broke his leg out hunting. Maryhad been allowed a new dress for the occasion; it would be the firsttime she had been at a real party in her father's house, and to be leftout would have been a cruel disappointment. 

Bachelors in that neighbourhood, even elderly bachelors, who came up tothe standard required by Mr Ffolliot were few, and there wascomparatively little time. 

The four elder children, their father, and mother were sitting atlunch; they had reached the cheese stage. Fusby and his attendant maidhad departed, and the question of a "man for Mary" occupied theattention of the family. When Mrs Ffolliot quite innocently dischargeda bomb into their midst by exclaiming, "I've got it. Let's ask MrGallup. He's our member; he was very kind in coming to tell me aboutpoor Buz's accident, very kind to him, too, I remember. It would be afriendly thing to do. The Campions are coming, they'd be pleased. "

Had Mrs Ffolliot not been gazing straight at her husband, she mighthave noticed that three pairs of startled eyes looked up at the samemoment, and then were bent sedulously on the table. 

Uz alone curiously regarded his brethren. Mr Ffolliot paused in thevery act of pouring himself out another glass of marsala and set thedecanter on the table with a thump, the glass only half-full. 

"Impossible, " he said coldly, "absolutely out of the question. "

"But why?" Mrs Ffolliot asked; "there's nothing against the young man, and it would be a friendly thing to do. "

"That's why I won't have it done, " Mr Ffolliot said decidedly. "Itwould give a false impression. He might be disposed to take liberties. "

"Oh no, Larrie; why should you think anything of that sort? It seemsto me such a pity people in the county shouldn't be friendly. TheCampions speak most highly of him. "

"My dear"--Mr Ffolliot spoke with evident self-restraint--"I do notcare to ask my friends to meet Mr Gallup as an equal. How could youask any lady of your own rank to go in to dinner with him? The thingis outrageous. "

"I was going to send him in with Mary, " Mrs Ffolliot said innocently. "We must get somebody, and I know he's in the neighbourhood, for I sawhim to-day. "

"If he were in Honolulu he would not be more impossible than he is atpresent, " said the Squire irritably. "Don't discuss it any more, mydear, I beg of you. It is out of the question. "

And Mr Ffolliot rose from the table and took refuge in his study. 

"I'm sorry, " Mrs Ffolliot sighed, "I should have liked to ask him, " andthen she suddenly awoke to the fact that her entire family lookedperturbed and miserable to the last degree. 

Grantly pushed back his chair. "May I go, mother, " he said, "I'vesomething I must say to father. "

"Not now, Grantly, " and Mrs Ffolliot laid a gentle detaining hand uponhis arm as he passed, "not just when he's feeling annoyed--if there'sanything you have to tell him let it wait--don't go and worry him now. "

Grantly lifted his mother's hand off his arm very gently. "I must, mummy dear, it can't wait. "

He looked rather pale but his eyes were steady, and she thought with alittle thrill of pride how like his grandfather he was growing. 

He went straight to the study. Mr Ffolliot was seated by the fire with_Gaston Latour_ open in his hand. 

Grantly shut the door, crossed to the fireplace and stood on thehearth-rug looking down at his father. "I've come to say, father, thatI think we _ought_ to ask Mr Gallup to dinner. "

"_You_ think we ought to . . . " the Squire paused in breathlessastonishment. 

"Yes, sir, I do. And I hope you'll think so too when you hear whatI've got to say. "

"Go on, " said Mr Ffolliot, laying down his book. "Go on. "

It wasn't very easy. Grantly swallowed something in his throat, andbegan rather huskily: "You see, sir, we're under an obligation toGallup. We are really. "

"_We_ are under an obligation. What on earth do you mean?"

"Well I am, father, anyway. You remember the night before theelection----?"

"I don't, " the Squire interrupted, "why in the world should I----?"

"Well, sir, it was like this . . . I went to dinner with young Rabbichat the Moonstone, and I got drunk----"

"You--got--drunk?" the pauses between each word were far more emphaticthan the words themselves. 

"Yes, sir, we all had more than was good for us, and we went to theRadical meeting and made an awful row, and got chucked out and----"

"Look here, Grantly, what has all this to do with young Gallup? It wasidiotic of you to go to his meeting, and the conduct of a vulgarblockhead to get drunk; but in what way . . . "

"That's not all, sir; after the meeting the bands came into collision, and I got taken up. "

"_You_ got taken up?"

"Two policemen, sir, taking me to the station, and Mr Gallup got me outof it and gave me a bed in his house. "

Mr Ffolliot sat forward in his chair. "You accepted hishospitality--you slept the night in his house?"

"If I hadn't I'd have slept the night in the lock-up, and it would havebeen in the papers. "

"But why--why should he have intervened to protect you?"

"Do you think, sir"--Grantly's voice was very shy--"that it might bebecause we both come from the same place?"

"He doesn't belong to the village. "

"In a way he does; there have been Gallups in Redmarley nearly as longas us. "

Mr Ffolliot said nothing. He sat staring at his tall young son as ifhe were a new person. 

Grantly fidgetted and flushed and paled under this steadycontemplation, saying at last: "You do see what I mean, don't you, father?"

"I do. "

"That we ought to do something friendly?"

"He has certainly, through your idiotic fault, contrived to put usunder an obligation. Why, I cannot think, but the fact remains. I donot know anything that could have annoyed me more. "

Grantly ventured to think that perhaps a paragraph in the policereports of the local newspaper might have tried the Squire even moreseverely, but he did not say so. He waited. 

"Does your mother know of all this?"

"Oh no, father, it would make her so sorry. Must we tell her?"

"Your tenderness for her feelings in no way restrained you at the time;why this solicitude now?"

"I'd rather she knew than seem to go back on Gallup. "

"You may go, Grantly, and leave me to digest this particularlydisagreeable intelligence. I have long reconciled myself to your lackof intellectual ability, but I did not know that you indulged in suchcoarse pleasures. "

"Father--did you never do anything of that kind when you were young?"

"Most truthfully I can answer that I never did. It would not haveamused me in the least. "

"It didn't _amuse_ me, " Grantly said ruefully; "I can't remember muchabout it. "

"Go, " said Mr Ffolliot, and Grantly went, looking rather like Parkerwith his tail between his legs. 

Hardly had Mr Ffolliot realised the import of what Grantly had told himwhen the door was opened again and Buz came in. 

Buz, too, made straight for the hearth-rug, and standing there facedhis bewildered parent (these sudden invasions were wholly withoutprecedent), saying: "I've come to tell you, sir, that I think we_ought_ to ask Mr Gallup to dinner. "

Had Mr Ffolliot been a man of his hands he would have fallen upon Buzand boxed his ears there and then; as it was, he replied bitterly:

"I am not interested in your opinion, boy, on this or any othersubject. Leave the room at once. "

But Buz, to his father's amazement, stood his ground. 

"You must hear me, father, else you can't understand. "

"If you've come to say anything about Grantly you may spare yourselfthe pains, he has told me himself. "

"About Grantly, " Buz repeated stupidly, "why should I want to talkabout Grantly?--it's about him and me I want to talk. "

"Him and you?" Mr Ffolliot echoed desperately. 

"Yes, I rotted him that night and he was awfully decent----"

"What night?"

"The night I broke my arm--they said at the Infirmary that if he hadn'tbeen so careful of me it would have been much worse. "

"You refer, I suppose, to Gallup?"

"Yes, father, and it really was decent of him, because I went dressedup as a suffragette and had no end of a rag; he might have been awfullyshirty, and he wasn't--he never told a soul. Don't you think we oughtto ask him?"

"Does your mother know about this?"

"Of course not, nobody knew except Uz and, " Buz added truthfully, "Ad�le. "

"Leave me, " said Mr Ffolliot feebly, "I've had about as much as I canbear this afternoon--Go. "

"You do see, sir, that it makes a difference, " pleaded the persistentBuz. 

"Go, " thundered the exasperated Squire. 

"All right, father, I'm going, but you _do_ see, don't you?" said Buzfrom the door. 

CHAPTER XXI

A RETROSPECT AND A RESULT

Mr Ffolliot was really a much-tried man. Those interviews with Grantlyand Buz caused his nerves to vibrate most unpleasantly. 

So unhinged was he that for quite half an hour after Buz's departure hekept looking nervously at the door, fully expectant that it would opento admit Uz, primed with some fresh reason why Eloquent Gallup shouldbe asked to dinner; and that he would be followed by Ger and the Kittenbent on a similar errand. 

However, no one else invaded his privacy. The Manor House was verystill; the only occasional sound being the soft swish of a curtainstirred by the breeze through the open window. 

Mr Ffolliot neither read _Gaston Latour_ nor did he write, though hismonograph on Ercole Ferrarese was not yet completed. 

Wrapped in thought he sat quite motionless in his deep chair, and thesubject that engrossed him was his own youth; comparing what heremembered of it with these queer, careless sons of his, who seemedborn to trouble other people, Mr Ffolliot could not call to mind anyoccasion when he had been a nuisance to anybody. He honestly tried andwholly failed. 

Such persons as have been nourished in early youth on Mr Thackeray'sinimitable _The Rose and The Ring_ will remember how at the christeningof Prince Giglio, the Fairy Blackstick, who was his godmother, said, "My poor child, the best thing I can send you is a little misfortune!"

Now the Fairy Blackstick had evidently absented herself from HilaryFfolliot's christening, for his youth was one long procession ofbrilliant successes. It is true that his father, an easy-going, amiable clergyman, died during his first term at Harrow, but that didnot affect Hilary's material comfort in any way. It left his motherperfectly free to devote her entire attention to him. 

He was a good-looking, averagely healthy boy, who carried all beforehim at preparatory school. Easily first in every class he entered, hewas quite able to hold his own in all the usual games, and he left forHarrow in a blaze of glory, having obtained the most valuable classicalscholarship. 

Throughout his career at school he never failed to win any prize hetried for, and when he left, it was with scholarships that almostcovered the expenses of his time at Cambridge. Moreover, he was headof his house and a member of the Eleven. 

His mother, a gentle and unselfish lady, felt that she could not doenough to promote the comfort of so brilliant and satisfactory a son. Hilary's likes and dislikes in the matter of food, Hilary's preferencefor silk underwear, Hilary's love of art and music, were all matters ofequal and supreme importance to Mrs Ffolliot, and in every way shefostered the strain of selfishness that exists even in the best of us. 

At the university he did equally well. He took a brilliant degree, andthen travelled for a year or so, devoting himself to the study ofItalian art and architecture; and finally accepted (he never seemed totry for things like other people) a clerkship in the Foreign Office. 

When he was eight and twenty his uncle died, and he inherited Redmarley. 

His conduct had always been blameless. He shared the ordinarypleasures of upper-class young men without committing any of theirfollies. He was careful about money, and never got into debt. Heaccepted kindnesses as his right, and felt under no obligation toreturn them. 

He could not be said ever to have worked hard, for all the work he hadhitherto undertaken came so easily to him. He possessed a large circleof agreeable acquaintances, and no intimate friends. 

He met Marjory Grantly in her second season, and for the first time inhis life fell ardently and hopelessly in love. 

Now was the chance for the Fairy Blackstick!

But she evidently took no interest in Hilary Ffolliot, for Marjory, instead of sending him about his business, and perhaps thus renderinghim for a space the most miserable of men, fell in love with him, andthey were married in three months. 

The General, it is true, had misgivings, and remarked to Mrs Grantlythat Ffolliot seemed too good to be true. But there was no disprovingit; and Hilary was so much in love that for a while, for nearly a year, he thought more about Marjory's likes and dislikes than his own. 

And Marjory's likes included such a vast number of other people. 

But the chance, the hundred-to-one chance, of turning him into anordinary human being--loving, suffering, understanding--was lost. 

Once more in Life's Market he had got what he wanted at his own price, and with the cessation of competitive examinations all ambition seemeddead in him. 

And what of Marjory?

Nobody, not even her father and mother who loved her so tenderly, everknew what Marjory felt. She had chosen her lot. She would abide byit. No doubt she saw her husband as he was, but as time went on sherealised how few chances he had had to be anything different. She wasan only child herself. She, too, had adoring parents, but theiradoration took a different form from the somewhat abject and whollyblind devotion of Hilary's mother. General and Mrs Grantly saw to itfrom the very first that they should love their daughter because shewas lovable, and not only because she was theirs. They had troops offriends, and exercised a large hospitality that entailed a constantgiving out of sympathy for and interest in other people. That therewas much suffering, and sadness, and sin in the world was neverconcealed from Marjory in her happy girlhood; that it had not touchedher personally was never allowed to foster the belief that it did notexist. That there was also much happiness, and gaiety, and kindnesswas abundantly manifest in her own home, and every scope was given herfor the development of the social instincts which were part of hercharm. She went to her husband at twenty "handled and made, " andtwenty years of married life had only perfected the work. 

As a girl she was perhaps intellectually intolerant. Stupid peopleannoyed her, and she possessed all youth's enthusiastic admiration forachievement, for people who did things, who had arrived. HilaryFfolliot was a new type to her. His brilliant record impressed her. His cultivated taste and extraordinary versatility attracted her, andhis evident admiration gratified her girlish vanity. 

She was a proud woman, and if she had made a mistake she was not goingto let it spoil her life. Only once did she come near showing herheart even to her mother. It was a year after the Kitten was born, when the General had just got the command at Woolwich, and Mrs Grantlyonce more came back to the assault--her constant plea that she shouldhave Ger given over to her entirely. 

"You really are, Margie, a greedy, grasping woman. Here are you withsix children, four of them sons. And here am I with only one child, amiserable, measly girl, and you won't let me have even one of the boys. "

The miserable, measly girl referred to laughed and knelt down at hermother's knee. "Dearest, you really get quite as much of the childrenas is good for you--or them----"

"You can't say I spoil them; I didn't spoil you, and you were only one. "

"I'm sorry I couldn't be more, " Mrs Ffolliot said contritely; "but yousee, mother dear, it's like this, it's just because I was only one Iwant the children to have as much as possible of each other . . . Whilethey are young . . . I want them to grow up . . . " Mrs Ffolliot satdown on the floor and leant her head against Mrs Grantly's knees sothat her face was hidden. "I want them to realise what a lot of otherpeople there are in the world, all with hopes and fears and likes anddislikes and joys and sorrows . . . And that each one of them is only avery little humble atom of a great whole--and that's what they canteach each other--I can't do it--you can't do it--but they can manageit amongst them. "

Mrs Grantly did not answer; quick as she was in repartee, she had themuch rarer gift of sympathetic silence. She laid a kind hand on herdaughter's bent head and softly stroked it. 

The clock struck four, and still Mr Ffolliot sat on in his chair with_Gaston Latour_ unopened, held loosely in his long slender hands. 

A dignified presence with every attribute that goes to make the scholarand the gentleman; though one who judged of character from externalappearance might have misdoubted the thin straight lips, the ratherpinched nostrils, the eyes too close together, and above all, thehead--high and intellectual, but almost devoid of curve at the back. Aclean-cut, ascetic, handsome face, as a rule calm and judicial in itsdignified repose. 

This afternoon, though, the Squire lacks his usual serene poise. Hisself-confidence has been shaken, and it is his young sons who havedisturbed its delicately adjusted equilibrium. 

He was puzzled. 

It is a mistake to imagine that selfish and ungrateful people fail torecognise these qualities in others. Not only are they quick toperceive incipient signs of them, but they demand the constant exerciseof their opposites in their fellow men. 

Mr Ffolliot was puzzled. 

Among the words he used most constantly, both on paper and inconversation, were "fine shades" and "fineness" in its mostpsychological sense. "Fineness" was a quality he was for everbelauding: a quality that he believed was only to be found in personsof complex character and unusually sensitive organisation. 

And yet he grudgingly conceded that he had, that afternoon, beenconfronted by it in two of his own quite ordinary children. 

What rankled, however, was that Buz, at all events, seemed doubtfulwhether he, the Squire, possessed it. The dubious and thrice-repeated"you do understand, don't you, father?" rang in his ears. 

How was it that Buz, the shallow and mercurial, seemed to fear thatwhat was so plain to him might be hidden from his father?

Undesired and wholly irrelevant there flashed into his mind that walkwith Mary, a short ten days ago, when he had reproached her with herlimitations, her power to grasp only the obvious. And it was suddenlyrevealed to Mr Ffolliot that certain obligations were obvious to hischildren that were by no means equally clear to him. 

Why was this?

As if in answer came his own phrase, used so often in contemptuousexplanation of their more troublesome vagaries--"the Grantly Strain. "

He was fair-minded and he admired courage. He in no way underrated theeffort it must have been for Grantly and Buz to come and confess theirpeccadillos to him. And he knew very well that only because they feltsomeone else was involved had they summoned up courage to do so. 

If their evil-doings were discovered, they did not lie, these noisy, blundering children of his; but they never showed the smallest desireto draw attention to their escapades. 

His mind seemed incapable of concentration that afternoon, for now hebegan to wonder how it was that "the children" lately had managed toemerge from the noun of multitude and each had assumed a separateidentity with marked and definite characteristics. 

There was Mary . . . 

Mr Ffolliot frowned. If it hadn't been for Mary he really would havebeen quite glad to ask young Gallup to dinner. But Mary complicatedmatters; for he had instantly divined what had struck none of theothers, a connection between the Liberal member's amiability to hissons and the fact that those sons possessed a sister. 

Presently Fusby came in to make up the fire. "Do you happen to know, Fusby, if your mistress is in the house and disengaged?"

"I saw the mistress as I came through the 'all, sir, sitting in awindow reading a book. She was quite alone, sir. "

"Ah, " said Mr Ffolliot, "thank you, I will go to her. "

As the door was closed behind his master, Fusby arose from brushing thehearth and shook his fist in that direction. 

"Go, I should think you would go, you one-eyed old image you. Did youthink I was going to fetch her to wait your pleasure?"

Mrs Ffolliot laid down her book as her husband came across the wide oldhall. She made room for him on the window-seat beside her. Shenoticed that he was flushed and that his hair was almost shaggy. 

"Have you got a headache, Larrie?" she asked in her kind voice. "Ihope Grantly had nothing disturbing to relate. "

"Yes, no, " Mr Ffolliot replied vaguely; "I've been thinking thingsover, my dear, and I've come round to your opinion that perhaps itwould be the right thing to ask young Gallup to dinner on thetwenty-first. There will be the Campions and the Wards to keep him incountenance. "

"I'm so glad you see it as I do, " Mrs Ffolliot said gently, looking, however, much surprised. "After all, he may not come, you know. "

"He'll come, " and his wife wondered why the Squire laid such grimemphasis upon the words. 

"By the way, " Mr Ffolliot said in quite a new tone, "you were sayingsomething the other day about your mother's very kind offer to haveMary for some weeks after the May drawing-room. I think it would be agood thing. You don't want the fag and expense of going up to town sosoon after you've come home. Let her stay with her grandmother for abit and go out--see that she has proper clothes--they will enjoy havingthe child, and she will see something of the world. Let her have herfling--don't hurry her. "

"Why, Hilary, what a _volte-face_! When I spoke to you about it beforeI was ill you said it was out of the question . . . "

"My dear, " said Mr Ffolliot testily, "only stupid people think thatthey must never change their minds. I have decided that it will begood for Mary to leave Redmarley for a bit. You must remember that Ihave been carefully observing her for the last few weeks. She willgrow narrow and provincial if she never meets anyone except theGarsetshire people. Surely you must see that?"

"May I tell Mary? It's such fun when you're young to look forward tothings. "

"Certainly tell Mary, and let her go as soon as her grandmother willhave her. She'd better get what clothes she wants in town. "

"She can go up with Grantly when he goes back to the Shop. It _is_nice of you, Larrie. "

"I suppose she must stay for this tiresome dinner? Why not let her gobeforehand? It's always very easy to get an odd girl. "

"That wouldn't do, " Mrs Ffolliot said decidedly, "the child would bedisappointed--besides I want her. "

Mr Ffolliot sighed. "As you will, my dear, " he said meekly, "but she'dbetter go directly it is over. "

CHAPTER XXII

THE DREAM GOES ON

"Aunt Susan, will you give me a bed on Thursday night?"

Eloquent, who was spending the Easter recess at Marlehouse, hadbicycled out to tea with Miss Gallup. 

"You know as I'm always pleased to give you a bed any time. What doyou want it then for? Are you coming to stop a bit?"

"Because, " Eloquent took a deep breath and watched his aunt closely, "I'm dining at the Manor that night. "

"Then, " said Miss Gallup sharply, "you don't have a bed here. "

"Why ever not?" and in his astonishment Eloquent dropped into theGarsetshire idiom he was usually so careful to avoid. 

