A Traveller in Little Things | Page 9

about
our experience of the late great frost. Here I had my say about what had
happened in the village I had been staying in. The prolonged frost, I
said, had killed all or most of the birds in the open country round us,
but in the village itself a curious thing had happened to save the birds
of the place. It was a change of feeling in the people, who are by nature
or training great persecutors of birds. The sight of them dying of
starvation had aroused a sentiment of compassion, and all the villagers,
men, women, and children, even to the roughest bush-beating boys,
started feeding them, with the result that the birds quickly became tame
and spent their whole day flying from house to house, visiting every
yard and perching on the window-sills. While I was speaking the
gentleman opposite put down his knife and fork and gazed steadily at
me with a smile on his red-apple face, and when I concluded he
exploded in a half-suppressed sniggering laugh.
It annoyed me, and I remarked rather sharply that I didn't see what
there was to laugh at in what I had told them. Then the lady with ready
tact interposed to say she had been deeply interested in my experiences,
and went on to tell what she had done to save the birds in her own place;
and her companion, taking it perhaps as a snub to himself from her,
picked up his knife and fork and went on with his luncheon, and never
opened his mouth to speak again. Or, at all events, not till he had quite
finished his meal.
By-and-by, when I found an opportunity of speaking to our hostess, I
asked her who that charming lady was, and she told me she was a Miss
Somebody--I forget the name--a native of the town, also that she was a
great favourite there and was loved by everyone, rich and poor, and that
she had been a very hard worker ever since the war began, and had
inspired all the women in the place to work.
"And who," I asked, "was the fellow who brought her in to lunch--a

relative or a lover?"
"Oh, no, no relation and certainly not a lover. I doubt if she would have
him if he wanted her, in spite of his position."
"I don't wonder at that--a perfect clown! And who is he?"
"Oh, didn't you know! Sir Ranulph Damarell."
"Good Lord!" I gasped. "That your great man--lord of the manor and
what not! He may bear the name, but I'm certain he's not a descendant
of the Sir Ranulph whose monument is in your church."
"Oh, yes, he is," she replied. "I believe there has never been a break in
the line from father to son since that man's day. They were all knights
in the old time, but for the last two centuries or so have been baronets."
"Good Lord!" I exclaimed again. "And please tell me what is
he----what does he do? What is his distinction?"
"His distinction for me," she smilingly replied, "is that he prefers my
house to have his luncheon in after Sunday morning service. He knows
where he can get good cooking. And as a rule he invites some friend in
the town to lunch with him, so that should there be any conversation at
table his guest can speak for both and leave him quite free to enjoy his
food."
"And what part does he take in politics and public affairs--how does he
stand among your leading men?"
Her answer was that he had never taken any part in politics--had never
been or desired to be in Parliament or in the County Council, and was
not even a J.P., nor had he done anything for his country during the war.
Nor was he a sportsman. He was simply a country gentleman, and
every morning he took a ride or walk, mainly she supposed to give him
a better appetite for his luncheon. And he was a good landlord to his
tenants and he was respected by everybody and no one had ever said a
word against him.

There was nothing now for me to say except 'Good Lord!' so I said it
once more, and that made three times.

VI
A SECOND STORY OF TWO BROTHERS
Shortly after writing the story of two brothers in the last part but one I
was reminded of another strange story of two brothers in that same
distant land, which I heard years ago and had forgotten. It now came
back to me in a newspaper from Miami, of all places in the world, sent
me by a correspondent in that town. He--Mr. J. L. Rodger--some time
ago when reading an autobiographical book of mine