Not that this would have seemed to him anything but an advantage, had he been aware of it. His was one of those high-principled natures who hold that breadth is synonymous with weakness. It may be said without exaggeration that the few meetings of his life with those who had a touch of the poet in them had been exquisitely uncomfortable. Silent, almost taciturn by nature, he was a great reader of poetry, and seldom went to sleep without having digested a page or two of Wordsworth, Milton, Tennyson, or Scott. Byron, save such poems as 'Don Juan' or 'The Waltz,' he could but did not read, for fear of setting a bad example. Burns, Shelley, and Keats he did not care for. Browning pained him, except by such things as: 'How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix' and the 'Cavalier Tunes'; while of 'Omar Khayyam' and 'The Hound of Heaven' he definitely disapproved. For Shakespeare he had no real liking, though he concealed this, from humility in the face of accepted opinion. His was a firm mind, sure of itself, but not self-assertive. His points were so good, and he had so many of them, that it was only when he met any one touched with poetry that his limitations became apparent; it was rare, however, and getting more so every year, for him to have this unpleasant experience.
When summoned by his wife, he came in with a wrinkle between his straight brows; he had just finished a morning's work on a drainage scheme, like the really good fellow that he was. She greeted him with a little special smile. Nothing could be friendlier than the relations between these two. Affection and trust, undeviating undemonstrativeness, identity of feeling as to religion, children, property; and, in regard to views on the question of ***, a really strange unanimity, considering that they were man and woman.
"It's about these Gaunts, Gerald. I feel they must go at once.
They're only creating bad feeling by staying till quarter day. I have had the young Freelands here."
"Those young pups!"
"Can't it be managed?"
Malloring did not answer hastily. He had that best point of the good Englishman, a dislike to being moved out of a course of conduct by anything save the appeal of his own conscience.
"I don't know," he said, "why we should alter what we thought was just. Must give him time to look round and get a job elsewhere."
"I think the general state of feeling demands it. It's not fair to the villagers to let the Freelands have such a handle for agitating. Labor's badly wanted everywhere; he can't have any difficulty in getting a place, if he likes."
"No. Only, I rather admire the fellow for sticking by his girl, though he is such a 'land-lawyer.' I think it's a bit harsh to move him suddenly."
"So did I, till I saw from those young furies what harm it's doing.
They really do infect the cottagers. You know how discontent spreads. And Tryst--they're egging him on, too."
Malloring very thoughtfully filled a pipe. He was not an alarmist; if anything, he erred on the side of not being alarmed until it was all over and there was no longer anything to be alarmed at! His imagination would then sometimes take fire, and he would say that such and such, or so and so, was dangerous.
"I'd rather go and have a talk with Freeland," he said. "He's queer, but he's not at all a bad chap."
Lady Malloring rose, and took one of his real-leather buttons in her hand.
"My dear Gerald, Mr. Freeland doesn't exist."
"Don't know about that; a man can always come to life, if he likes, in his own family."
Lady Malloring was silent. It was true. For all their unanimity of thought and feeling, for all the latitude she had in domestic and village affairs, Gerald had a habit of filling his pipe with her decisions. Quite honestly, she had no objection to their becoming smoke through HIS lips, though she might wriggle just a little. To her credit, she did entirely carry out in her life her professed belief that husbands should be the forefronts of their wives. For all that, there burst from her lips the words:
"That Freeland woman! When I think of the mischief she's always done here, by her example and her irreligion--I can't forgive her.
I don't believe you'll make any impression on Mr. Freeland; he's entirely under her thumb."
Smoking slowly, and looking just over the top of his wife's head, Malioring answered:
"I'll have a try; and don't you worry!"
Lady Malloring turned away. Her soreness still wanted salve.
"Those two young people," she murmured, "said some very unpleasant things to me. The boy, I believe, might have some good in him, but the girl is simply terrible."
"H'm! I think just the reverse, you know."
"They'll come to awful grief if they're not brought up sharp. They ought to be sent to the colonies to learn reality."
Malloring nodded.
"Come out, Mildred, and see how they're getting on with the new vinery." And they went out together through the French window.
The vinery was of their own designing, and of extraordinary interest. In contemplation of its lofty glass and aluminium-cased pipes the feeling of soreness left her. It was very pleasant, standing with Gerald, looking at what they had planned together; there was a soothing sense of reality about that visit, after the morning's happening, with its disappointment, its reminder of immorality and discontent, and of folk ungrateful for what was done for their good. And, squeezing her husband's arm, she murmured:
"It's really exactly what we thought it would be, Gerald!"