“I’m surprised there wasn’t a cushion,” he said; “a white velvet marble cushion with dints in it. The roll on the pages made me expect a cushion, with a dog or a lion or something curled up on it, or weeping or something.”
The words fell upon a room which somehow had fallen silent and attentive to receive them. He was gazing at Mrs. Methodde with relish of the effect of his sarcasm. She was not very quick at seeing what he meant. She was the Member’s wife, sitting, as she supposed, among friends, among whom her opinions counted. Was this interloper, the dreadful gun-man from Mullples laughing at her?
The Admiral said: “Well, that seems the best suggestion yet: a sort of praying desk, with a book of names. And a marble book wouldn’t wear out in a hurry.”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t,” Frampton said. “Why not a real book, with metal pages, bearing the names engraved upon them; and get the Rector and Choir to come once a week to turn the page, with a prayer or a hymn. They do something of the sort in one or two places; and the effect is very noble.”
“In the open air the pages would rust, and in this climate the Rector and Choir would get wet, two times out of three,” Mr. Quart said.
“The book is to be screened,” Frampton said, “and the Rector and Choir could come in mackintoshes.”
“I’m afraid the Stubbington boys would soon have the movable pages out of the covers,” Mr. Tom said. “Boys will be boys.”
“Boys will be very decent fellows,” Frampton said, “if it is put to them to be so. It would be quite easy to hinge the metal plates beyond the strength of boys.”
“As to that, sir,” a builder said, “you forget that slabs of zinc or copper would have a very mean effect.”
“I did not mention zinc or copper,” Frampton said. “I said metal, meaning memorial bronze.”
“Not many in Stubbington would know what that is, sir,” the man said. “They’d think it was something out of the ironmonger’s shop. But marble is a precious stone to them. They know marble costs money; and they know it’s the thing for graves and that; a bit of white marble that gleams.”
The building party muttered: “Hear, hear.” They knew that it was the thing for graves.
“I wonder, Rector,” the Admiral said, “if we could put this matter to the vote and then I could get away. That is, if it has to come to the vote.”
“I think we could put it to the vote,” the Rector said, looking round the table. “Proposed by Mrs. Methodde, that the Memorial should take the form of a screened prie dieu, bearing a book of the names . . .”
“A marble book of the names,” Mr. Quart said.
“A marble book, sir,” the others added.
“We could discuss the form of the book later,” the Rector said. There came a loud cry of “Marble,” from all over the room. “Bearing a marble book of the names,” the Rector amended. “Anybody second the proposal?”
Yes, a lot of people seconded the proposal.
“Seconded by Admiral Sir Topsle Cringle,” the Rector said. “Those in favour? Contrary? Carried. The Committee decides, therefore, that Mrs. Methodde’s scheme be adopted.”
“Thankee,” the Admiral said. “Now I can get away. Evening Billie; evenin’, Member; ’night, Rector.”
He rose with the alertness of a young man, and was out of the room in a twinkling.
“I wonder,” Frampton said, “if I may have my book of photographs. I’ll say good night, Rector. I’ll have no truck with your marble book. It would be a mean design, even in a bathroom. You’d do better to have the pages of the Army pay-rolls, with the poor chaps’ names crossed out. Who is going to design your marble book? May I ask that?”
He had meant to go, but a thought had struck him, and he waited to hear what they said.
“I’m sure that Mr. Ock, with his wide experience, could put us on to a good ecclesiastical and memorial firm, who would do that for us,” Mr. Quart said, “or if not, Mr. Brix would, I’m sure.”
“A good ecclesiastical and memorial firm,” Frampton said. “Who will do a marble book for you. And that is the utmost you can do, in the way of grateful feeling, for the chaps who went west in the War. Supposing an angel were to come here from Paradise; you needn’t look shocked, he won’t come; only suppose that he did come and that you had to show him round. Well, you show him your school, and let him have a look at the drains and the city dump, and then you show him your marble book. He will say: ‘What in wonder is this?’ You will say: It’s a Memorial to our friends who were killed in the War. Of course, we didn’t take any trouble about it. We were just a Committee who handed it over to a good ecclesiastical and memorial firm who does that kind of thing. It’s real marble; cost a pot of money; see the gleam there; only marble gleams that way; the sort the toffs have on their tombs, that is.’ Can’t you see the kind of thing you’ll get? And the kind of fathead who’ll unveil it, and the kind of tosh he’ll say?”
He was enjoying his innings, but wanted to be gone from among them. Mr. Quart gave him a chance to go with a fine curtain. Mr. Quart was a big man with a bullying manner.
“I must say,” he said, “Stubbington has shown her sense in turning her back on what’s artistic for a good concrete proposal.”
“You’ll get a concrete Memorial, if you don’t watch your contractors,” Frampton said.
He went out on this, noting as he went a professional smile on the faces of the building party. He came away, raging at being asked to advise a Committee of this sort, at having gone to it, and at being so treated by it. He felt, that he had been an ass to go to it, and that now the reading-desk would go up in the triangle, and everybody would think that he had advised it.
“Golly, it’ll be a terror, that desk,” he thought, “and the swine’ll print, that the Committee had the benefit of Mr. Mansell’s advice. I’ve made a few more enemies,” he said, “but I enjoy making enemies here; I’ll make a few more in a day or two.”
In this, he spoke truth; he did. That winter was a sad season for him, because it made him feel the emptiness of his life without Margaret. He walked out, to look down over Spirr from the top of the Waste above it. He thought of her with great sadness.
“Still,” he thought, “something of your wish lives on still; that is your wood, and the birds there live by your mercy for them. I’ve stopped the beastly hunter on all this side of the country; and I’ll put some of your ideas into practice when I get the new gun being made here.”
He walked home feeling frustrated. He had Tim up to the house to dinner that night and plied him with the drinks he loved, so that Tim, going back to his lodge in Spirr, mistook his way, and was found in the outskirts of Stubbington shortly after midnight, singing that:
As he was very rude to the policeman who tried to direct him, he passed the rest of the night in a Stubbington police cell. Frampton had him out of it, soon after breakfast. He was not well pleased with Tim, but knew that it was his own fault.
“You’ve got no head,” he said. “You ought not to drink these things when your head is like that. You’ve got about as much head for alcohol as my maiden aunt has for lust.”
His morning had been spoiled by the expedition to Stubbington; he had found the town already gathering in the market-place for the meet of the fox-hounds, which always took place there on Boxing Day. About two hundred people had gathered there to see the meet when he arrived. Before he left, another hundred had come in; some forty riders had mustered. He was, by this time, well known to the fox-hunting set; they recognised him, as he drove slowly through the press with Tim. They began by pointing him out as the chap who had closed Spirr and Tittups. One or two of the young men began to boo him. Then one, who was more outspoken than his fellows, rode up to the car and called: