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Man On The Other Side

<h2 id='VI' class='c005'>CHAPTER VI</h2> It was a few days later that Mr. Fothersley, as was his frequent custom, emerged from his front door at eleven o’clock, on his way to the post. In his left hand he carried a sheaf of letters for the twelve o’clock post out. As he often said, it made “an object for his morning stroll.” Not that Mr. Fothersley ever really strolled. It would have been a physical impossibility. His little plump legs always trotted. They trotted now along the immaculate gravel drive which curved between two wide strips of smooth mown sward. On the right hand the grass merged into a magnificent grove of beech-trees, on the left it was fenced by a neat iron railing, dividing it from what the house agent describes as finely timbered park-land. Behind him, with all its sun-blinds down, the grey old house slept serenely in the sunshine. The parterres were brilliant with calceolaria, geranium, and heliotrope. Mr. Fothersley rather prided himself on an early Victorian taste in gardening, and his herbaceous borders, very lovely though they were, dwelt in the kitchen garden region. Leigh Manor had belonged to Mr. Fothersley from the day of his birth, which occurred two months after the death of his father. That gentleman had married late in life for the sole and avowed purpose of providing his estate with an heir, of which purpose his son most cordially approved. At the same time he had never seen his way to go so far himself. The Fothersleys were not a marrying family. His mother, a colourless person, of irreproachable lineage, and a view of life which contemplated only two aspects, the comfortable and the uncomfortable, had lived long enough to see him well into the forties, by which time he was as skillful as she had been in the management of an establishment. Everything continued to run in the same perfect order, and Mr. Fothersley felt no more inclined than during her lifetime to disturb the smooth current of his pleasant life by embarking on the very uncertain adventure of matrimony. On this particular morning he paused outside his own gate to look at the view—almost the same view that was obtainable from the “house on the wall” at Thorpe Farm. Ever since he was a small child, Mr. Fothersley could remember taking visitors to see “our view,” and he had, at an early age, esteemed it unfortunate that none so good was to be obtained from the grounds of Leigh Manor. He looked out over the quiet scene. The great beautiful valley, with the suggestion only of the sea beyond, the dotted farmsteads, with here and there some noble old mansion like his own secluded among its trees, and, at his feet, little Mentmore village, with its grey church tower, half hidden in the hollow. It was typical of all he held most dearly. A symbol of the well-ordered ease and superiority of his position, of the things which were indeed, though unconsciously, Mr. Fothersley’s religion. In the grey church his forbears had, like himself, sat with their peers, in the front pews, while their dependents had herded discreetly at the back behind the pillars. In these eminently picturesque cottages, of two or three rooms, dwelt families who, he had always taken more or less for granted, regarded him and his with a mixture of respect and reverence, just touched—only touched—with awe. On the whole most worthy and respectable people. Mr. Fothersley was generous to them out of his superabundance. He was indeed attached to them; and although Mr. Fothersley prided himself on moving with the times, it was plain that any alteration in the admirable state of things existing in Mentmore would not only be a mistake, but absolutely wrong. Therefore, on this fine June morning, Mr. Fothersley was perturbed. The knowledge that Mr. Pithey dwelt in the noble grey stone house on the opposite hill, in the place of his old friend, Helford Rose, spoilt “his view” for him. And, for the first time, too, one of Ruth Seer’s new cottages had become visible just below his own pasture fields. The workmen were putting on the roof. It was to Mr. Fothersley an unseemly sight in Mentmore. Ruth had done her best, she had spent both time and money in securing material that would not spoil the harmony or character of the little village, but as Mr. Fothersley had said, it was the thin end of the wedge. What was to prevent Mr. Pithey from scattering some horrible epidemic of hideous utilitarian domiciles broadcast over his wide estate? Mr. Fothersley shuddered, and remembered with thankfulness that they were not at present a paying proposition. Still, he wished Miss Seer had not these queer manias. Not that he disliked her—far from it. Indeed, the little basket of his special early strawberries, poised in his right hand, was on its way to her. And he had even traced a