To be perfect wife to him would ‘take a bit of doing!’ If only she knew of a real ‘good thing’ instead, and had a ‘shirt to put on it!’ If only Francis Wilmot had money and did not live where the cotton came from, and darkies crooned in the fields; where rivers ran red, Florida moss festooned the swamps and the sun shone; where grapefruit grew–or didn’t? – and mocking-birds sang sweeter than the nightingale. South Carolina, described to her with such enthusiasm by Francis Wilmot! A world that was not her world stared straight into the eyes of Marjorie Ferrar. South Carolina! Impossible! It was like being asked to be ancient!
MacGown came up to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Forgive me, Marjorie.”
On her shrugging shoulders he put his hands, kissed her lips, and went away.
And she sat down in her favourite chair, listless, swinging her foot. The sand had run out of her dolly–life was a bore! It was like driving tandem, when the leader would keep turning round; or the croquet party in “Alice in Wonderland,” read in the buttercup-fields at High Marshes not twenty years ago that felt like twenty centuries.
What did she want? Just a rest from men and bills? or that fluffy something called ‘real love’? Whatever it was, she hadn’t got it! And so! Dress, and go out, and dance; and later dress again, and go out and dine; and the dresses not paid for.
Well, nothing like an egg-nog for ‘the hump’!
Ringing for the ingredients, she made one with plenty of brandy, capped it with nutmeg, and drank it down.
Chapter IV.
FONS ET ORIGO
Two mornings later Michael received two letters. The first, which bore an Australian post-mark, ran thus:
“DEAR SIR,
“I hope you are well and the lady. I thought perhaps you’d like to know how we are. Well, Sir, we’re not much to speak of out here after a year and a half. I consider there’s too much gilt on the ginger-bread as regards Australia. The climate’s all right when it isn’t too dry or too wet–it suits my wife fine, but Sir when they talk about making your fortune all I can say is tell it to the marines. The people here are a funny lot they don’t seem to have any use for us and I don’t seem to have any use for them. They call us Pommies and treat us as if we’d took a liberty in coming to their blooming country. You’d say they wanted a few more out here, but they don’t seem to think so. I often wish I was back in the old Country. My wife says we’re better off here, but I don’t know. Anyway they tell a lot of lies as regards emigration.
“Well, Sir, I’ve not forgotten your kindness. My wife says please to remember her to you and the lady.
“Yours faithfully,
“ANTHONY BICKET.”
With that letter in his hand, Michael, like some psychometric medium, could see again the writer, his thin face, prominent eyes, large ears, a shadowy figure of the London streets behind his coloured balloons. Poor little snipe–square peg in round hole wherever he might be; and all those other pegs–thousands upon thousands, that would never fit in. Pommies! Well! He wasn’t recommending emigration for them; he was recommending it for those who could be shaped before their wood had set. Surely they wouldn’t put that stigma on to children! He opened the other letter.
“Roll Manor,
“Nr. Huntingdon.
“MY DEAR SIR,
“The disappointment I have felt since the appearance of my book was somewhat mitigated by your kind allusions to it in Parliament, and your championship of its thesis. I am an old man, and do not come to London now, but it would give me pleasure to meet you. If you are ever in this neighbourhood, I should be happy if you would lunch with me, or stay the night, as suits you best.
“With kind regards,
“Faithfully yours,
“JAS: FOGGART.”
He showed it to Fleur.
“If you go, my dear, you’ll be bored to tears.”
“I must go,” said Michael; “Fons et Origo!”
He wrote that he would come to lunch the following day.
He was met at the station by a horse drawing a vehicle of a shape he had never before beheld. The green-liveried man to whose side he climbed introduced it with the words: “Sir James thought, sir, you’d like to see about you; so ‘e sent the T cart.”
It was one of those grey late autumn days, very still, when the few leaves that are left hang listless, waiting to be windswept. The puddled road smelled of rain; rooks rose from the stubbles as if in surprise at the sound of horses’ hoofs; and the turned earth of ploughed fields had the sheen that betokened clay. To the flat landscape poplars gave a certain spirituality; and the russet-tiled farmhouse roofs a certain homeliness.
