ST. MARTIN’S FLOW

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 61, Issue 251, 5 August 1941, Page 7

ST. MARTIN’S FLOW

By MARJORIE BOWEN.

CHAPTER XT

THE TYRANNY OF MAN.

“I thought we might he friends,” said Hilda, bluntly. “My dear girl, I hope we always have been friends.”

“Oh, I. don’t know. You’re very much the personage, the great lady, aren’t'you?”

Mary Pettigrew thought that this was very ill-bred on Hilda. Boult’s part. Her voice was a little, too loud, also.

“Oh, nearly all the Pettigrews are in the church. That’s the trouble, ‘my dear. There’s nobody left but me and Simon, and lie’s only half a Pettigrew, as you know.”

“If there were to be a war,” asked Hilda sharply, “I suppose that would just hbout ruin you?” _ Mary Pettigrew flushed. “Why, 1 suppose it would. Every day there are estates finer than ours go into market. Still, I hope, somehow, or other ... ... ? f

“Yes, I hope, too, Mrs . Pettigrew, that somebody of your name will stay in the place and that it will be kept on. You know Simon asked me to marry him. 1 thought I’d like to talk to you about that.” “Yes, he told me,” agreed the mother, With a subdued pride. Why do you ■want to talk to me about it?” “Because it isn’t altogether over,” said Hilda, frowning ,and digging her toes into the gravel. “I refused him, you see, Mrs Pettigrew because I don’t believe in marriage. I suppose that startles you!” “No, my dear, I’m afraid it doesn’t. Was I supposed to be startled?”

The girl broke out with a touch of fierceness:

“There’s no need for you to make fun of me, I’m quite serious. I like Simon, I’d Hire to be mistress .of this place, there’s no denying it! But there are other things more important than- ”

“It is duty and principle, I suppose ” remarked Mary Pettigrew lightly. “I can understand it as you explain it, though, of course, re s rather difficult for a woman of my generation.” “I wanted to explain,” said Hilda, “I wanted you to know. You see, 1 think he’s been counting on it. It never occurred to him that anybody could refuse him.”

“That’s a natural conceit in a young man,” > replied Mary Pettigrew, :-*viii contriving to smile. “You’re a rebel, I suppose. My father tried to be a rebel once, and so did 1. We both found ourselves in the patli of convention. Perhaps you will, too, in time.” “Oh, no, Mrs Pettigrew! Things are different now. When you were a gin it must have been hopeless, and in your father’s time, why, of course—those were the days of slavery, weren’t they?”

“There are so many kinds of slavei*y,” replied Mrs Pettigrew evasively.

“I’m my own mistress,” cried the Sirl impatiently, “and I’ve got a good eal of money, more than Simon thinks. I’ll have more when father goes.” Mrs Pettigrew longed to be able to say that Simon was not considering the money, but honesty kept her silent. “I' hope you’ll be,' able to keep s n the estate,” added Hilda uneasily. “My dear child, that is no burden of yours, is it? Why should it trouble you?”“I wish you wouldn’t take it like that!”