distant cousinship with her on the Courthope side. Since what was now familiarly known in his set as the Pithian Invasion he considered her a distinct asset at Thorpe. “I would not have had old Dick’s place vulgarized for a good deal,” he said to himself as he descended the hill. “And I know even he did talk of building some cottages before the war, poor dear fellow.” All the same, he did not feel in his usual spirits, and presently, to add to his discomfort, he passed the local sweep, window cleaner, and generally handy man, who, instead of touching his hat as of old, nodded a cheery, “Good-morning, Mr. Fothersley! Nice weather,” to him. Mr. Fothersley did not like it. Most distinctly it annoyed him! It had been one thing to go and see Mankelow when he was wounded, and a patient in the local V.A.D., and make a considerable fuss over him, but that, as Mr. Pithey was fond of saying, “was different.” It was decidedly presuming on it for Mankelow to treat him in that “Hail fellow, well met” way. This brought to Mr. Fothersley’s mind the threatening strikes among the miners, transport workers, and what Mr. Fothersley vaguely designated as “those sort of people.” He wondered what would happen if all the sweeps went on strike. It was a most dangerous thing to light fires with a large accumulation of soot up the chimney—most dangerous. At this moment he nearly collided with Ruth Seer, as she came swiftly round the Post Office corner. They both stopped, laughed, and apologized. “I was just on my way to you with some of our early strawberries,” said Mr. Fothersley, exposing a corner of the contents of his basket. “How very good of you!” exclaimed Ruth. “And I do love them. Will you wait for me one moment? I am going on my way to send a telegram to Mr. North.” Now curiosity was the most prominent trait in Mr. Fothersley’s funny little character, and it was the naked and unashamed curiosity of the small child. It might almost be looked on as a virtue turned inside out, so real and keen was his interest in his neighbors’ affairs, an interest often followed by sympathy and help. “Telegraphing to North!” he exclaimed. “What about?” No inhabitant of any length of time would have been in the least astonished, but Ruth, for a moment or two taken thoroughly aback, simply stared at him. Then, somewhat late in the day, it began to dawn on her that her telegram to Roger North might possibly demand an explanation, and one she had no intentions of giving. “Telegraphing to North? What about?” repeated Mr. Fothersley, his little pink face beaming with kindly interest. The whole truth being out of the question, there was nothing for it but as much as possible. “I want to see him to ask his opinion on a matter of importance,” said Ruth. Astonishment mingled with the curiosity on Mr. Fothersley’s speaking countenance. Many things flashed through his mind in the minute while he and Ruth again stared at each other, the most prominent being the tongue of the Postmistress and Mrs. North’s fiery jealousy. Mr. Fothersley could remember terrible times, when it had been aroused by lesser matters than this telegram, aroused to such an extent that all Mentmore had become aware of it, and much unnecessary dirty linen washed in public before the storm subsided. North himself on these occasions was, in Mr. Fothersley’s language, difficult, most difficult. He either teased his wife unmercifully, or lost his temper and used bad language. The whole affair was always, again in Mr. Fothersley’s language, “regrettable, most regrettable,” while the groundwork of the whole matter was, that women bored North far more than they ever amused him, so that if he did talk to one it was noticeable. It was quite evident to Mr. Fothersley that Miss Seer was wholly unconscious of anything unusual in her action. This surprised him, for he had understood she had been a companion, and a companion’s knowledge of such things, as a rule, passes belief. Ruth made a movement to pass on, the fatal document in her hand. But it was one of those moments when Mr. Fothersley was supreme. “My dear lady,” he exclaimed, “I am going to Westwood so soon as I have deposited my little offering on your doorstep. Allow me to take the message for you.” With a deft movement the paper was in his possession, was neatly folded and placed in safety in his waistcoat pocket. His little plump figure turned, plainly prepared to escort her back to Thorpe. “The telegram will explain itself?” he asked, “or shall I give any message?” “I want to consult him about some happenings on the farm,” answered Ruth. “Things I should like to talk over with him with as little delay as possible. Mr. North has been very kind, and, I think takes a real interest in Thorpe.” “No doubt. No doubt.” Mr. Fothersley acquiesced cordially. “He was poor Carey’s most intimate friend. Though indeed we were all his friends. A most lovable fellow. Indeed, he was almost too kind-hearted. Anyone could take him in—and did!” added Mr. Fothersley, with warmth. “There was a German fellow, very pleasant, I own, to meet, who used to stay with him quite a lot at one time. I always felt how, if they had invaded England, he would have known every inch of the country round here, for no doubt he took notes of everything, as they always did. Funnily enough, he was taken prisoner badly wounded by Dick’s own regiment, and died at the clearing station, before they could get him to a hospital.” Ruth looked at the sunlit peace of the farm, for they had reached the gate. She remembered what Violet Riversley had told her. And yet Dick Carey had cared for this man. “And they had parted here as friends,” she said. “I believe Dick was quite cut up about it,” said Mr. Fothersley. “Very odd. But poor dear Dick was odd! No sense of proportion, you know!” This was a favourite saying of both Mr. Fothersley’s and Mrs. North’s. It is doubtful if either of them quite knew what they meant by it, but it sounded well. Mr. Fothersley repeated it over again, leaning with his arms on the gate. “No sense of proportion. A lovable fellow though, most lovable. Many’s the time we’ve stood here, just as you and I are standing, watching his birds. You have the bird pool still, I see.” Mr. Fothersley fumbled for his glasses. “Yes, and those wretched little blue-tits everywhere—the worst offenders in the garden. Even the blossom is not safe from them. Madness to encourage them with coconuts and bacon-rind. But as I said, poor Dick——” By this time Mr. Fothersley had his glasses firmly planted across the bridge of his nose. He could see the pool plainly, and in addition to several blue-tits, two round cherub faces, open-mouthed, very still, hanging over the edge of the bank. “Good heavens! What are those?” he exclaimed. “Only two small visitors of mine,” said Ruth, smiling. “It is quite wonderful how still they have learnt to be to watch the birds. They live in Blackwall Tenements, and their only playground there is a strip of pavement under a dust shoot.” “Oh!” said Mr. Fothersley dubiously. “Blackwall. That is somewhere in the City.” He was interrupted by a shrill, excited, plainly female voice on its topmost note. “Oh, Tommy! ’e’s caught a f’y!” The next moment every bird had gone, while the complete figures belonging to the moon faces arose, as it were out of the ground. Both wore knickers, both had short hair, but it was plainly the master male who administered swift and primitive punishment. “There, you’ve done it again!” “I forgot—I——” Sobs, bitter and violent, stopped the lament. The boy pocketed his hands and moved off. “Jes’ like a woman,” he called over his shoulder. The other small figure followed him at a humble distance, wailing aloud till both disappeared from view. Mr. Fothersley shuddered. “How can you bear it?” he asked, his little pink face really concerned. “Even Dick——” “Stopped short at Germans,” Ruth ended for him. “Well, it has its compensations. And after all, what can one do? I know that playground under the dust soot! And I have all this. One could not bear it, if one didn’t have them down.” “How many?” asked Mr. Fothersley faintly. Ruth leant back against the gate and gave way to helpless laughter, while Mr. Fothersley prodded holes in the bank with his stick and waited with dignity till she should recover. He saw nothing to laugh at. “I beg your pardon,” said Ruth, hurriedly suppressing what she felt from his manner was most unseemly mirth. “I only have two at a time,” she added appeasingly. “And they are really very good on the whole.” “I should relegate them to the back garden,” said Mr. Fothersley decisively. “I remember as a child even I was never allowed to run wild where I pleased. Good heavens! what is that noise?” He cocked an attentive ear, as a sound, like nothing he had ever heard before, made itself evident. At the same moment, over the crest of the lawn appeared a wonderful procession. First came the small female figure in knickers, brandishing in her right hand a crimson flag, while with the left she held a small tin trumpet to her lips, with which at intervals she blew a breathless note. The same which had attracted Mr. Fothersley’s attention. Then, strapped into his go-cart, and positively smothered in flags and flowers, came Bertram Aurelius. Finally, pushing the go-cart with somewhat dangerous vigour, the small Lord of the Show. Around the procession, leaping and barking, skirmished Sarah and Selina, while beside the go-cart Larry padded sedately, snuffing the air delicately, waving a stately tail. The procession circled the lawn at the full speed of the children’s small legs, dropped over into the garden pathway and disappeared towards the farmyard. Mr. Fothersley softened. The scene had been a