“That’s the manor, sir,” said the driver, pointing with his whip. Between an orchard and a group of elms, where was obviously a rookery, Michael saw a long low house of deeply weathered brick covered by Virginia creeper whose leaves had fallen. At a little distance were barns, outhouses, and the wall of a kitchen-garden. The T cart turned into an avenue of limes and came suddenly on the house unprotected by a gate. Michael pulled an old iron bell. Its lingering clang produced a lingering man, who, puckering his face, said: “Mr. Mont? Sir James is expecting you. This way, sir.”
Through an old low hall smelling pleasantly of wood-smoke, Michael reached a door which the puckered man closed in his face.
Sir James Foggart! Some gaitered old countryman with little grey whiskers, neat, weathered and firm-featured; or one of those short-necked John Bulls, still extant, square and weighty, with a flat top to his head, and a flat white topper on it!
The puckered man reopened the door, and said:
“Sir James will see you, sir.”
Before the fire in a large room with a large hearth and many books was a huge old man, grey-bearded and grey-locked, like a superannuated British lion, in an old velvet coat with whitened seams.
He appeared to be trying to rise.
“Please don’t, sir,” said Michael.
“If you’ll excuse me, I won’t. Pleasant journey?”
“Very.”
“Sit down. Much touched by your speech. First speech, I think?”
Michael bowed.
“Not the last, I hope.”
The voice was deep and booming; the eyes looked up keenly, as if out of thickets, so bushy were the eyebrows, and the beard grew so high on the cheeks. The thick grey hair waved across the forehead and fell on to the coat collar. A primeval old man in a high state of cultivation. Michael was deeply impressed.
“I’ve looked forward to this honour, sir,” he said, “ever since we published your book.”
“I’m a recluse–never get out now. Tell you the truth, don’t want to–see too many things I dislike. I write, and smoke my pipe. Ring the bell, and we’ll have lunch. Who’s this Sir Alexander MacGown? – his head wants punching!”
“No longer, sir,” said Michael.
Sir James Foggart leaned back and laughed.
His laugh was long, deep, slightly hollow, like a laugh in a trombone.
“Capital! And how did those fellows take your speech? Used to know a lot of ’em at one time–fathers of these fellows, grandfathers, perhaps.”
“How do you know so well what England wants, sir,” said Michael, suavely, “now that you never leave home?”
Sir James Foggart pointed with a large thin hand covered with hair to a table piled with books and magazines.
“Read,” he said; “read everything–eyes as good as ever–seen a good deal in my day.” And he was silent, as if seeing it again.
“Are you following your book up?”
“M’m! Something for ’em to read when I’m gone. Eighty-four, you know.”
“I wonder,” said Michael, “that you haven’t had the Press down.”
“Have–had ’em yesterday; three by different trains; very polite young men; but I could see they couldn’t make head or tail of the old creature–too far gone, eh?”
At this moment the door was opened, and the puckered man came in, followed by a maid and three cats. They put a tray on Sir James’ knees and another on a small table before Michael. On each tray was a partridge with chipped potatoes, spinach and bread sauce. The puckered man filled Sir James’ glass with barley-water, Michael’s with claret, and retired. The three cats, all tortoise-shells, began rubbing themselves against Sir James’ trousers, purring loudly.
“Don’t mind cats, I hope? No fish today, pussies!”
Michael was hungry and finished his bird. Sir James gave most of his to the cats. They were then served with fruit salad, cheese, coffee and cigars, and everything removed, except the cats, who lay replete before the fire, curled up in a triangle.
Michael gazed through the smoke of two cigars at the fount and origin, eager, but in doubt whether it would stand pumping–it seemed so very old! Well! anyway, he must have a shot!
“You know Blythe, sir, of The Outpost? He’s your great supporter; I’m only a mouthpiece.”
“Know his paper–best of the weeklies; but too clever by half.”
“Now that I’ve got the chance,” said Michael, “would you mind if I asked you one or two questions?”
Sir James Foggart looked at the lighted end of his cigar. “Fire ahead.”
“Well, sir, can England really stand apart from Europe?”
“Can she stand with Europe? Alliances based on promise of assistance that won’t be forthcoming–worse than useless.”
“But suppose Belgium were invaded again, or Holland?”
“The one case, perhaps. Let that be understood. Knowledge in Europe, young man, of what England will or will not do in given cases is most important. And they’ve never had it. Perfide Albion! Heh! We always wait till the last moment to declare our policy. Great mistake. Gives the impression that we serve Time–which, with our democratic system, by the way, we generally do.
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