“Like what?” The other spoke with, a smiling dignity. “See, I’ve snipped a basketful of roses. Would you like to take some away with you?” “Why should you give me roses, Mrs 'Pettigrew?” • “Why shouldn’t I? I’ve very little else to give. You have given me something more valuable than a few flowers —your confidence.” “No, I haven’t,” replied Hilda brusquely. « “Well, then, what have you done, my dear? Have you come to apologise for refusing my son?” “I suppose it’s something like that,” said Hilda, standing her ground. “But what do you hope to do, my dear?” interrupted Mrs Pettigrew gently. “This is getting absurd. When i want to say what 1 really feel, well, it’s different. 1 can’t tell you that I didn’t come to apologise for refusing him. I think he’s a dear and I’m very fond of 'him. I shall cry if I go on like this much longer. I—l will, it’s not oniy the cause, it’s something else " “I think I know,” said Mrs Pettigrew, standing still, “it’s like the tyranny of men, I suppose. And I don't see why you shouldn’t.” “The tyranny of men! That’s queer to hear you say that, Mrs Pettigrew,” said the girl eagerly. “Yes, that’s one of the things il.e'y tell me, these women who’ve given up their lives for it.” “Yes, I know, dear,” interrupted Mrs Pettigrew with a smile, “it’s \ery brave, quite like Joan of Arc, isn't it? I don’t know what good it’s going fo do in the end, because, unless we give up falling in love or wanting to become mothers and to have homes and children, I don’t see how wo can evade the tyranny of men.” “YOU MUST LEAVE HIM.” After a pause Mrs Pettigrew added: “Let’s he- quite frank. Simon was counting not only on you (and he really does love you), but on your money to build up this ancient place that’s falling down for all my care and trounie all those years.” “Don’t!” cried Hilda. “Don’t! It hurts! My people were in a way vassals of yours, and when you talk like that,I feel it.”

“You mustn’t, all that’s changed,” said Mrs Pettigrew', gently. They stood in the hall together and the girl looked round.

“I don’t feel that it’s changed when I stand here. This place overawes me.” “You must'remember that you could have been mistress of it if you wished, hut that you didn’t wish.” “I suppose I’ve como to you because I want your blessing. They say there’s going to be a war and that’s going to make a difference to all of ns

“It’s certain,” sighed Mrs Pettigrew gravely, “to make a difference to all of us. My son, Simon, why he’s not 21, hut lie’s already eager to go——” “Because of me?” asked Hilda, sharply. “In a way, because of you, dear. 1 think he truly loves you.” “I know, and perhaps 1 ought not to fail him. But somehow I don’t know—”

' A Tale of the End of an Epoch.

(Copyright).

“He’s got a strain of weakness in him, poor Simon. He ought to be allowed to fight out bis destiny in himself, by himself. He’s had enough out of women in the service lie’s had from me. I want you to go your way, Hilda. You’re not to think of ray son. You must leave him war or no war.” “I wonder if I’m right. These women who get hold of me, do they know what they’re talking about?” “We must suppose they do,” said Mrs Pettigrew, gravely. ‘lf women tan find something in the world that’s more worth while than being mothers and wives and keeping trust, let them find it God knows,” and she spoke reverently, “there is much wrong to be righted. Now run away, Hilda, .don’t speak to me any more or I may -break down and cry and we shall lie just/ another couple of women weeping on one'another’s shoulders.” Hilda bent forward impulsively and kissed Mrs Pettigrew’s cheeks. Then, snatching up the basket of roses with-, out waiting for them to be wrapped or for any other word, she turned and hurried hway. RETROSPECT. Mary Pettigrew went into her garden again that afternoon, in a more thoughtful mood. “I have had an orderly, and in a way exquisite .life,” she thought, “but it seems to me to have' been utterly devoid of self-realisation, and that now—well, 1 am not old but I am certainly no longer young—l. am faced with many dark problems.” Yet, again, she was helpless. What could she do? Hilda would not marry Simon; Simon would not be intimidated into what his mother considered any kind of orderly or active life. She saw her owh childhood, her own youth, her own maturity receding steadily into the past. And what was left behind? —nothing hut a haunted memory of a vain attempt at rebellion. She could recall that war (how remote it seemed now) in South Africa and she a young girl and Harry Medway “volunteering” . . . now it was the year 1914. Weil, best not count the years that had gone between or her own age now .... There had been a hard frost and a thaw just before Harry had gone, she could remember that too clearly, the thick, ice on the fishpond, the trees frozen immobile in their frost, the sky grey like the ruffled breast of a grey goose. “I suppose what these young people have said to me is not so startling. These changes are not so amazing as they might appear'to me. Why it was about the time of the Franco-Prussian War that Girton College for girls was founded, as long as that I heard iii> mother speak of it, and this ‘National Society for Women’s Suffrage’ that poor Hilda’s talking abut—why, it’s an old story. I can remember reading of it long ago and not taking any notice of it, thinking it but a piece of nonsense.” . j ' She walked past the trim-walled garden, 'and her mind dwelt on that romance that had never matured or ever entirely vanished. Supposing she had married him ? But she must have done with these thoughts. She was an filler even now, standing there in the clear, gentle rays of the sun with the first swallows darting about her- this muse was doing no good but rather harm . . . “MARRY FOR MONEY” She turned away, bewildered, from the wall where the fruit trees were blossoming in the espaliers, and small sweet plants unfolding their buds sweetly above the lightly-turned earth. “I must find,” she thought, nervously, “ivhat S-imon means, to do. Things mustn’t be left like this. If he’s going to marry Hilda—” she checked herself. “No* I think it’s clear that Hilda won’t have him. I musn’t count on that. Hilda meant what she said.”

