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Red Planet, The

<h3> CHAPTER VIII </h3> My house, as I have already mentioned, is situated at the extreme end of the town on the main road, already called the Rowdon Road, which is an extension of the High Street. It stands a little way back to allow room for a semicircular drive, at each end of which is a broad gate. The semicircle encloses a smooth-shaven lawn of which I am vastly proud. In the spandrels by the side of the house are laburnums and lilacs and laurels. From gate to gate stretch iron railings, planted in a low stone parapet and unencumbered with vegetation, so that the view from road to lawn and from lawn to road is unrestricted. Thus I can take up my position on my lawn near the railings and greet all passers-by. It was a lovely May morning. My laburnums and lilacs were in flower. On the other side of the way the hedge of white-thorn screening the grounds of a large preparatory school was in flower also, and deliciously scented the air. I sat in my accustomed spot, a table with writing materials, tobacco, and books by my side, and a mass of newspapers at my feet. There was going to be a coalition Government. Great statesmen were going to forget that there was such a thing as party politics, except in the distribution of minor offices, when the claims of good and faithful jackals on either side would have to be considered. And my heart grew sick within me, and I longed for a Man to arise who, with a snap of his strong fingers, would snuff out the Little Parish-Pump Folk who have misruled England this many a year with their limited vision and sordid aspirations, and would take the great, unshakable, triumphant command of a mighty Empire passionately yearning to do his bidding... I could read no more newspapers. They disgusted me. One faction seemed doggedly opposed to any proposition for the amelioration of the present disastrous state of affairs. The salvation of wrecked political theories loomed far more important in their darkened minds than the salvation, by hook or crook, of the British Empire. The other faction, more patriotic in theory, cried aloud stinking fish, and by scurrilous over-statement defeated their own ends. In the general ignoble screech the pronouncements of the one or two dignified and thoughtful London newspapers passed unheeded.... I drew what comfort I could from the sight of the continually passing troops; a platoon off to musketry training; a battalion, brown and dusty, on a route march with full equipment, whistling "Tipperary"; sections of an Army Service train cursing good-humouredly at their mules; a battery of artillery thundering along at a clean, rhythmical trot which, considering what they were like in their slovenly jogging and bumping three months ago, afforded me prodigious pleasure. On the passing of these last-mentioned I felt inclined to clap my hands and generally proclaim my appreciation. Indeed, I did arrest a fresh-faced subaltern bringing up the rear of the battery who, having acquaintance with me, saluted, and I shouted: "They're magnificent!" He reared up his horse and flushed with pleasure. "We've done our best, sir," said he. "We had news last week that we should be sent out quite soon, and that has bucked them up enormously." He saluted again and rode off, and my heart went with him. What a joy it would be to clatter down a road once again with the guns! And other people passed. Townsfolk who gave me a kindly "Morning, Major!" and went on, and others who paused awhile and gave me the gossip of the day. And presently young Randall Holmes went by on a motor bicycle. He caught sight of me, disappeared, and then suddenly reappeared, wheeling his machine. He rested it by the kerb of the sidewalk and approached the railings. He was within a yard of me. "Would you let me speak to you for half a minute, Major?" "Certainly," said I. "Come in." He swung through the gate and crossed the lawn. "You said very hard things to me some time ago." "I did," said I, "and I don't think they were undeserved." "Up to a certain point I agree with you," he replied. He looked extraordinarily robust and athletic in his canvas kit. Why should he be tearing about aimlessly on a motor bicycle this May morning when he ought to be in France? "I wish you agreed with me all along the line," said I. He found a little iron garden seat and sat down by my side. "I don't want to enter into controversial questions," he said. Confound him! He might have been fifty instead of four-and-twenty. Controversial questions! His assured young Oxford voice irritated me. "What do you want to enter into?" I asked. "A question of honour," he answered calmly. "I have been wanting to speak to you, but I didn't like to. Passing you by, just now, I made a sudden resolution. You have thought badly of me on account of my attitude towards Phyllis Gedge. I want to tell you that you were quite right. My attitude was illogical and absurd." "You have discovered," said I, "that she is not the inspiration you thought she was, and like an honest man have decided to let her alone." "On the contrary," said he. "I'd give the eyes out of my head to marry her." "Why?" He met my gaze very frankly. "For the simple reason, Major Meredyth, that I love her." All this natural, matter-of-fact simplicity coming from so artificial a product of Balliol as Randall Holmes, was a bit upsetting. After a pause, I said: "If that is so, why don't you marry her?" "She'll have nothing to do with me." "Have you asked her?" "I have, in writing. There's no mistake about it. I'm in earnest." "I'm exceedingly glad to hear it," said I. And I was. An honest lover I can understand, and a Don Juan I can understand. But the tepid philanderer has always made my toes tingle. And I was glad, too, to hear that little Phyllis Gedge had so much dignity and commonsense. Not many small builders' daughters would have sent packing a brilliant young gentleman like Randall Holmes, especially if they happened to be in love with him. As I did not particularly wish to be the confidant of this love-lorn shepherd, I said nothing more. Randall lit a cigarette. "I hope I'm not boring you," he said. "Not a bit." "Well—what complicates the matter is that her father's the most infernal swine unhung." I started, remembering what Betty had told me. "I thought," said I, "that you were fast friends." "Who told you so?" he asked. "All the birds of Wellingsford." "I did go to see him now and then," he admitted. "I thought he was much maligned. A man with sincere opinions, even though they're wrong, is deserving of some respect, especially when the expression of them involves considerable courage and sacrifice. I wanted to get to the bottom of his point of view." "If you used such a metaphor in the Albemarle," I interrupted, "I'm afraid you would be sacrificed by your friends." He had the grace to laugh. "You know what I mean." "And did you get to the bottom of it?" "I think so." "And what did you find?" "Crass ignorance and malevolent hatred of everyone better born, better educated, better off, better dressed, better spoken than himself." "Still," said I, "a human being can have those disabilities and yet not deserve to be qualified as the most infernal swine unhung." "That's a different matter," said he, unbuttoning his canvas jacket, for the morning was warm. "I can talk patiently to a fool—to be able to do so is an elementary equipment for a life among men and women—" Why the deuce, thought I, wasn't he expending this precious acquirement on a platoon of agricultural recruits? The officer who suffers such gladly has his name inscribed on the Golden Legend (unfortunately unpublished) of the British Army—"but when it comes," he went on, "to low-down lying knavery, then I'm done. I don't know how to tackle it. All I can do is to get out of the knave's way. I've found Gedge to be a beast, and I'm very honourably in love with Gedge's daughter, and I've asked her to marry me. I attach some value, Major, to your opinion of me, and I want you, to know these two facts." I again expressed my gratification at learning his honourable intentions towards Phyllis, and I commended his discovery of Gedge's fundamental turpitude. I cannot say that I was cordial. At this period, the unmilitary youth of England were not affectionately coddled by their friends. Still, I was curious to see whether Gedge's depravity extended beyond a purely political scope. I questioned my young visitor. "Oh, it's nothing to do with abstract opinions," said he, thinning away the butt-end of his cigarette. "And nothing to do with treason, or anything of that kind. He has got hold of a horrible story—told me all about it when he was foully drunk—that in itself would have made me break with him, for I loathe drunken men—and gloats over the fact that he is holding it over somebody's head. Oh, a ghastly story!" I bent my brows on him. "Anything to do with South Africa?" "South Africa—? No. Why?" The puzzled look on his face showed that I was entirely on the wrong track. I was disappointed at the faultiness of my acumen. You see, I argued thus: Gedge goes off on a mysterious jaunt with Boyce. Boyce retreats precipitately to London. Gedge in his cups tells a horrible scandal with a suggestion of blackmail to Randall Holmes. What else could he have divulged save the Vilboek Farm affair? My nimble wit had led me a Jack o' Lantern dance to nowhere. "Why South Africa?" he repeated. I replied with Macchiavellian astuteness, so as to put him on a false scent: "A stupid slander about illicit diamond buying in connection with a man, now dead, who used to live here some years ago." "Oh, no," said Randall, with a superior smile "Nothing of that sort." "Well, what is it?" I asked. He