pretty one. “Quite like one of the delightful illustrations in the children’s books of to-day,” he said, smiling. “Please don’t think me unsympathetic, dear lady. A love of children is one of the most beautiful traits in a woman’s character, and philanthropy has also its due place. But do not be carried away by too much enthusiasm. Do have, as I used to say to poor Dick, a due sense of proportion. Otherwise you will only get imposed upon, and do no good in the long run. Believe me, you have gone quite far enough with these innovations, and do let it stop there before you have cause for regret.” Mr. Fothersley paused and smiled, well pleased with the turning of his phrases. Also he felt his advice was good. Ruth acquiesced with becoming humility, aware only of a little running commentary which conveyed nothing to her. Her mind was entirely absorbed with the fact that Larry had accompanied the small procession which had so swiftly crossed their line of vision and disappeared—Larry, who kept children severely in their place as became a dignified gentleman of a certain age, and on whom not even Selina’s wiliest enticement produced the smallest effect. “No good ever comes of moving people out of their natural surroundings,” continued Mr. Fothersley, holding on his way with complete satisfaction. “All men cannot be equal, and it only makes them discontented with the state of life in which it has pleased God to place them. Personally I believe also they are quite unable to appreciate better conditions. Why, when——” And here, to the little man’s astonishment, Ruth suddenly, and very vividly, turned on him, shaking a warning finger in front of his startled nose. “Mr. Fothersley, if you tell me that old story about the chickens in the bathroom, I warn you I am quite unable to bear it. I shall hold forth, and either make you very cross with me or bore you to death. I have lived amongst the very poor, and between your view of them and mine there is a great gulf fixed. I know what you cannot know—their sufferings, their endurance, their patience. I would have every child in London down here if I could—so there! And they may love their squalor and filth, as people here have said to me. It is all the home they have ever known. It is the great indictment against our civilization.” Then she stopped and suddenly smiled at him, it was a smile that barred offence. “There, you see! Don’t start me off, whatever you do!” Mr. Fothersley smiled back. “My dear lady, I admire your kindness of heart. It is your lack of any sense of proportion——” It was at this moment that Mr. Pithey appeared, magnificent in a new tweed knickerbocker suit of a tawny hue, with immaculate gaiters, brown boots and gloves; a cap to match the suit, upon his head; the inevitable cigar in his mouth; looking incongruous enough, between the wild rose and honeysuckle hedges. To discover a couple of anything like marriageable age alone together, in what he called “the lanes,” suggested one thing and one thing only to Mr. Pithey’s mind. His manner assumed a terrible geniality. “Now don’t let me disturb you,” he said, waving a large newly gloved hand. “Just a word with this lady, and I’m off.” He perpetrated a wink that caused Mr. Fothersley to shut his eyes. “Two’s company and three’s none, eh?” Mr. Fothersley opened his eyes and endeavoured to stare him down with concentrated rage and disgust. But Mr. Pithey held on his way, undisturbed. “Wonderful how you meet everybody in this little place! Just passed Lady Condor. Jove! how that woman does cake her face with paint. At her age too! What’s the use? Doesn’t worry me, but Mrs. Pithey disapproves of that sort of thing root and branches.” If Mr. Fothersley could have called down fire from heaven and slain Mr. Pithey at that moment, he would undoubtedly have done so; as it was, he could only struggle impotently for words wherewith to convey to him some sense of his insufferable impertinence. And words failed him. His little round face quivering with rage, he stammered for a moment unintelligibly, making furious gestures with his disengaged hand at the astonished Mr. Pithey. Finally he turned his back and thrust the basket of strawberries into Ruth’s hand. “Please send the basket back at your convenience, Miss Seer,” he said. Even in that moment he did not forget the importance of the return of one of the Leigh Manor baskets. “Good-morning.” “Touching little brute,” remarked Mr. Pithey cheerfully, gazing after him. “What’s upset him now? He’ll have an apoplectic fit if he walks at that rate in this heat, a man of his built and a hearty eater too!” Indeed poor Mr. Fothersley, by the time he reached the Manor, between rage and nervousness, for who could say what thoughts Mr. Pithey’s egregious remarks might not have given rise to in Miss Seer’s mind, was in a very sad state. It was impossible to risk