"Because, " Miss Gallup was flushed and tremulous, "no one shall eversay I was as a drag on you. "

"But, Aunt Susan, no one could say it, and if they did, what would itmatter? and what in the world has that to do with giving me a bed?"

"My dear, " said Miss Gallup, "I know my place if you don't. When yougoes to dinner with Squire Ffolliot you must go properly fromMarlehouse like anybody else--you must drive out, or hire a motor andput it up there, same as other people do, and go back again to your ownhouse where you're known to be--it's in the paper. There's no sort ofuse draggin' _me_ in. I always knew as you'd get there some day, andnow you've got there and no one's pleasder than me. Do show me theinvitation. "

Eloquent took a note from his breast-pocket and handed it to his aunt, who put on her spectacles and read aloud, slowly and impressively:--

Dear Mr Gallup, --If you have no other engagement, will you come anddine with us on the twenty-first at eight o'clock. It will give usgreat pleasure if you can. --Yours sincerely, MARGERY FFOLLIOT. 

"H'm, now that's not what I should have expected, " Miss Gallup said ina disappointed tone. "_I_ should have thought she'd 'a said, 'Mr andMrs Ffolliot presents their compliments to Mr Gallup, and requests thepleasure of his company at a dinner-party'--I know there is a party, for Dorcas did tell Em'ly-Alice there was going to be one; only lastnight she was talking about it--it's downright blunt that note--I callit----"

Eloquent laughed. "All the same I've accepted, and now do explain whyI can't sleep here instead of trailing all the way back into Marlehouseat that time of night. "

"If you can't _see_, why you must just take my word for it. You andme's in different walks of life, and it's my bounden duty to see as youdon't bemean yourself. I'm always pleased to see you in a quiet way, but there's no use in strangers knowing we're relations. "

"What nonsense, " Eloquent exclaimed hotly, "I've only got one aunt inthe world, and I'm very proud of her, so let there be an end of thisfoolishness. "

Miss Gallup wiped her eyes. "In some ways, Eloquent, " she saidhuskily, "with all your politics an' that, you're no better than achild. "

"I'm hanged if I can see what you're driving at, " Eloquent exclaimed ingreat irritation. "Once more, Aunt Susan, will you give me a bed onThursday?"

"Don't ask me, my dear, don't ask me. It's for your good as I refuse. _I_ can see the difference between us if you can't, and when you tookon so with politics, and then your father left all that fortune so asyou could leave the likes of the Golden Anchor, I said to myself, 'Now, Martha Gallup, don't you interfere. Don't you go intrudin' on yourbrother's child. If he sees fit to keep friendly it shows he's a goodheart, but you keep your place. ' . . . An' I've kep' it; never have Ibeen near you in Marlehouse, as you know--Not but what you've as't me, and very pleased I was to be as't . . . "

"And very displeased I was that you would never come, " Eloquentinterrupted. 

"I know my place, " Miss Gallup persisted. "I don't mind the likes ofthe Ffolliots knowing we're related. . . . They're bound to know, andthey're not proud, none of 'em exceptin' Squire, that is to say, and hewouldn't think it worth while to be proud to the likes of me. But Idon't want to hang on and keep you down, and there's some as wouldthink less of you for me bein' your aunt, so where's the use offlaunting an old-fashioned piece like me in their faces. . . . Ifyou'll come out next day and tell me all about the party, I'd take itmost kind of you, Eloquent, that I should. "

"Why shouldn't I come here straight that night? I shouldn't haveforgotten anything by then. "

"No, " Miss Gallup said firmly. "I'd much rather you didn't come to mefrom that 'ouse nor go there from me. You go back 'ome like a goodboy. It isn't as if you couldn't afford a chaise to bring you. "

Eloquent saw that she really meant what she said. He was puzzled andrather hurt, for it had never occurred to him that his aunt wasanything but his aunt: a kindly garrulous old lady who had always beenextremely good to him, whom it was his duty to cherish, who looked uponhim in the light of a son. 

He was a simple person and never realised that this simplicity anddirectness had a good deal to do with the undoubted cordiality ofcertain persons, who, apart from politics, were known to be veryexclusive in the matter of their acquaintance; and that it was largelyowing to the fact that he never showed the smallest false shame as tohis origin, that members of his party who had at first consented toknow him solely for political reasons, continued to know him when theLiberal Government was for a second time firmly established. Theyperceived his primness, were faintly amused by his immense earnestness, and they respected his sincerity. 

The manner of his arrival on the fateful night was settled for him bySir George Campion, who, meeting him in the street, offered him a seatin their motor. Eloquent never knew that Mrs Ffolliot had asked SirGeorge to do this, thinking that it would make things easier andpleasanter for the guest who was the one stranger to the assembledparty. 

On the night of the dinner Mary was dressed early and went to hermother's room to see if she could help her. 

Mrs Ffolliot was standing before her long glass and Sophia was shakingout the train of her dress, a soft grey-blue dress full of purpleshadows and silvery lights. 

She turned and looked at her tall young daughter, critically, fondly, with the pride and fear and wonder a woman, above all a beautifulwoman, feels as she realises that for her child everything is yet tocome; the story all untold. 

"You may go, Sophia, " she said gently. "I think Miss Mary looks nice, don't you? It's her first real evening frock, you know. "

Sophia looked from the one to the other and her severe face relaxed alittle. "It fits most beautiful, " she vouchsafed. 

"Mother, " Mary said when Sophia had gone, "I wanted to catch you just aminute--I've seen Mr Gallup since that night he came to tell us aboutBuz . . . "

"You've met?" Mrs Ffolliot exclaimed, "where? and why have you nevertold me?"

"It was while you were away. Miss Gallup had been ill and I went toask for her and he was there, and he walked home with me . . . "

Mrs Ffolliot raised her eyebrows. 

"Oh, you think it funny too? It couldn't be helped--old Miss Gallupseemed to think it was the proper thing and sent him--and father waswaiting for me at the gate and was awfully cross. . . . Mother, how_did_ you persuade him to let you ask Mr Gallup?"

Mrs Ffolliot turned to her dressing-table and began to collect fan andhandkerchief. She looked in the glass and saw Mary behind her, eager, radiant, slim, upright, and gloriously young. She began to see whyfather was so awfully cross. There was more excuse than usual. 

"Why don't you answer me, mother? didn't you hear what I said?"

"I heard, my darling. Father needed no persuasion. He simply changedhis mind; but I can't think why you never told me you had met Mr Gallupalready. "

Mary blushed. The warm colour dyed forehead and neck and ears, andfaded into the exceedingly white chest and shoulders, revealed to theworld for the first time. 

Mrs Ffolliot saw all this in the glass, wondered if she could haveimagined it, and turned to face her daughter. 

"Mother"--what honest eyes the child had, to be sure--"it wasn't thefirst time I'd spoken to him. "

"Really, Mary, you are very mysterious----"

"I met him in the woods once before Christmas, and he was lost, and Ishowed him the way out, and father saw us . . . And was just as cross. "

Mrs Ffolliot felt more in sympathy with her husband than usual. Butall she said was, "Well, well, it's evident you don't need anintroduction. I forgot you'd seen him when he called. I'm glad youtold me in time to prevent it, or he would have thought it soodd--come, my child, we must go down. "

"_You_ aren't cross, are you, mother?" Mary asked wistfully. 

"Cross!" Mrs Ffolliot repeated, "at your first party. What is there tobe cross about? Yes, my child, that dress is quite charming--fatherwas right, you can stand that dead white--but it's trying to somepeople--come. "

The Campions called for Eloquent, and he found himself seated side byside with Sir George on one of the little seats, while Lady Campion anda pretty niece called Miss Bax sat opposite. Miss Bax was disposed tobe friendly and conversational, but to Eloquent the fact that he wasgoing to Redmarley was no ordinary occurrence, and he would infinitelyhave preferred to have driven out alone, or, better still, to havewalked through the soft spring night from his aunt's house to theManor, which still held something of the glamour that had surrounded itin his childhood. 

For him it was still "the Manshun, " immense, remote, peopled byinhabitants fine and strange, and far removed from ordinary life. Ahouse whose interior common folk were, it is true, occasionally allowedto see, walking on tiptoe, speaking in whispers, led and instructed byan important rustling old lady who wore an imposing cap and a silkapron; a strange, silent house where none save servants ever seemed tocome and go. He had not yet quite recovered from the shock it was tohim to hear voices and laughter in that old panelled hall which he hadknown in childhood as so vast and shadowy. He liked to remember allthis, and to feel that he was going there as THEIR guest, to be withTHEM on intimate friendly terms. It was wonderful, incredible; it waspart of the dream. 

". . . Don't you think so, Mr Gallup?" asked Miss Bax, and Eloquentwoke with a start to realise that he had not heard a word his prettyneighbour was saying. He was thankful that the motor was dark and thatthe others could not notice how red he was. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said loudly, leaning forward, "I didn't catchwhat you said. "

"Is the man deaf?" Miss Bax wondered, for the motor was a Rolls-Royceand singularly smooth and noiseless. "I was saying, " she went onaloud, "that it will probably be my lot to go in to dinner with GrantlyFfolliot, and that cadets as a class are badly in need of snubbing;don't you agree with me?"

"I haven't met any except young Mr Ffolliot, " Eloquent said primly, "and I must say he did not strike me as a particularly conceited youngman. "

"He isn't, " Sir George broke in, "he's an exceedingly nice boy, theyall are. Their mother has seen to that. "

"Boys are so difficult to talk to, " Miss Bax lamented; "their range isso limited, and my enthusiasm for football is so lukewarm. "

"Try him on his profession, " Lady Campion suggested. 

"That would be worse. Cadets do nothing but tell you how hard they areworked, and what a fearful block there is in the special branch of thearmy they are going in for. Is young Ffolliot going to be a Sapper byany chance? for they're the worst of all--considering themselves, asthey do, the brains of the army. "

"I don't think so, " said Sir George; "he's not clever enough. He'sonly got moderate ability and an uncommonly pretty seat on a horse. He'll get Field all right. But why are you so sure, my dear, thathe'll be your fate? Why not Gallup here? and you could try and converthim to your views on the Suffrage question? He'd be some use, youknow. He _has_ a vote. "

Again Eloquent blessed the darkness as he coloured hotly and broughthis mind back to the present with a violent wrench. He knew he oughtto say something, but what? He fervently hoped they would not assignhim to this severe self-possessed young lady who thought cadetsconceited and had political views. Heavens! she might be anotherElsmaria Buttermish with no blessed transformation later on intosomething human and approachable. 