helped himself to another cigarette. "That," said he, "I can't tell you. In the first place I gave my word of honour as to secrecy before he told me, and, in the next, even if I hadn't given my word, I would not be a party to such a slander by repeating it to any living man." He bent forward and looked me straight in the eyes. "Even to you, Major, who have been a second father to me." "A man," said I, "has a priceless possession that he should always keep—his own counsel." "I've only told you as much as I have done," said Randall, "because I want to make clear to you my position with regard both to Phyllis and her father." "May I ask," said I, "what is Phyllis's attitude towards her father?" I knew well enough from Betty; but I wanted to see how much Randall knew about it. "She is so much out of sympathy with his opinions that she has gone to live at the hospital." "Perhaps she thinks you share those opinions, and for that reason won't marry you?" "That may have something to do with it, although I have done my best to convince her that I hold diametrically opposite views, But you can't expect a woman to reason." "The unexpected sometimes happens," I remarked. "And then comes catastrophe; in this case not to the woman." I cannot say that my tone was sympathetic. I had cause for interest in his artless tale, but it was cold and dispassionate. "Tell me," I continued, "when did you discover the diabolical nature of the man Gedge?" "Last night." "And when did you ask Phyllis to marry you?" "A week ago." "What's going to happen now?" I asked. "I'm hanged if I know," said he, gloomily. I was in no mood to offer the young man any advice. The poor little wretch at the hospital—so Betty had told me—was crying her eyes out for him; but it was not for his soul's good that he should know it. "In heroic days," said I, "a hopeless lover always found a sovereign remedy against an obdurate mistress." He rose and buttoned up his canvas jacket. "I know what you mean," he said. "And I didn't come to discuss it—if you'll excuse my apparent rudeness in saying so." "Then things are as they were between us." "Not quite, I hope," he replied in a dignified way. "When last you spoke to me about Phyllis Gedge, I really didn't know my own mind. I am not a cad and the thought of—of anything wrong never entered my head. On the other hand, marriage seemed out of the question." "I remember," said I, "you talked some blithering rot about her being a symbol." "I am quite willing to confess I was a fool," he admitted gracefully. "And I merited your strictures." His reversion to artificiality annoyed me. I'm far from being of an angelic disposition. "My dear boy," I cried. "Do, for God's sake, talk human English, and not the New Oxford Dictionary." He flushed angrily, snapped an impatient finger and thumb, and marched away to the gravel path. I sang out sharply: "Randall!" He turned. I cried: "Come here at once." He came with sullen reluctance. Afterwards I was rather tickled at realizing that the lame old war-dog had so much authority left. If he had gone defiantly off, I should have felt rather a fool. "My dear boy," I said, "I didn't mean to insult you. But can't a clever fellow like you understand that all the pretty frills and preciousness of a year ago are as dead as last year's Brussels sprouts? We're up against elemental things and can only get at them with elemental ideas expressed in elemental language." "I'd have you to know," said Randall, "that I spoke classical English." "Quite so," said I. "But the men of to-day speak Saxon English, Cockney English, slang English, any damned sort of English that is virile and spontaneous. As I say, you're a clever fellow. Can't you see my point? Speech is an index of mental attitude. I bet you what you like Phyllis Gedge would see it at once. Just imagine a subaltern at the front after a bad quarter of an hour with his Colonel—'I've merited your strictures, sir!' If there was a bomb handy, the Colonel would catch it up and slay him on the spot." "But I don't happen to be at the front, Major," said Randall. "Then you damned well ought to be," said I, in sudden wrath. I couldn't help it. He asked for it. He got it. He went away, mounted his motor bicycle, and rode off. I was sorry. The boy evidently was in a chastened mood. If I had handled him gently and diplomatically, I might have done something with him. I suppose I'm an irritable, nasty-tempered beast. It is easy to lay the blame on my helpless legs. It isn't my legs. I've conquered my damned legs. It isn't my legs. Its ME. I was ashamed of myself. And when, later, Marigold enquired whether the doors were still shut against Mr. Holmes, I asked him what the blazes he meant by not minding his own business. And Marigold said: "Very good, sir." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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