Mary Pettigrew turned into the house again. Simon was there, looking unhappy, uneasy and sullen, and he quickly broached the subject that he had at his heart.

“What did Hilda come to say to you this morning, mother? I saw her with you in the garden.” “She said to me dear, very much wliat you said—about the future, and changes, oh, you know, all that young people say to the old people.” “Tell me what you want to do,” she added, ’ sitting down and pouring the pale cliina tea from the silver urn. “You'll soon have to come to some kind of a decision. D suppose it’s understood,”'* she kept her voice perfectly steady, “that you don’t want to live here and take up this life that I’ve had, and your grandfathms before you ,for so long?” ■ “Well, I couldn’t continue life her. 3, mother, what’s there to do? It’s ail dead, and yet there’s not nuuu-y enough for me to go and live anywhere else.”

“You had better go back to Oxford, Simon,” she said steadily, “and take your degree and think things over. This affair with Hilda has upset you, of course. I should like to know” she added, “what you think of her ideas?”

“Oh, I think they’re nonsense, of course, mother,” he said petulantly. “She seems very .capable. She can drive a car quite well, as well as you ride a -horse, Simon.”

“Yes, she* belongs as much to the future as I suppose I belong to the past.” “You don’t seem to belong to either, my dear boy, you’re standing with one foot on either bank.”

“Don’t speak as if you were apologising to me, mother. Oxford doesn’t mean much to me, or a degree either. In fact, I don’t know what does mean much to me, but if there should be war, this year or next—well, I’ll take that - wav out.”

“Why should there be 'a war, Simon?” she cried, a flush coming .into her thin cheeks. “Why can’t things be settled without-wars? Oh, excuse me if I speak vehemently, but it is so much more impoi’tant than poor Hilda’s women’s suffrage and her social reforms. If we could stop war, Simon, that’s the most important thing.” “I suppose that’s the way one ought to look at it, isn’t it, mother? What about those monuments in the church that you’re so often talking about, those portraits in. the hall, such as we’ve got left? They’re all of men who’ve fought for this cause.” “Why, so it was, of course. There was never a, traitor among your forbears. Why don’t you live here, Simon? You could have a country gentlelnan’sfllife, that’s not altogether vanished. You could improve the estate. It’s not so mudh encumbered now, with a little •more economy—”

“Ob, I know, mother. Selling the last of the hunters, cutting down the last of the . timber, the lowering of one’s subscriptions so one can’t hold one’s head up in the neighbourhood,

going without a ear and everything that everyone else has.” “We’re talking at cross purposes,” protested Mary Pettigrew, trying desperately to bring some clarity, some decision into this tangle of words. “Hilda Boult has refused you, Simon. I suppose you could find another heiress elsewhere. But’you’re rather indolent, yon don’t care much to make the effort to please. There are no rich girls in this neighbourhood.” “You speak as if I had no courage at all,” protested Simon, “as if I fel! in love with Hilda only because she happened to be on the spot.” (To Be Continued).

The characters In this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to any living person or to any public or priYate company.