"I'm afraid"--he heard Miss Bax talking as it were an immense way offas he floated away on the wings of his dream--"that my views wouldstartle Mr Gallup. "

The motor turned in at the drive gates, they had reached the door. 

Eloquent was right in the middle of his dream. 

He followed Lady Campion and Miss Bax across the hall and down acorridor to a room he had never been in when he was a child. 

Fusby threw open a door and announced loudly, "Sir George and LadyCampion, Miss Bax, Mr Gallup. "

They were the last of the guests. 

For a little while he was less conscious of his dream. This light, bright room with white panelled walls and furniture covered with gaychintzes, soft blurred chintz in palest pinks and greens, with picturesin oval frames, and people, ordinary people that he had seen before, all talking and laughing together. This was not the Redmarley that heknew, grave and beautiful and old. 

This was not the Redmarley of his dream. It came back to him as MrsFfolliot gave him her hand in welcome, presenting him to her husbandand one or two other people. It left him as she turned away andGrantly came forward and greeted him. Grantly, tall and irreproachablywell dressed, cheerful withal and quite at his ease. 

Sir George had pulled Mary into the very middle of the room and heldher at arm's length with laughing comments. How could men find thecourage for that sort of thing? He heard him ask what she had donewith her sash, and then Mrs Ffolliot said, "I think you know mydaughter, Mr Gallup; will you take her in to dinner?"

And once more he was well in the middle of his dream, for he foundhimself in the corridor he knew, side by side with Mary, part of aprocession moving towards the dining-room. 

Her hand was on his arm, but the exquisite moment was a little marredby the discovery that she was quite an inch taller than he. 

Eloquent had been to a good many public dinners; he had even dined withcertain Cabinet Ministers, but always when there were only men. He hadnever yet dined with people of the Ffolliots' class in this intimate, friendly way, and he found everything a little different from what heexpected. He had read very little fiction, and such mental pictures ashe had evolved were drawn from his inner consciousness. As always, hewondered how they contrived to be so gay, to talk such nonsense, and tolaugh at it. Seated between Mary and witty Mrs Ward, whose husband wasone of his ardent supporters in the county, he did his best to join inthe general conversation, but he found it hard. Miss Bax, whosepremonition regarding her fate was justified, seemed to have overcomeher objection to cadets. She and Grantly were just opposite to him, and he noticed with regret that Grantly was drinking champagne. Itwould have been better, Eloquent thought, if the boy had abstainedaltogether after his experience at the election. Mary, too, drankchampagne, but Eloquent condoned this weakness in her case, she drankso little. Everyone drank champagne except Sir George, who preferredwhisky, and Eloquent himself, who drank Apollinaris. 

"Do you suffer from rheumatism?" Mary asked innocently. "Do you thinkit would hurt you once in a way?"

"I am not in the least rheumatic, " Eloquent protested, "but I havenever tasted anything intoxicating. "

"Then you don't know whether you'd like it or not. Why not try someand see?" Mary suggested hospitably. 

Eloquent shook his head. "Better not, " he said, "you don't know whateffect it might have on me. "

He ate whatever was put before him, wholly unaware of its nature, andin spite of Mary's efforts to keep the conversational ball rollinggaily, he was very silent. 

The dream had got him again, for he knew this room with the dark oakpanelling and great old portraits of departed Ffolliots, some of themwith eyes that followed you. He knew the room, but as he knew it, thelong narrow table, like the table in a refectory, was bare and polishedand empty; or with a little cloth laid just at one end for old MrFfolliot. 

What did they think of it now, these solemn pictured people?--thislong, narrow strip of brilliant light and flowers and sparkling glassand silver, surrounded by well-dressed cheerful persons, all, apparently, laughing and talking at the same time. 

They had reached dessert, and he was handing Mary a dish of sweets; shetook four. "Do take some, " she whispered, "take lots, and what youdon't want give to me; you can put them in my bridge-bag under thetable, I want them for the children. I promised Ger. "

Bewildered, but only too happy to do anything she asked him, Eloquenthelped himself largely. 

"Now, " Mary whispered, holding a little white satin bag open under thetable, "and if they come round again, take some more. "

"It was my grandfather began it, " she explained; "he used always tosave sweets for us when we stayed with him, and now it's a rule--if wedine downstairs--if there are any--there aren't always, you know--andFusby's so stingy, if there are any left he takes them and locks themup in a box till next time. You watch Grantly, he's got some too, buthe hasn't got anywhere to put them, like me. I must go round behindhim when mother collects eyes, then I'll nip up to Ger, for he'll nevergo to sleep till I've been . . . "

"You see, " she went on confidentially, "they will take them to Willetsto-morrow. He loves good sweets and he never gets any unless they takethem to him. They'll make a party of it, and Mrs Willets will givethem each a weeny glass of ginger-wine. They'll have a lovely time--doyou know Willets?"

"By sight, I think . . . He's your keeper, isn't he? From all I canhear to-night he seems a very remarkable person, everyone is talkingabout him. "

"Oh, you ought to know him, he's the greatest dear in Redmarley. Everyone who knows us knows Willets, and dukes and people have tried toget him away, he's such a good sportsman, but he won't leave us. Welove him so much we couldn't bear it. He couldn't either. He's beenkeeper here nearly twenty-three years. Before mother came he was here, and now there's all of us he'll never leave. "

"Have you got enough? Won't they want some for themselves as well asWillets?"

"Thanks to you, I've got a splendid lot. One can't always ask people, you know, but I thought you wouldn't mind. "

"Shall I demand some more in a loud voice? there are some at the end ofthe table, " Eloquent murmured; "I'm very shy, but I can be bold in agood cause. "

Mary looked at him in some surprise. "Would you really? Ah, it's toolate, there's mother----"

Eloquent watched her with breathless interest as she "went round thelongest way" and received new spoils from Grantly as she passed. Howcurious they were about their servants these people, where Fusby seemedto control the supplies and the children of the house secretly savedsweets for the keeper. 

The men did not sit long over their wine, and it was to the hall theywent and not to the white-panelled room that Eloquent unconsciouslyresented as an anachronism; and in the hall bridge-tables were set out. 

This was a complication Eloquent had not foreseen. Among his father'sfriends cards were regarded as the Devil's Books, and he did not knowthe ace of spades from the knave of hearts. 

Would they force him to play, he wondered. Would he cover himself withshame and ignominy? and what if he said it was against his principlesto play for money?

He braced himself to be faithful to the traditions in which he had beentrained, only to find that on his saying he never _had_ played bridgeno one expressed the smallest desire that he should do so. 

In fact it seemed to him that three tables were arranged with almostindecent haste, cryptic remarks about "cutting in" were bandied about, and in less than five minutes he was sitting on the oak settle by thefire with Mrs Ffolliot, who talked to him so delightfully that thedream came back. 

Here on the high-backed settle he found courage to tell her how clearlyhe remembered that first time he had seen her in his father's shop; andplainly she was touched and interested, and drew him on to speak of hisqueer lonely childhood and the ultimate goal that had been kept everbefore his eyes. 

He was very happy, and it seemed but a short time till somebody at oneof the tables exclaimed "game and rub, " and Mary came over to thesettle saying, "Now, mother, you must take my place. I've been awfullylucky, I've won half a crown. "

She sat down beside him on the settle asking, "Would you care to watch, or shall we just sit here and talk--which would you rather?"

What Eloquent wanted to do was to stare: to gaze and gaze at thegracious young figure sitting there in gleaming white flecked withsplashes of rosy light from the dancing flames, but he could hardly saythis. 

"I'm afraid it would be of no use for me to watch; I have never playedcards, and don't understand them in the least. "

"You mean you don't know the suits?"

"What are suits?"

"This must be seen to, " said Mary; "you don't smoke, you drink nothingfestive, you don't know one card from another; you can't go throughlife like this. It's not fair. We won't waste another minute, I'llteach you the suits now. "

She made him fetch a little table, she produced a pack of cards. Shespread them out and she expounded. He was a quick study. By the timeMr Ffolliot came to take Mary's place he knew all the suits. By thetime Mr Ffolliot had thoroughly confused him by a learned disquisitionon the principles of bridge, Lady Campion's motor was announced, and hedeparted in her train. 

"Surely Mr Gallup is a very absent-minded person, " Miss Bax remarked toher aunt when they had deposited Eloquent at his door. 

"I expect he's shy, " said Lady Campion, who was sleepy and notparticularly interested; "but wasn't Mary nice to him?--I do like thatgirl--she's so natural and unaffected. "

"She always strikes me as being a mere child, " said Miss Bax, "so veryunformed; is she out yet, or is she still in the schoolroom?"

Sir George chuckled. "She's on her way out, " he said, "and, I fancy, on her way to an uncommonly good time as well. That girl is a sight tomake an old man young. "

"She certainly is handsome, " said Miss Bax. 

Sir George chuckled again. "Unformed, " he repeated, "there's some ofus likes 'em like that. "

Eloquent sat long in his orderly little dining-room where the glass ofmilk and tray of sandwiches awaited him on the sideboard. His head wasin a whirl. She drank champagne. She gambled. She seemed to think itwas perfectly natural and right to do these things. It probably was ifshe thought so. She . . . 

Heavens! what an adorable wife she would be for a young CabinetMinister. 

CHAPTER XXIII

WILLETS

Had Eloquent ever taken the smallest interest in country pursuits hemust have come across Willets, for in that part of the CotswoldsWillets was as well known as the Marle itself. 

A small thick-set man with a hooky nose, and with bright, long-sightedbrown eyes and strong, sensitive hands, wrists tempered and supple as arapier, and a tongue that talked unceasingly and well. 

Sporting people wondered why Willets, with his multifarious knowledgeof wood and river craft, should stay at Redmarley: a comparativelysmall estate, whose owner was known to preserve only because it was atradition to do so, and not because he cared in the least about thesport provided. Willets was wasted, they said, and it is possible thatat one time Willets, himself, agreed with them. 

