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"I shall endeavor to. What does Tod
say?"
"Oh! Tod never seems to say anything.
At least, I never hear of it."
Felix murmured:
"Tod is a well in the desert."
To which deep saying Clara made no
reply, not indeed understanding in the
least what it might signify.
That evening, when Alan, having had
his fill of billiards, had left the smokingroom
and gone to bed, Felix remarked to
Stanley:
"I say, what sort of people are these
Mallorings?"
Stanley, who was settling himself for
the twenty minutes of whiskey, potash,
and a Review, with which he commonly
composed his mind before retiring, answered
negligently:
" The Mallorings ? Oh ! about the best
type of landowner we've got."
" What exactly do you mean by that? "
Stanley took his time to answer, for below
his bluff good-nature he had the tenacious,
if somewhat slow, precision of an
English man of business mingled with a
certain mistrust of 'old Felix.'
"Well," he said at last, "they build
good cottages, yellow brick, d—d ugly,
I must say; look after the character of
their tenants; give 'em rebate of rent if
there's a bad harvest; encourage stockbreedin',
and machinery—they've got
some of my ploughs, but the people don't
like 'em, and, as a matter of fact, they're
right—they're not made for these small
fields; set an example goin' to church;
patronize the Rifle Range; buy up the
pubs when they can, and run 'em themselves;
send out jelly, and let people over
their place on bank holidays. Dash it
all, I don't know what they don't do.
Why?"
"Are they liked?"
"Liked? No, I should hardly think
they were liked; respected, and all that.
Malloring's a steady fellow, keen man on
housing, and a gentleman; she's a bit too
much perhaps on the pious side. They've
got one of the finest Georgian houses in
the country. Altogether they're what
you call 'model.'"
"But not human."
Stanley slightly lowered the Review and
looked across it at his brother. It was
The Freelands 155
evident to him that 'old Felix' was in one
of his free-thinking moods.
" They're domestic," he said, " and fond
of their children, and pleasant neighbors.
I don't deny that they've got a tremendous
sense of duty, but we want that in
these days."
"Duty to what?"
Stanley raised his level eyebrows. It
was a stumper. Without great care he
felt that he would be getting over the
border into the uncharted land of speculation
and philosophy, wandering on
paths that led him nowhere.
" If you lived in the country, old man,"
he said, "you wouldn't ask that sort of
question."
"You don't imagine," said Felix, "that
you or the Mallorings live in the country ?
Why, you landlords are every bit as much
town dwellers as I am—thought, habit,
dress, faith, souls, all town stuff. There
is no 'country' in England now for us of
the'upper classes.' It's gone. I repeat:
Duty to what?"
And, rising, he went over to the window,
looking out at the moonlit lawn,
overcome by a sudden aversion from more
talk. Of what use were words from a
mind tuned in one key to a mind tuned
in another? And yet, so ingrained was
his habit of discussion, that he promptly
went on:
"The Mallorings, I've not the slightest
doubt, believe it their duty to look after
the morals of those who live on their property.
There are three things to be said
about that: One—you can't make people
moral by adopting the attitude of the
schoolmaster. Two—it implies that they
consider themselves more moral than
their neighbors. Three—it's a theory so
convenient to their security that they
would be exceptionally good people if they
did not adopt it; but, from your account,
they are not so much exceptionally as just
typically good people. What you call
their sense of duty, Stanley, is really their
sense of self-preservation coupled with
their sense of superiority."
"H'm!" said Stanley; "I don't know
that I quite follow you."
"I always hate an odor of sanctity.
I'd prefer them to say frankly: 'This is
my property, and you'll jolly well do what
I tell you on it.'"