driving to Westwood in an open car. He ordered the landaulette, closed. It was necessary to go because he had Miss Seer’s telegram to deliver. Also the desire was strong upon him for the people of his own little world, those who felt things as he felt them, and saw things even as he saw them. He wanted to talk over the various small happenings of the morning with an understanding spirit; the sweep’s familiarity, Miss Seer’s odd activities, and last, but not least, Mr. Pithey’s hateful facetiousness. Above all, though he hardly knew it himself, he wanted to get with people who were the same as people had been before the war, to get away from this continual obtrusion of an undercurrent of difference, of change, which so disquieted him, and he wanted, badly wanted, comfort and sympathy. The Norths were by themselves, and proportionately glad to see him. Violet had left, on a sudden impulse, that morning, and fresh visitors were not expected till the following week. The very atmosphere of Nita North comforted the little man. The atmosphere of the great commonplace, the unimaginative, the egotistic. An atmosphere untouched by the war. Peace descended on his troubled spirit as he unfolded his table napkin and watched the butler, in the very best manner of the best butler lift the silver cover in front of Mrs. North from the golden-brown veal cutlets, each with its dainty roll of fat bacon, Mr. Fothersley’s favourite luncheon dish, while North, who had his moments of insight, said: “Some of the Steinberg Cabinet for Mr. Fothersley, Mansfield.” Indeed, both the Norths saw at once that Mr. Fothersley was not quite himself, that he had been upset. It was impossible to tell the chief causes of his annoyance before the servants, though, in an interval, he commented on the familiar behaviour of the sweep, and his views as to the results of “the new independence” on the working classes, and the danger of strikes. “I have no patience with this pandering to the lower classes,” said Mrs. North. “They must be taught.” North, who was genuinely fond of little Mr. Fothersley, did not ask “How?” as he had an irritating habit of doing when he heard his wife enunciate this formula. Mr. Fothersley agreed. “Certainly, they must be taught.” He was distinctly soothed. The Steinberg Cabinet had not altered, indeed it had gained in its power to minister. The objectionable feeling that the foundations on which his world was built were quivering and breaking up subsided into the background, and by the time the coffee came, and the servants departed, he was his usual genial kindly little self, and could even give a risible turn to his account of Mr. Pithey’s impertinence. “I lost my temper and, I am afraid, practically gibbered at him with rage,” he owned. “I was hardly dignified. But that I should live to hear that Marion Condor is disapproved of by Mrs. Pithey!” “Insolent brute!” said Mrs. North, all unconscious that her language was Pithian. “Can nobody put him in his place?” “He must be taught,” suggested North wickedly. But, though his wife shot a doubtful glance at him, Mr. Fothersley took the suggestion in good faith. “I quite agree with you, Roger. The question is, How? Unfortunately we have all called.” “We could all cut him,” suggested Mrs. North. “I don’t approve of cutting people, my dear Nita. In a small community it makes things very unpleasant and leads to such uncomfortable situations.” Indeed, Mr. Fothersley had more than once interposed in almost a high-handed manner to prevent Mrs. North cutting ladies of whom she thought she had reason to be jealous. “No, I sincerely wish we had never called, but having called, and indeed invited these people to our houses, received them as guests, I should deprecate cutting them. You agree with me, Roger?” “Certainly. The Pitheys would not care if you did. Also he is the sort of man who could worry you a good deal in the village if he took it into his head to do so. Better keep good terms with him if you can.” “What did Miss Seer say?” asked Mrs. North. “I don’t remember her saying anything, but I was so agitated. I didn’t, of course, even look at her. You don’t think his remarks will give rise to any ideas——” Mr. Fothersley paused, looking from one to the other. “Good Lord, no!” said North. “How do you know?” asked his wife sharply. “I should certainly advise Arthur to keep away for the future.” North shrugged his shoulders as he rose from the table. “I expect you will like your cigar in the garden with Nita,” he said, pushing the box across the table to his guest. “I’ve got some letters to write.” When he reached his study he took Ruth’s telegram out of his pocket-book and, lighting a match, burned it very carefully to ashes. “Bless their small minds,” he said. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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