He came originally of Redmarley folk, and his wife from a neighbouringvillage. He "got on" and became one of the favourite keepers on aducal estate in the North, much liked both by the noble owner and hissporting friends; a steady, intelligent man with a real genius for thegentle craft. He could charm trout from water where, apparently, notrout existed; he could throw a fly with a skill and precisionbeautiful to behold, and he was well read in the literature of hispursuits. Much converse with gentlemen had softened the asperities ofhis Cotswold speech, he expressed himself well, wrote both a good handand a good letter, and was very popular with those he served. Lifelooked exceedingly rosy for Willets--for he was happy in his marriageand a devoted father to his three little girls--when the hand of fatefell heavily upon him. There came a terribly severe winter in thatpart of Scotland, and one after another the little girls got bronchitisand died; the three in five months. 

He and his wife could bear the place no longer, and came South. TheDuke was really sorry to lose him, and took considerable trouble tofind him something to do in the Cotswold country whence he came. 

It happened that just then old Mr Ffolliot was looking for a keeper whowould see after things in general at the Manor, and the fishing inparticular; so Willets accepted the situation merely as a make-shiftfor a short time, till something worthier of his powers should turn up. 

It was pleasant to be in the old county once more. There was help andhealing in the kind grey houses and the smiling pastoral country. Hiswife was pleased to be near her people, and his work was of thelightest. But Willets was not yet forty, he had ambitions, and thewages were much smaller than what he had been getting. It would do, perhaps, for a year or two, and he knew that whenever he liked, hislate master would be glad to have him back and would give him a post inthe Yorkshire dales. 

Old Mr Ffolliot died, and his nephew, Hilary, reigned in his stead. Willets announced to his wife that their time in Redmarley would beshort. 

The young Squire married and in the bride's train came General Grantlywith all the patience and enthusiasm and friendly anecdotal powers ofyour true angler; and in his train came like-minded brother officers towhom, it must be conceded, Hilary Ffolliot was always ready to offerhospitality. 

Things livened up a bit at Redmarley, and Willets decided to stay alittle longer. 

Margery Ffolliot liked the Willets and was passionately sorry for themabout the little girls; but it was the Ffolliot children who wove aboutWillets an unbreakable charm, binding him to his native village. 

One by one, with toddling steps and high, clear voices, they stormedthe little house by the bridge and took its owners captive. 

Saving only their mother, Willets had a good deal more to do with theupbringing of the young Ffolliots in their earliest years than anybodyelse. Singly and collectively, they adored him, tyrannised over him, copied him, learnt from him, and wasted his time with a prodigality amore sporting master than the Squire might have resented seriously. 

Thus it fell out that offers came to Willets, good offers from placesfar more important than Redmarley, where there were possibilities bothin the way of sport and of tips--there was a sad scarcity of tips atRedmarley--and yet he passed them by. 

Sometimes his wife would be a little reproachful, pointing out thatthey were saving nothing and he was throwing away good money. 

Willets had always some excellent reason for not leaving just then. 

Redmarley had possibilities; it would be a nice place by the timeMaster Grantly was grown up and brought his friends. No one else wouldtake quite the same interest in it that he did; he was proud of thechildren, and money wasn't everything, and so Willets stayed on. 

With the arrival of the Kitten his subjugation was completed, and aseal was set upon the permanence of his relations with the Manor House. From the days when the Kitten in a white bonnet and woolly gaiterswould struggle out of her nurse's arms to be taken by Willets, sittingon his knee and gazing at him with wine-coloured bright eyes not unlikehis own, occasionally putting up a small hand encased in an absurdfingerless glove to turn his face that she might see it better, Willetswas her infatuated and abject slave. When on these occasions heattempted to restore her to her nurse she would clutch him fiercely andscream, so that it ended in his carrying her up to the house and up thebackstairs to the nursery, whence he only escaped by strategy. 

No day passed without a visit from the Kitten and although he was notwholly blind to the defects in her character, he was sure she was the"peartest, sauciest, cleverest little baggage in the British Isles. "

Of course the fact that Eloquent had been asked to dine at the ManorHouse was much canvassed in the village. Miss Gallup trumpeted thematter abroad, and naturally it was discussed exhaustively by what MrFfolliot would have called his "retainers. "

Willets was not sure that he approved. "I've no doubt, " he saidleniently to Mrs Willets as they were sitting at tea, "that he's asmart young chap and he's got on wonderfully, but I don't altogethertrust that pushing kind myself, and he's that sort. Why, I saw him, with my own eyes, walk past this house with our Miss Mary as bold asbrass. I'll warrant if Squire had seen him he'd have been put out. "

"He was her partner at dinner last night, " Fusby was saying, "andwhat's more, " here Mrs Willets lowered her voice mysteriously, "he saysas he looked at her that loving, he's sure he's after her. "

"After your grandmother!" Willets said rudely, his hawk's eyes brightwith anger. "As if Miss Mary would so much as look at him! Let himseek a mate in his own class. "

"That's just what he won't do; Miss Gallup--she's that set-up and sillyabout him--says he must marry a lady, one who'll be able to help himnow he's got so high up. I'm surprised, I own it, at Squire--butprobably it was the Mistress, she's all for friendliness always. ButI'll warrant they'd both be in a pretty takin' if they thought he wasafter Miss Mary. "

"I tell you he's nothing of the kind, " Willets shouted, thumping thetable so violently that he hurt his hand. "It's scandalous to say suchthings, and so I'll tell Fusby the first time I see him--gossiping oldsilly. "

"Now, William, it's no good going on against Fusby. He was as upset asyou could be yourself, an' he only told me when he looked in thisafternoon because he felt worried like. He wouldn't care a bit if itwasn't that she seems taken with 'im. He says he saw them whisperin'at dinner, and young Gallup he give something to Miss Mary under thetable. Fusby _saw_ them. "

"I don't believe it, " Willets said stoutly. "It's all some foolishnessFusby's gone and made up. I don't hold with such cackle, and I'msurprised at you, my dear, allowing him to say such things. "

"How could I stop him? He was worried, I tell you. You talk to himabout it yourself and see what he says. "

"I'm not going to talk about Miss Mary to anyone, let alone Fusby. There's nothing but mischief happens when people begins talking about ayoung lady. I've seen it over and over again. If, which I can'tbelieve, young Gallup's got the cheek to be after our Miss Mary, he'llbe choked off, and pretty quick too. "

"Who's going to do the chokin'? He's in parlyment, he's got plentymoney, there's nothing against him as I know of, and they've asked himto their house. Who's going to do the chokin?"

Mrs Willets paused, breathless and triumphant. She seemed to take amalicious delight in considering the possibility of such a courtship. 

Willets looked at her steadily. "We shan't have far to seek, " he said, "and that old fool Fusby's got a maggot in his head. Why, the fellow'sgone to London; Parliament meets to-morrow, I saw it in the paper. "

Mrs Willets nodded, as who should say "I could an' I would"--aloud sheremarked, "And Miss Mary's going to London to her granpa for a longvisit, beautiful new clothes she's gettin', and going to see the Kingand Queen and all, so they're certain to meet. It's quite like a storybook. "

Willets frowned. He had once spent two days in London. He realisedwhat a big place it was, but he also remembered that during those twodays he had met seven people he knew in other parts of the country. 

CHAPTER XXIV

CROSS CURRENTS

Reggie kept his word as to not interfering with Mary till such time asshe should have seen a little more of the world. How much of the worldin general, and the male portion of it in particular, he was willingshe should see, he could not make up his mind. Sometimes he thought avery little would sufficiently salve his conscience and make a definitecourse of action possible. Reggie was not one of those who feared hisfate. He was always eager to put it to the touch. Inaction wasabhorrent to him. To desire a thing and to do nothing to obtain itseemed to him sheer foolishness. Whether any amount of effort wouldget for him what he desired just now was on the knees of the gods. Butit was the waiting that tried him far more than the uncertainty. Hewas not conceited. He was confident, ready to take risks and to acceptresponsibility, but that is quite another thing. 

Just before her birthday he sent her a little necklet under cover toMrs Ffolliot, asking that it might be put with Mary's other presents onher plate that morning. And she had written to thank him for it, buthe did not answer the letter. He had always been by way of writing toher from time to time; letters, generally embellished with comicsketches and full of chaff and nonsense, which were shared by thefamily. Lately he had not felt in the mood to write such letters. Hewanted to see her with an unceasing ache of longing intense andpersistent; and if he wrote he wanted to write, not a loveletter--Reggie did not fancy he'd be much of a hand at loveletters--but something intimate and revealing that would certainly beunsuitable for "family reading. "

Then he got two letters from Redmarley that seemed to him to need ananswer. 

These were the letters:--

REDMARLEY, _Tuesday. _

DEAR REGGIE, --We were all very excited to see it in the _Gazette_ thismorning, though of course we knew it was coming. The children took the_Times_ down to Willets at tea-time, and Fusby was at special pains toask mother after lunch if there was any chance of Captain Peel comingdown soon. Is there? You won't find me here unless it's very soon, for I'm actually to be allowed to stay with grannie for quite a longtime. After swearing that I should only go up for the drawing-room, and that it was nonsense to talk of my going out at all till mothercould take me, the _pater_ has suddenly veered round, and I am to go upto Woolwich on May-Day, and what's more, he is taking me up himself. At first I thought I was to go with Grantly when he went back to theShop, but that wouldn't do seemingly, Grantly wasn't enough chaperon, so father's coming just for one night. 

Last night we had a dinner-party and the Liberal member took me in. Heis such an odd little man. Very, very good, I should think; verykind--not hard-hearted and ruthless like some people who write cruelstories about war--he is a nonconformist of sorts and doesn't do any ofthe usual things, so it's a little difficult to talk to him, but mothermanaged it--to make him talk, I mean. I heard him murmuring away likeanything while we were playing bridge. She likes him too. He has anodd way of looking at you as if you were a picture and not a person. Don't you think it's fun to be going to town on May-Day and to haveproper dinner every night whether there are people or not. I hopethere will be lots of people. Do come to Woolwich while I'm there, andmind you treat me with great respect. 

When is the new story coming out? I wish they'd hurry up. It will beso exciting to hear people talk about it and to think I know who wroteit and they don't. Clara Bax came with the Campions last night--do youremember her? She is _very_ pretty and so clever, understands allabout politics and things like that. Fancy, she sells newspapers inthe street for the Cause. She asked me if I'd help her, and I thoughtit would be great fun, but father--you know how he pounces--heard fromthe other end of the table, and though just a minute before he'd beenever so sympathetic with Miss Bax, at once interfered, and said I wasmuch too ignorant to take any active part as yet, and Grantly frownedat me across the table. Would you buy a newspaper from me, I wonder?

