Part 30 (1/2)

”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't hold 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 time of life you've your own opinion about draughts. And as for that constant bathin' and was.h.i.+n', I don't hold with it at all. A bed's a bed, I says, and not a bath, and if you're in bed you should stay there and keep warm, and not have all the clothes took off you to have your legs washed. How can your legs _get_ dirty if you're tucked in with clean sheets, in a clean room, in a clean house. When I haves a bath I like it comfortable, once a week, at night in front of the kitchen fire, and Em'ly-Alice safe in bed. No, my dear, I don't hold with these 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 was.h.i.+n' me all over, like I 'was a baby--most uncomfortable I call it.”

The clock on the mantelpiece struck five, Mary jumped up. ”I must fly,” she exclaimed, ”it's time for father's tea; I've been enjoying myself so much I forgot all about the time.”

”You see Miss Mary as far as the gates,” Miss Gallup said to her nephew. ”Em'ly-Alice is in, I 'eard 'er pokin' the fire the wasteful way she has.”

Mary did not want Eloquent, for she greatly desired to run, but he followed with such alacrity she had not the heart to forbid him. He walked beside her, or, more truly, he trotted beside her, through the village street, for Mary went at such a pace that Eloquent was almost breathless. He found time, however, to tell her that he had paired at the House on Friday, and took the week-end just to look after Miss Gallup, who had seemed rather low-spirited since her illness. They did the distance in record time, and outside the gates they found Mr Ffolliot waiting.

”I've been to see Miss Gallup, father, she has been ill, and I looked in to inquire. . . . I don't think you know Mr Gallup.”

Mr Ffolliot bowed to Eloquent with a frigidity that plainly proved he had no desire to know him.

”I regret,” Mr Ffolliot said in an impersonal voice, ”that Miss Gallup has been ill. Do you know, Mary, that it is ten minutes past five?”

”Good evening, Miss Ffolliot,” Eloquent said hastily; ”it was most kind of 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. From the crown of her exceedingly old hat to her admirable boots he surveyed her leisurely.

”Don't you want your tea, father?” Mary asked nervously, ”or have you had it?”

”I did want tea, at the proper hour, and I have not had it; but what I want much more than tea is an explanation of that young man's presence in 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 he walked back with me.”

”Did you know he was there?”

”Of course not,” Mary flushed angrily, ”I didn't know Miss Gallup had been ill till Mrs Willets told me. I haven't been outside the grounds for 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-day without consulting me?”

”I was rather tired of the garden, father, and it was such a lovely day, and it seemed rather unkind never to go near any of the people when mother was away.”

”None of these reasons--if one can call them reasons--throws the smallest light upon the fact that you have been parading the village with this fellow, Gallup. I have told you before, I don't wish to know him, I will not know him. His politics are abhorrent to me, and his antecedents. . . . Surely by this time you know, Mary, that I do not choose my friends from among the shopkeepers in Marlehouse.”

”I'm sorry, father, but this afternoon it really couldn't be helped. I couldn't be rude to the poor man when he came with me. He seemed to take it for granted he should; Miss Gallup suggested it. I daresay he didn't want to come at all. But they both meant it kindly--what could I do?”

”What you can do, and what you must do, is to obey my orders. I will not have you walk anywhere in company with that bounder----”

”He isn't a bounder, father. You're wrong there; whatever he may be he isn't that.”

Mr Ffolliot turned slowly and entered the drive. Mary followed, and in silence they walked up to the house.

He looked at his tall daughter from time to time. She held her head very high and her expression was rebellious. She really was an extremely handsome girl, and, in spite of his intense annoyance, Mr Ffolliot felt gratification in this fact.

At the hall door he paused. ”I must ask you to remember, Mary, that you are no longer a child, that your actions now can evoke both comment and criticism, and I must ask you to confine your friends.h.i.+ps to your own cla.s.s.”

”I shall never be able to do that,” Mary answered firmly; ”I love the village people far too much.”