Part 29 (1/2)

He played the bugle in the nursery and in the stableyard, he played it in the attics and outside the servants' hall when the servants' dinner was ready.

He was implored, threatened and punished, but all without avail, for Ger had tasted the joys of achievement. He had found what superior persons call ”the expression of his essential ego,” and just then his cosmos was all bugle.

Not even his good-natured desire to oblige people was proof against this overwhelming desire to call imaginary troops to feed together on every possible and impossible occasion. He did try to keep a good way from the house, or to choose moments in the house when he knew his father was out, but he made mistakes. He could not discover by applying his eye to the keyhole of the study door whether his father was in the room or not, and, as he remarked bitterly, ”Father always sat so beastly still” it was impossible to hear.

He looked upon the Squire's objections as a cross, but the dread of his father's anger was nothing like so strong as his desire to play the bugle, and even the Squire perceived that short of taking the bugle away from him, which would have broken his heart, there was nothing for it but to frown and bear it--in moderation.

Mrs Grantly's very direct a.s.sault had made a small breach in the wall of Mr Ffolliot's complacency; and a fairly vivid recollection of the s.h.i.+lling episode inclined him to deal leniently with Ger while his mother was away. He rang the bell furiously for Fusby whenever the most distant strains of ”Come to the Cook-house Door” smote upon his ears, and sent him post haste to stop that ”infernal braying and bleating”; but beyond such unwelcome interruptions Ger tootled in peace.

Mary was lonely and the days seemed long; she saw no one but her father, the servants, the two children and Miss Glover, the meek little governess, who seemed to spend most of her time in hunting for Ger among outhouses and gardens, and was scorned by Nana in consequence.

When her mother was at home Mary was accustomed to wander about Redmarley unchallenged and unaccompanied save by the faithful Parker.

But Mr Ffolliot took his duties as chaperon most seriously and expected that Mary should never stir beyond the gardens unless accompanied by Miss Glover. He even seemed suspicious as to her most innocent expeditions, and every morning at breakfast demanded a minute time-table planning her day.

Mary didn't mind this. It was easy enough to say that after she had interviewed the cook (there was no housekeeper now at Redmarley) she would practise, or read French with Miss Glover; or go into Marlehouse accompanied by Miss Glover for a music lesson; or drive with Miss Glover and the children to Marlehouse to do the weekly shopping; or go with Miss Glover to the tailor to be fitted for a coat and skirt. All that 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 go into the village and visit her friends, Willets, Miss Gallup, the laundry-maid's mother, everybody there in fact, and now this seemed to be forbidden her unless Miss Glover went too, which spoiled everything.

Sometimes she walked with the Squire and tried to feel an intelligent interest in Ercole Ferrarese, whose work Mr Ffolliot greatly admired.

In fact he was just then engaged on a somewhat lengthy monograph concerning both the man and his work.

Mary, in the hope of making herself a more congenial companion to her father, even went as far as to look up ”Ercole” in Vasari's _Lives_.

But Vasari was not particularly copious in details as to Ercole Ferrarese, and the particulars he did give which impressed Mary were just 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 had been brought home to her quite recently, and in one of their walks together 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 considering the man's work?” Mr Ffolliot asked angrily. ”For heaven's sake, do not grow into one of those people who only perceive the obvious; whose only knowledge of Cromwell would be that he had a wart on his nose.”

”I shouldn't say it was a very trifling matter seeing it killed him--drink I mean, not Cromwell's wart,” Mary responded with more spirit 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 the Kitten--a dreadful narrowness of vision--don't tell me your sight is good--I'm only referring to your mental outlook. It is the fatal frivolous att.i.tude of mind that always remembers the wholly irrelevant statement that the Earl of Warwick, the King-maker, was born when his mother was fourteen.”

”Was he?” Mary exclaimed with deep interest; ”how very young to have a baby.”

Mr Ffolliot glared at her: ”and nothing else,” he continued, ignoring the interruption.

”Oh, but I do remember other things about Ercole besides being a drunkard,” she protested; ”he hated people watching him work, I can understand that, and he was awfully kind and faithful to his master.”

”All quite useless and trifling in comparison with what I, myself, have told you of his work, which you evidently don't remember. It is a man's work that matters, not little peculiarities of temperament and character.”

”I think,” Mary said demurely, ”that little peculiarities of temperament and character matter a good deal to the people who have to live with them.”

”That is possible but quite unimportant. It is a man's intellect that is immortal, not his temperament.”