When father pounces I always feel that I could almost marry animpossible person just to annoy him; but the worst of it is that Ishould have the impossible person always, and I might get rather tiredof it. Why should Miss Bax steal a horse and father beam and pay hercompliments, and yet if I so much as look over the fence he shoos meaway with a pitch-fork. 

I wonder if you will get out to India, as you wish? In a way I hopeyou won't, because you'd go out in the autumn, wouldn't you? and if youare stationed anywhere at home you could come sometimes for a few days'hunting; but of course if you want it very much I want you to have it. 

This is a very long letter. Good-bye, Reggie, and heaps of grats. Youa captain and me grown up: we are coming on. --Yours: affectionately, MARY B. FFOLLIOT. 

P. S. --Some fiend in human shape sent Ger a little red book, trumpet, and bugle notes for the army, and he makes Miss Glover play them andthen practises. There's one thing, it's a little change from theeternal "cook-house door, " but it's very dreadful all the same. 

BRIDGE HOUSE, REDMARLEY, _27th. April. _

DEAR SIR, --Excuse the liberty I take in writing to offer you mycongratulations on the announcement in the paper yesterday. Master Gerand Miss Kitten came to tea with my wife, and the mistress, with herusual kindness, sent me the paper. When I first knew you, sir, youwere very much the size Master Ger is now, and yet it seems butyesterday when I was teaching you to throw a fly just beyond the bridgehere. I always look on you as one of our young gentlemen, for you'vecome amongst us so many years now and always been so free and pleasant, and I hope I may have the pleasure of going out with you often in thefuture, though Master Ger did say he'd heard that you were thinking ofIndia. If that is so, I hope you'll make a point of coming down for afew days early in June, when the fly will be at its best. If this mildweather continues we ought to get some very sizeable fish. 

It's funny to me to think how I've been here twenty-three years comeMichaelmas, and when the present Squire came I never thought I shouldstop, he not being fond of sport. If I may say so, you, sir, had agood deal to do with me stopping on that first summer, me being veryfond of children, and then when they came at the Manor House and themistress always sent them down to be shown to us as soon as ever theywent out, I began to feel I'd taken root here, and so I suppose I have. 

Master Ger is becoming a first-rate performer on the bugle, he playedfor us yesterday, quite wonderful it was. My wife begs to join with mein respectful congratulations. --Your obedient servant, WILLIAM WILLETS. 

He wrote to Willets at once, promising to come down at the end of Mayfor a week-end, even if he couldn't get more. He was frightfully busy, for he was one of the instructors at Chatham, and had many other ironsin the fire as well. He waited till he knew Mary was in Woolwich andthen he wrote to her:--

It was nice of you to send me such pretty grats, and I am trulyappreciative. I also had the jolliest letter from old Willets. Hepromises good sport very shortly, and I shall make a point of turningup at Redmarley when the fly is on the water, if only for a couple ofnights, for when Willets foretells "sizeable fish" you know you're infor a first-class thing. It will be queer to be at the Manor House andyou away. Only once has that happened to me, the year you were atschool, and now "all that's shuv be'ind you" and you're out and dancingabout. I shall certainly have urgent private affairs in Woolwichduring the next month. Talk of respect! When was I ever anything butgrovelling? And once I have gazed upon your portrait in train andfeathers I shall be reduced to such a state of timidity you won't knowme. 

The other day I met your friend Clara Bax selling _Votes for Women_ atthe Panton Street corner of Leicester Square, and she hadn't at all aHurrah face on. I greeted her and bought one of the beastly littlepapers, and went on my way. But something caused me to look back, andI beheld Miss Bax seemingly in difficulties with two youngfeller-me-lads, who evidently had no intention of going on. There wasno policeman handy--besides, there's a coolness at present betweenmembers of the force and the fair militants--so I went back and dealtfaithfully with Miss Bax's admirers, and they departed, I regret tosay, blaspheming. 

Miss Bax seemed rather shaken, the type was evidently new to her, and Isuggested that she should quit her pitch for the moment and come andhave lunch with me; so we went together to the _Petit Riche_, where weconsumed an excellent omelette; and the bundle of papers, which I, Mary, had nobly carried through the streets of London, sat on a chairbetween us and did chaperon. 

Personally, I see no reason why women should not have votes if theywant 'em, but I see every reason why no woman, and above all no youngwoman, should sell papers anywhere, more especially in LeicesterSquare. I'd like to give the Panks, and the Peths, and the Hicemen abit of my mind on the subject. The mere thought of you ever indulgingin such unseemly vagaries fills me with horror unspeakable. Talk ofthe Squire! Pouncing and pitchforks wouldn't be in it with me, I cantell you, and yet Miss Bax isn't an orphan. 

That very day I met a lugubrious procession of females, encased inlarge sandwich-boards proclaiming a meeting somewhere. They weredismally dodging the traffic, and looked about as dejected as theycould look--ladies every one of them. I begin to think old England'sno place for women when they're reduced to that sort of thing--what doyou say to India for a change?

The story will be out next month, but you won't like it--too technical. 

I hope young Grantly's doing some work. This term counts a lot, and hemustn't pass out low for the honour of the family. 

My salaams to the General and Mrs Grantly, and to you--my remembrances. Do you, by the way, remember "our last ride together" in January? Whenshall we have another? Would the General let us ride in the park oneday if I could get off?--Yours, REGGIE. 

P. S. --Why the kind and blameless member for Marlehouse? Has the Squirechanged his politics? It's all very well for you to say the young manlooked at you as if you were a picture. We've another name for thatsort of sheep's eyes where I come from. He'd better not let me catchhim at it. 

Eloquent came to the conclusion that it is very difficult to pay courtto a girl who belongs to what his father was wont to call "theclasses. " He wondered how they managed it. Such girls, it seemed tohim, were never left alone for a minute. One's only chance was to seethem at parties in a crowd, and if you did dine at their houses, therewas always bridge directly after dinner, when conversation wasrestricted to "I double hearts, " or "with you, " or "No. " He studiedthe rules of bridge industriously, for he found on inquiry that evenCabinet Ministers did not disdain it as a recreation. Therefore Daltonshared with blue-books the little table by his bed. 

It's a far cry from Westminster to Woolwich, and in spite ofindefatigable spade-work on his part, it was well on in the third weekin May before he so much as caught a glimpse of Mary Ffolliot. 

Then one morning he saw her in Bond Street with her grandmother. Shewas on the opposite side of the street rather ahead of him, but he knewthat easy strolling walk, the flat back, and proud carriage of thehead: that head with its burnished hair coiled smoothly under abewitching hat. They stopped to look in at Asprey's window, and hedashed across the road in the full stream of traffic. Two indignanttaxi-drivers swore, and he reached the curb breathless, but uninjured, just as they went into the shop. 

He stood staring at the window, keeping at the same time a sharplook-out on the door. 

What an age they were!

He had just decided that the only thing to do was to go in and buysomething, when they came out. 

Mary saw him at once, and his round face looked so wistful that shegreeted him with quite unnecessary warmth. She recalled him to MrsGrantly, who, remembering vaguely that he was a young man who had"risen from the ranks, " was also more cordial than the occasiondemanded. 

He walked up Bond Street with them, piloted them across Piccadilly, andturned with them down Haymarket, so plainly delighted to see them, sonervous, so pathetically anxious to please, that Mrs Grantly'shospitable instincts, fatally easy to rouse where pity played a part, overcame her discretion. Her husband and her daughter used to declarethat she had a perfect genius for encumbering herself with impossiblepeople--and repenting afterwards. With dismay she realised thatEloquent had, apparently, attached himself to them. Short of cruellywounding his feelings, she saw herself walking about London all day, accompanied by this painfully polite young man. It seemed impossibleto call a taxi, and leave him desolate there on the pavementunless . . . Mrs Grantly's heart was hopelessly soft where animalswere concerned, and just then Eloquent reminded her of nothing so muchas an affectionate dog, allowed to frisk gaily to the front door, andcruelly shut in on the wrong side, as she said--

"We've got to meet my husband at the Stores, Mr Gallup, perhaps you'llkindly get us a taxi, as I'm rather tired. "

His woebegone face was too much for her, and she added, "We're alwaysat home on Sunday afternoons. "

Mary rather wondered at her grannie. 

The taxi drove away and Eloquent walked down Haymarket as though hewere treading on air. To-day was Friday. Sunday, oh blessed day! wasthe day after to-morrow. 

There were clovers nodding in her hat, a wide-brimmed fine straw hatthat threw soft shadows over her blue eyes and turned them dark as theclear water underneath Redmarley Bridge. And he would see her again onSunday. 

That lady, that handsome portly lady, he had been afraid of her atfirst, she looked so large and imposing, but how kind she was! Howwonderfully kind and hearty she had been. It was she who had invitedhim. "We are always at home on Sundays, " she said. Surely that meanthe might go more than once?

That night he made his maiden speech in the House. 

 * * * * * *

Reggie went down to Redmarley at the beginning of June from Saturdayafternoon till Sunday evening. The Squire had a bad cold and wasconfined to the house. His nerves vibrated, so did the tempers ofother people, but Reggie did not care. He joined Willets at the riverand fished till dinner-time. Directly after dinner he went out againand they had splendid sport till nearly ten. Willets walked with himback to the house, and Reggie had a curious feeling that Willets wantedto tell him something and couldn't come to the point. So strong wasthis feeling that as they parted he said, "I shan't go to bed yet, Willets. It's such a perfect night--may stroll down to the bridge, andif you're still up we might have a cigar together. "

He went into the house, chatted a while to Mrs Ffolliot and the Squire, and when they went to bed let himself out very quietly and strolleddown the drive and out of the great gates to the bridge. The perfectpeace of the warm June night, the yellow moonlight on the quiet water, the wide-spanned bridge, the long straggling street of irregular gabledhouses so kindly and so sheltering with their overhanging eaves, thedear familiar charm of it all seemed to grip Reggie by the throat andcaused an unwonted smarting in his eyes. 

The village was absolutely deserted save for one motionless figuresitting on the wall at the far end of the bridge. 

"Hullo, Willets, " Reggie called, "not in bed yet?"

"I'm always a bit wakeful when the fly's up, sir; the river seems todraw me, and I can't leave it. "

"Have a cigar, " said Reggie, and sat down beside him. 

They smoked in silence for a few minutes till Willets said--

"Seen anything of Miss Mary up there, sir?"

