The Red Planet | Page 6

I have grown into the intimacy of many folks around.
And, as they have been more than good to me, surely I must give them
of my best in the way of sympathy and counsel. So it is in no spirit of
curiosity that I have pried into my friends' affairs. They have become
my own, very vitally my own; and this book is a record of things as I
know them to have happened.
My name is Meredyth, with a "Y," as my poor mother used proudly to
say, though what advantage a "Y" has over an "I," save that of a
swaggering tail, I have always been at a loss to determine; Major
Duncan Meredyth, late R.F.A., aged forty-seven; and I live in a
comfortable little house at the extreme north end of the High Street,
standing some way back from the road; so that in fine weather I can sit
in my front garden and watch everybody going into the town. And
whenever any of my friends pass by, it is their kindly habit to cast an
eye towards my gate, and, if I am visible, to pass the time of day with
me for such time as they can spare.

Years ago, when first I realised what would be my fate for the rest of
my life, I nearly broke my heart. But afterwards, whether owing to the
power of human adaptability or to the theory of compensation, I grew
to disregard my infirmity. By building a series of two or three rooms on
to the ground floor of the house, so that I could live in it without the
need of being carried up and down stairs, and by acquiring skill in the
manipulation of my tricycle chair, I can get about the place pretty much
as I choose. And Marigold is my second self. So, in spite of the sorrow
and grief incident to humanity of which God has given me my share, I
feel that my lot is cast in pleasant places and I am thankful.
The High Street, towards its southern extremity, takes a sudden bend,
forming what the French stage directions call a pan coupe. On the inner
angle are the gates of Wellings Park, the residence of Sir Anthony
Fenimore, third baronet, and the most considerable man in our little
community. Through these gates the car took me and down the long
avenue of chestnut trees, the pride of a district braggart of its chestnuts
and its beeches, but now leafless and dreary, spreading out an infinite
tracery of branch and twig against a grey February sky. Thence we
emerged into the open of rolling pasture and meadow on the highest
ground of which the white Georgian house was situated. As we neared
the house I shivered, not only with the cold, but with a premonition of
disaster. For why should Lady Fenimore have sent for me to see Sir
Anthony, when he, strong and hearty, could have sent for me himself,
or, for the matter of that, could have visited me at my own home? The
house looked stark and desolate. And when we drew up at the front
door and Pardoe, the elderly butler, appeared, his face too looked stark
and desolate.
Marigold lifted me out and carried me up the steps and put me into a
chair like my own which the Fenimores have the goodness to keep in a
hall cupboard for my use.
"What's the matter, Pardoe?" I asked.
"Sir Anthony and her ladyship will tell you, sir. They're in the morning
room."

So I was shewn into the morning room--a noble square room with
French windows, looking on to the wintry garden, and with a log fire
roaring up a great chimney. On one side of the fire sat Sir Anthony, and
on the other, Lady Fenimore. And both were crying. He rose as he saw
me--a short, crop-haired, clean-shaven, ruddy, jockey-faced man of
fifty-five, the corners of his thin lips, usually curled up in a cheery
smile, now piteously drawn down, and his bright little eyes now dim
like those of a dead bird. She, buxom, dark, without a grey hair in her
head, a fine woman defying her years, buried her face in her hands and
sobbed afresh.
"It's good of you to come, old man," said Sir Anthony, "but you're in it
with us."
He handed me a telegram. I knew, before reading it, what message it
contained. I had known, all along, but dared not confess it to myself.
"I deeply regret to inform you that your son, Lieutenant Oswald
Fenimore, was killed in action yesterday while leading his men with the
utmost gallantry."
I had known him since he was a child. By reason of my wife's kinship,
I was "Uncle