Once Aboard The Lugger | Page 3

concerning one in our own station of life is naturally
distasteful to us. At the same time it is essential to our ease on being
introduced that we should know something of this gentleman. Assuring
ourselves, therefore, that we shall not be prejudiced by cheap chatter,
let us hear what the kitchens, the cottages, and the bar-parlours have to
say.
Let it, at least, be written down; we shall know how to value such stuff.
Material for this gossip, then, is brought into the kitchens, the cottages,
and the bar-parlours by Mr. Marrapit's domestic staff.
Mrs. Armitage, his cook, has given tales of his "grimness" to the
cottages where her comfortable presence is welcomed on Sunday and
Thursday afternoons. She believes, however, that he must be a
"religious gentleman," because (so she says) "he talks like out of the
Bible."
This would seem to bear out Mr. William Wyvern's allusion to the
minor prophet element of his character.
It is the habit of Clara and Ada, his maids, squeezing at the gate from
positions dangerous to modesty into which their ardent young men
have thrust them--it is their habit, thus placed, to excuse themselves
from indelicate embraces by telling alarming tales of Mr. Marrapit's
"carrying on" should they be late. He is a "fair old terror," they say.
The testimony of Mr. Fletcher, his gardener, gloomy over his beer in
the bar-parlours, seems to support the "stinginess" that the vicar has
determined in Mr. Marrapit's character. Mr. Fletcher, for example, has

lugubriously shown what has to be put up with when in the service of a
man who had every inch of the grounds searched because a threepenny
bit had been dropped. "It's 'ard--damn 'ard," Mr Fletcher said on that
occasion. "I'm a gardener, I am; not a treasure-'unter." Murmurs of
sympathy chorused endorsement of this view.
Finally there are the words of Frederick, son of Mrs. Armitage, and
assistant to Fletcher, whose pleasure it is to set on end the touzled hair
of the youth of Paltley Hill by obviously exaggerated stories of Mr.
Marrapit's grim rule.
"'E's a tryant," Frederick has said.
Such is an epitome of the kitchen gossip concerning Mr. Marrapit; it is
wholesome to be away from such tattling, and personally to approach
the lawn whereon its subject sits.

II.
This lawn, a delectable sight on this fine July afternoon, is set about
with wire netting to a height of some six feet. By the energies of Mr.
Fletcher and Frederick the sward is exquisitely trimmed and rolled; and
their labours join with the wire netting to make the lawn a safe and
pleasant exercise ground for Mr. Marrapit's cats.
Back in the days of Mr. Marrapit's first occupancy of Herons' Holt, this
man was a mighty amateur breeder of cats, and a rare army of cats
possessed. Regal cats he had, queenly cats, imperial neuter cats; blue
cats, grey cats, orange cats, and white cats--cats for which nothing was
too good, upon which too much money could not be spent nor too
much love be lavished. Latterly, with tremendous wrenchings of the
heart, he had disbanded this galaxy of cats. Changes in his household
were partly the cause of this step. The coming of his nephew, George,
had seriously upset the peaceful routine of existence which it was his
delight to lead; and a reason even more compelling was the gradual
alteration in his attitude towards his hobby. This man perceived that the
fancier's eye with which he regarded his darlings was becoming so
powerful as to render his lover's eye in danger of being atrophied. The
fancier's eye was lit by the brain--delighted only in "points," in
perfection of specimen; the lover's eye was fed by the heart--glowed,
not with pride over breed, but with affection for cats as cats. And Mr.
Marrapit realised that for affection he was coming to substitute

pride--that he was outraging the animals he loved by neglecting the less
admirable specimens for those perfectly moulded; that even these
perfect types he was abusing by his growing craze for breeding;
polygamy in cats, he came to believe, desecrated and eventually
destroyed their finer feelings.
Therefore--and the coming of his nephew George quickened his
determination--Mr. Marrapit dispersed his stud (the word had become
abhorrent to him), keeping only four exquisite favourites, of which the
Rose of Sharon--that perfect orange cat, listed when shown at the
prohibitive figure of 1000 pounds, envy and despair of every cat-lover
in Great Britain and America--was apple of his eye, joy of his
existence.
It was the resolve to keep but these four exquisite creatures that
encompassed the arrival in Mr. Marrapit's household of Mrs. Major,
now seated beside him upon the lawn--that masterly woman. The fine
cat- house was pulled down, the attendant dismissed. A