"No, Willets, I haven't been able to get away for a minute till now, but I may manage to run down to Woolwich next week just to buck to theGeneral about my catch. You'll have him down then post haste--Ibet----"

"I suppose, sir, " said Willets, with studied carelessness, "you neverhappened to come across the young man that's member for these parts?"

"What, young Gallup? I believe I saw him once. He's making quite aname for himself I hear, his maiden speech was in all the papers. Bythe way though, I _did_ hear of him the other day in a letter I hadfrom Miss Mary. They'd all been to dine at the House of Commons withhim, and had no end of a time. "

"Well I _am_ damned!" said Willets. 

He said it seriously, almost devoutly, and Reggie turned right round tostare at him. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure, but I really was fairlyflabbergasted. "

He stood up sturdy and respectful in a patch of moonlight, and his keenbrown eyes raked Reggie's as though they would read his very soul. 

It wasn't an easy soul to read, and Reggie knew that Willets hadsomething on his mind, so he waited. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, " Willets said again. He had never got overthe feeling that Reggie was one of the young gentlemen, and that itbehoved him to be careful of his language in front of him. 

Reggie Peel laughed. "Look here, Willets, " he said, "what's yourobjection? Why shouldn't they go to the House of Commons to dine withGallup if it amuses them?"

"I don't know, sir, I'm sure, but I was took aback. An' in a smallplace like this it's certain to make talk. That old Miss Gallup, now, she'll be boasting everywhere that our Miss Mary went to dine with hernephew, just as she did when he went to a dinner party up at the house, and for us as _belongs_ to the house--well, we don't relish it. Ihope, sir, " Willets went on in quite a different tone, "that you'llmake it convenient to go up and see after Miss Mary?"

The hawk's eyes were fixed unwinkingly on Reggie's face, so lean andsallow and set; the moonlight accentuated the rather hollow cheeks. And cast black shadows round his eyes, which looked green and sinister. 

Suddenly he smiled, and when Reggie smiled, his whole face altered. 

"Out with it, Willets, " he said, "what maggot have you got in your headnow? You're worried about something; you may as well tell me. I'msafe as a church. "

"I'd like to know, sir, " Willets remarked in a detached impersonaltone, "what's your opinion of mixed marriages?"

"_What_ sort of marriages?"

"Well marriages where one of the parties has had a different bringingup to the other. Now suppose, sir--do you know Miss Shipway--over toMarlehouse; her father's got that big shop top of the market-place fullof bonnets and mantles and such--good-looking girl she is----"

"I'm afraid I don't know the lady, Willets; why?"

"Well, sir, it's this way. She'll have a tidy bit of money when oldShipway dies; her mother was cook at the Fleece, but they've got on. Well now, sir, suppose you was to go after Miss Shipway-----"

Reggie's eyes twinkled. "It might be a most sensible proceeding on mypart--a poor devil like me--if as you say she's a nice girl and willhave a lot of money. Will you give me an introduction?"

"I'm not jokin', sir, nor taking the liberty to propose anything of thesort; it's only----"

"A hypothetical case?"

"That's it, sir. I mean suppose a gentleman like yourself was to marrya girl like her, do you think you'd be happy?"

"Surely it would all depend on whether they liked each other--and likedthe same things----"

"Ah, sir, that's it. _Would_ you like the same things, do you suppose?"

"Well, Willets, I don't see that you've any cause to worry. Unfortunately I don't know the young lady, so I can't see how I'm toget any forrader. "

"Suppose, sir, a young _lady_, like what the Mistress was, should marrya man in quite a different rank from herself, do you think _they'd_ behappy?"

"It depends, " said Reggie, "what sort of a chap he was. People rise, you know. "

"Well, suppose he did, would they happy?"

"I couldn't say, Willets, I'm sure. Is it any particular young ladyyou're worried about?"

 Willets sat down on the wall. "In my time, "he said slowly, "I've seen a good bit; and all I have seen, seems to meto show that it's safest for ladies and gentlemen to stick to their ownclass. But I thought I'd like to have your opinion, sir. "

For five minutes they sat in silence, then Willets remarked, "And youthink you'll be going up to town next week, sir?"

"I think so. I shall try anyway. "

"Would you be so good, sir, as to say to General Grantly that he'dbetter not put off much longer if he wants the best of the fishing. "

"I'll be sure and tell him, Willets. I suppose we must go to bed. Many thanks for the splendid sport. I have to get back to Chathamto-morrow, worse luck, and with the Sunday trains it takes a deuce of atime. "

"Good-night, sir, I'm glad you managed to come, even though it was forbut one night. "

Reggie let himself in very quietly and went up to his room. 

He lit his pipe and went to the window to smoke it. 

The moonlight was so brilliant that he drew a letter from his pocketand read it easily:

"Dear Reggie, " it ran, "yours was a lovely long letter. I'm glad yourescued poor Clara, and you needn't be afraid of me selling papers orcarrying sandwich boards. I'm much too busy having a lovely time. Oh_never_ have I had such a time, but I grieve to tell you that bothGanpy and I are very shocked at the behaviour of Grannie. She ishaving an outrageous flirtation with young Mr Gallup, our member. It'sall very well for her to say she is forming him. She is underminingall his most cherished principles, and if his nonconformistconstituents hear of his goings on I don't believe they'll ever havehim again. 

"She has taught him auction: he played with her last _Sunday_ afternoonbecause it was too wet to be out in the garden. She has sent him tolots of plays: he came with us one night to the Chocolate Soldier; shetalks politics to him by the hour and demolishes his pet theories. Shetells him that he has, up to now, thought so many things wrong that hecan't possibly have any sense of proportion, or properly discriminatewhat really matters and what doesn't; and she is so brisk and masterfuland delightfully amusing--you know Grannie's way--that the poor youngman doesn't know whether he's on his head or his heels, and simplyfollows blindly wherever that reckless woman leads. He gave a dinnerfor us in the House the other night and got Ganpy a seat in theStranger's Gallery. He couldn't get us into the Ladies' Gallerybecause of the silly rule about only wives and sisters or nearrelations made since the suffragette fusses, but he showed us all aboutand it was simply fascinating. Of course Grannie met lots of membersshe knew, and we enjoyed ourselves awfully. We are going to tea on theTerrace next week. The dance at the Shop was ripping, and you needn'tthink I only danced with cadets. I danced with majors and colonels, and a beautiful captain in the Argyle and Sutherland, but I've come tothe conclusion that the jolliest thing is to be Ganpy's wife on theseoccasions. You never saw such court as gets paid to Grannie. Shenever has a dull minute. 

"Grantly went home on Sat. Just for the night, and he says it's all toobeautiful for words. Sometimes I feel wicked to be missing it, and Iget homesick for mother and the children; but I do enjoy it all. Whenare you coming up to play about too? You stern, industrious young man. "

Reggie folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. 

"So that's what old Willets was driving at, " he thought. He leaned outagain to shake the ash out of his pipe. In the far east there was apearly streak. "Daylight, " he muttered, "--and by Jove I see it. "

CHAPTER XXV

"MEN'S MEAL, FIRST CALL"

Mrs Grantly was interested in Eloquent. He was quite unlike any of theinnumerable young men she had had to do with before. His simplicityand directness appealed to her; she admired his high seriousness evenwhile she seemed to deride it, and though violently opposed to hisparty, she shared that party's belief in his political future. 

The General shook his head; not over what he and Mary called "Grannie'sinfatuation for Mr Gallup, " but over the possible results of thisfriendliness and intimacy to Mr Gallup. For the General saw preciselythe same possibilities that Mr Ffolliot had seen, and didn't like whathe saw one whit better than did the Squire. 

Eloquent never saw Mary alone. Generally he was wholly takenpossession of by Mrs Grantly, or such friends of hers as would bebothered with him. Yet his golden dream was with him continually, andin the dear oasis of his fancy he walked in an enchanted garden withMary. In his waking moments, his sane practical moments, he wouldrealise that it was sheer absurdity to imagine that she ever could carefor him. He did not expect her to care, but--and here he driftedacross the desert of plain possibilities into the merciful mirage ofthings hoped for--if she would condescend to let him serve her, hemight take heart of grace. 

He watched her carefully. 

It did not seem to him that there was anybody else. There were crowds:crowds of dreadful, well-dressed, good-looking, cheerful men, whochaffed and laughed and quaffed any drinks that happened to be going;but he did not fear the enemy in battalions, and so far it appearedthat her besiegers always attacked in companies. 

Sometimes he was sure that she knew how he felt, and was trying ingentle, delicately pitiful ways to show him that it was of no use. Then again he would dismiss this thought as absurd and conceited. Howshould Mary know? How could she try to show him she didn't care whenhe had never shown her that he did? How could he show her?

It was this desire to show her, this hope of familiarising her with theidea that caused Eloquent to resort to every possible place where hemight see her. He went down to Woolwich as often as decency wouldpermit, which wasn't often. He inundated Mrs Grantly with invitationsto the House, and he haunted the theatres, generally in vain, in thehope of seeing her at the play. He would often reflect bitterly howeasy things were for the young shopman in these matters. He met hisgirl and took her for a walk, and no one thought any the worse ofeither of them. There was none of this nerve-racking, heartrendinguncertainty, this difficulty of access, this sense of futility, intheir relations. 

Of the many mysterious attributes of the "classes, " there was none tobe so heartily deplored as their entire success in secluding theiryoung women, while apparently they gave them every possible opportunityfor amusement of all kinds. 

 * * * * * *

Reggie went down to Woolwich once while Mary was with her grandparents, but it was not, from her point of view, a very satisfactory visit. Reggie was grumpy, and looked very tired and overworked. Moreover, Mary, though she could not have confessed it for the world, was just atrifle hurt that he never reminded her of that last ride together. 

Just as he was leaving on the Sunday night, and they were all in thegarden, he walked with her a little way down a winding path that hidthem from the others, saying abruptly--

"Shall I let you know directly if they are going to send me to theShiny?"

"Of course I should like to know, but . . . India is a long way off, Reggie, why do you want to go so far?"

"Because, my dear, it means work and promotion, and one's chance, andlots of things; one being quite decent pay. Besides, I like India, Ishall be glad to go back, if . . . "

They had followed the path, and it led them out to the lawn again, where the others were standing. He didn't finish his sentence--

"Say you want me to get out there, Mary. "

"Of course I want you to go if you really wish it. "

"I'll let you know then. I shall know myself early in July, Ifancy . . . Perhaps I'll run down to Redmarley; you'll be back then?"

They joined the others; Reggie made his farewells and left. 

Mary went and took her grandfather's arm, and made him walk round thegarden with her. She developed an intelligent interest in geography, and made searching inquiries as to the healthiness of India generally. 

It was comforting to walk arm and arm with grandfather. She didn'tknow why, but she felt a little frightened, a little homesick. Howclearly one can see some people's faces when they are not there. Whatunusual eyes Reggie had, so green in some lights. He was lookingdreadfully thin, poor boy, downright ill he looked, and yet everyonesaid he was very strong. No one else shook hands quite like Reggie: hehad nice hands, strong and gentle; thin, but not hard and nubbly. Whyis a summer night often so sad? Night-scented stock has a sad smell, though it is so sweet. He shouldn't work so hard. He was overdoingit. Surely if he went to India they'd give him some leave . . . Itmight be years before he came back. Three years he was away once. 

Mary clasped both her hands over her grandfather's arm. "I do love youso, Ganpy, " she said; "there's nobody like you in the world, no one atall. "

The General smiled in the twilight, and pressed the arm in his againsthis side. He said nothing at all, yet Mary felt vaguely comforted. 

In the beginning of July she went back to Redmarley, and everyone wasvery glad to see her again. One Saturday morning when the Squire andMrs Ffolliot had started in the victoria to lunch with neighbours onthe other side of Marlehouse, Mary called Parker and went to walk inthe woods. It was a grey morning, warm and sunless and still. Shewandered about quite aimlessly. She was restless and unsettled, andhad a good deal to think over. 

Just before she left Woolwich, Eloquent Gallup had called one afternoonwhen both the General and Mrs Grantly were out; but he asked boldly forMary. She was at home, and he was shown into the cool, shady garden, where she was lying in a hammock reading a novel. 

This was Eloquent's chance and he took it. He did not stay long. Heleft before tea, but during the time he did stay he contrived to letMary see . . . What it must be confessed she had already suspected. Hesaid nothing definite. He was immensely distant in his reverence, buta much humbler girl than Mary could hardly have mistaken his meaning. He was so pathetically diffident it was impossible to snub him, and shehad no desire to snub him. Always she was immensely sorry forhim--why, she did not know. 

He was plain. He was insignificant. He was not a gentleman by birth, but he was--and Mary's standard was fairly high--so far as she couldsee, a thorough gentleman in feeling and in action. Moreover, he hadability, and an immense capacity for hard work, both of them qualitiesthat appealed to Mary. 

So she allowed herself to dally vaguely with the idea. It was verypleasant to be set in a shrine; to be worshipped; to be served in aprayerful attitude of adoration. To be able by a kind word, a kindglance, to raise a fellow creature to a dizzy height of happiness. Howcould anyone be unkind to that excellent little man? Suppose . . . This was a daring supposition, and Mary grew hot all over as sheentertained it--suppose, in the dim and distant future, whenReggie . . . Reggie had never written after he went back to Chatham, nothing had happened then about India; but suppose he did go for yearsand years, and forgot her . . . Perhaps he had never wanted to rememberher in that particular way, and she had magnified quite little thingsthat meant nothing at all. . . . Suppose she ultimately, years hence, could bring herself to marry Mr Gallup. How angry her father would be!But that was a prospective contingency that only amused Mary. He wouldbe angry whoever she married. He would be exceedingly angry if she gotengaged to . . . That young man at Chatham who was so taciturn andneglectful . . . Who didn't seem to want to get engaged to anyone. Clara Bax said it would be dreadfully dull to marry anyone you'd knownall your life. Would it? Clara Bax said it would be tiresome in theextreme to marry anybody. But about that Mary was not sure. 

Westminster is certainly the nicest part of London; there are bits ofit that remind one of Redmarley. It would be pleasant to be rich andimportant, and feel that you are helping to pull the wires that controldestinies; helping to make history. Ah, that was what Reggie calledit. He would do it. She was sure of that; but Reggie's wife wouldhave no hand in it. 

With clear intuition she saw that of these two men, only one could beinfluenced by his wife in anything that concerned his work. Reggie'swife would be outside all that. Eloquent's wife, _if she were theright woman_, would share everything: and at that moment Parker beganto bark, and Mary found that she had walked into a part of the woodcalled the Forty Firs, and that Eloquent Gallup was standing right onthe very same spot, where seven months ago she had assisted him to risefrom a puddle. 

Parker didn't like Eloquent upright a bit better than he had likedEloquent prone, and he made a great yapping and growling and bouncingand skirmishing around about the two of them, until he finally subsidedinto suspicious sniffing at Eloquent's ankles. 

"Has Parliament risen then?" Mary asked, when she had soothed Parker toquiescence. 

"No, Miss Ffolliot, I came down"--Eloquent's eyes were fixed hungrilyon her face, and she noticed that his was nothing like so round as itused to be, and that he was very pale--"because I couldn't keep away. "

Mary said nothing. There seemed nothing to say. 

"Miss Ffolliot, " Eloquent said again, "I think you must know why I havecome down, what I feel about you, what I have felt about you since thefirst minute I saw you in this very place, when I was so ridiculous andyou so beautiful and kind. I have travelled a good way since then, butI know that in caring for you as I do I am still ridiculous, and it isonly because you are so beautiful and kind, although you are so farabove me, that I dare to tell you what I feel . . . But I would likeyour leave to think about you. Somehow, without it, it seems animpertinence, and, God knows, no man ever felt more worship for a womanthan I feel for you. Do you give me that leave?"

Mary was very much touched, very much shaken. Eloquent's power lay inhis immense earnestness. She no longer saw him small and insignificantand common. She saw the soul of him, and recognised that it was agreat soul. For one brief moment she wondered if she could . . . 

Through the woods rang the notes of a bugle. Ger was playing "Come tothe cook-house door. " Mary's heart seemed to leap up and turn rightover. 

"Come to the cook-house door" is not by any means one of the mostbeautiful of the bugle sounds of the British Army. It is rather jerkyat the best of times, and as performed by Ger it was wheezy as well. But for Mary just then it was a clear call to consciousness. 

Pity and sympathy and admiration are not love: and Mary knew it, and inthat moment she became a woman. 

Eloquent had taken her hand, taken it with a respect and gentlenessthat affected her unspeakably. She gave a little sob. She did not tryto draw it away. "Oh dear, " she sighed, "I am so sorry, for it's allno use, " and the tears ran down her cheeks. 

Eloquent lifted her hand and kissed it. 

"Don't cry, my dear, " he said, "don't cry. I'm glad I've known you andloved you. . . . "

Again through the woods there rang that "first call" so dear to theheart of Ger. 

"Good-bye, Mr Gallup, I mustn't stay . . . Try to forgive me, and . . . "

"Forgive, " Eloquent repeated scornfully, "what have I to forgive?_That_ is for you. "

Mary turned and walked swiftly away, and Eloquent watched her till shewas out of sight. 

Parker kept close at her side, but every now and then he jumped up andtried to lick her face. Parker knew all was not right with Mary and hewas uneasy. 

Mary knew full well that it was to no comfortable cook-house door thatGer had summoned her. That wheezy bugle called her to the outposts ofthe world; to a life of incessant acerbating change, where there was nocertainty, no stability, no sweet home peace, or that proud fixity oftenure that is the heritage of those who own the land on which theylive. She had no illusions. Not in vain had she lived with hergrandmother at Woolwich and heard the lamentations of the officers'wives when plans were changed at the last moment, and the fair prospectof a few years at home was blotted out by the inexorable orders forforeign service. And the Sappers were worst of all, for except at avery few stations they hadn't even a mess, and there was not thefriendly fellowship of "the Regiment" to count upon. 

The yard was quite deserted, for the men had gone to dinner. Shepaused at the gate and looked long and lovingly at the clusteringchimneys, and lichened, grey-green roofs she loved: and as she looked anew sound broke the stillness. Three loud reports and then thetouf-touf, spatter-dash-spatter-dash of a motor bicycle. 

Mary opened the gate, went through, shut it behind her and leantagainst it, for her knees were as water. 

The noise came on, it passed the house, turned into the back drive, came round, and someone in overalls, covered with dust from head tofoot, swept into the deserted yard; saw Mary, pulled up short, andpushed the bike against a wall. 

This dusty person tore off his goggles. It was Captain Reginald Peel, R. E. , and he came across the yard towards her. 

"Hullo, Mary, " he said, "I told you I'd let you know whenever I heard. The A. A. G. 's a brick, I'm going to India. Marching orders came lastnight. "

Mary's lips trembled and her voice died in her throat. Reggie took outa large silk handkerchief and mopped his dusty face. 

He came on towards her and took both her hands. 

"Mary, " he said, "can you leave all this? Can you face it? Will youcome with me and help me to build bridges and make roads and digdrains. . . . Will you come so that we can have the rest of ourlives . . . Together?"

They looked straight into one another's eyes. 

"I will, " said Mary, and she said it as solemnly as if she wererepeating a response in the Marriage Service. 

Reggie loosed one of her hands. Again he polished his face. 

"I should like awfully to kiss you, " he said, "but I'm so fearfullydusty--do you mind?"

"I think, " said Mary, with a queer choky laugh, "that I'd rather likeit. "

And just at that moment Willets appeared at a gate leading from thegarden. He didn't see them, and opened the gate, which squeakedabominably, came through and let it shut with a clang, but they, apparently, heard nothing. 

Willets stood transfixed, for he saw the motor-bike and the dusty youngman in overalls, and clasped close in the arms of the said dusty youngman was Miss Mary!

Willets gave one quick glance, smote his hands softly together, andturned right round with his back to them. He leaned on the gate andgazed steadfastly into the distant garden. It was a squeaky gate, thatgate. If he opened it, it might disturb them, and bless you, they werebut young, and one is only young once. 

So kindly Willets stared, with eyes that were not quite so keen asusual, at the bit of garden he could see; and there, delphiniums wereblooming. The sun came out just at that moment, and they lookedparticularly blue and tall and splendid. 

It seemed to Willets that he admired those delphiniums for hours andhours, but it was really only a few minutes till he heard a ratherhusky voice behind him saying, "It's all right, Willets, you may turnround and congratulate us. "

And there they were both standing "as bold as brass" he saidafterwards, and the delphiniums he had just been studying so closelywere not as blue as Mary's eyes.