The Country House

J >> John Galsworthy >> The Country House


Mrs. Pendyce pressed her lips together.

"But do you think he will?"

"Think--think who will? Think he will what? Why can't you express
yourself, Margery? If George has really got us into this mess he must
get us out again."

Mrs. Pendyce flushed.

"He would never leave her in the lurch!"

The Squire said angrily:

"Lurch! Who said anything about lurch? He owes it to her. Not that she
deserves any consideration, if she's been----You don't mean to say you
think he'll refuse? He'd never be such a donkey?"

Mrs. Pendyce raised her hands and made what for her was a passionate
gesture.

"Oh, Horace!" she said, "you don't understand. He's in love with her!"

Mr. Pendyce's lower lip trembled, a sign with him of excitement or
emotion. All the conservative strength of his nature, all the immense
dumb force of belief in established things, all that stubborn hatred and
dread of change, that incalculable power of imagining nothing, which,
since the beginning of time, had made Horace Pendyce the arbiter of his
land, rose up within his sorely tried soul.

"What on earth's that to do with it?" he cried in a rage. "You women!
You've no sense of anything! Romantic, idiotic, immoral--I don't know
what you're at. For God's sake don't go putting ideas into his head!"

At this outburst Mrs. Pendyce's face became rigid; only the flicker of
her eyelids betrayed how her nerves were quivering. Suddenly she threw
her hands up to her ears.

"Horace!" she cried, "do----Oh, poor John!"

The Squire had stepped hastily and heavily on to his dog's paw. The
creature gave a grievous howl. Mr. Pendyce went down on his knees and
raised the limb.

"Damn the dog!" he stuttered. "Oh, poor fellow, John!"

And the two long and narrow heads for a moment were close together.




CHAPTER V

RECTOR AND SQUIRE

The efforts of social man, directed from immemorial time towards
the stability of things, have culminated in Worsted Skeynes. Beyond
commercial competition--for the estate no longer paid for living on
it--beyond the power of expansion, set with tradition and sentiment, it
was an undoubted jewel, past need of warranty. Cradled within it were
all those hereditary institutions of which the country was most proud,
and Mr. Pendyce sometimes saw before him the time when, for services to
his party, he should call himself Lord Worsted, and after his own death
continue sitting in the House of Lords in the person of his son. But
there was another feeling in the Squire's heart--the air and the woods
and the fields had passed into his blood a love for this, his home and
the home of his fathers.

And so a terrible unrest pervaded the whole household after the receipt
of Jaspar Bellew's note. Nobody was told anything, yet everybody knew
there was something; and each after his fashion, down to the very dogs,
betrayed their sympathy with the master and mistress of the house.

Day after day the girls wandered about the new golf course knocking the
balls aimlessly; it was all they could do. Even Cecil Tharp, who
had received from Bee the qualified affirmative natural under the
circumstances, was infected. The off foreleg of her grey mare was being
treated by a process he had recently discovered, and in the stables he
confided to Bee that the dear old Squire seemed "off his feed;" he did
not think it was any good worrying him at present. Bee, stroking the
mare's neck, looked at him shyly and slowly.

"It's about George," she said; "I know it's about George! Oh, Cecil! I
do wish I had been a boy!"

Young Tharp assented in spite of himself:

"Yes; it must be beastly to be a girl."

A faint flush coloured Bee's cheeks. It hurt her a little that he should
agree; but her lover was passing his hand down the mare's shin.

"Father is rather trying," she said. "I wish George would marry."

Cecil Tharp raised his bullet head; his blunt, honest face was extremely
red from stooping.

"Clean as a whistle," he said; "she's all right, Bee. I expect George
has too good a time."

Bee turned her face away and murmured:

"I should loathe living in London." And she, too, stooped and felt the
mare's shin.

To Mrs. Pendyce in these days the hours passed with incredible slowness.
For thirty odd years she had waited at once for everything and nothing;
she had, so to say, everything she could wish for, and--nothing, so that
even waiting had been robbed of poignancy; but to wait like this, in
direct suspense, for something definite was terrible. There was hardly
a moment when she did not conjure up George, lonely and torn by
conflicting emotions; for to her, long paralysed by Worsted Skeynes, and
ignorant of the facts, the proportions of the struggle in her son's
soul appeared Titanic; her mother instinct was not deceived as to the
strength of his passion. Strange and conflicting were the sensations
with which she awaited the result; at one moment thinking, 'It is
madness; he must promise--it is too awful!' at another, 'Ah! but how can
he, if he loves her so? It is impossible; and she, too--ah! how awful it
is!'

Perhaps, as Mr. Pendyce had said, she was romantic; perhaps it was only
the thought of the pain her boy must suffer. The tooth was too big, it
seemed to her; and, as in old days, when she took him to Cornmarket to
have an aching tooth out, she ever sat with his hand in hers while the
little dentist pulled, and ever suffered the tug, too, in her own mouth,
so now she longed to share this other tug, so terrible, so fierce.

Against Mrs. Bellew she felt only a sort of vague and jealous aching;
and this seemed strange even to herself--but, again, perhaps she was
romantic.

Now it was that she found the value of routine. Her days were so well
and fully occupied that anxiety was forced below the surface. The nights
were far more terrible; for then, not only had she to bear her own
suspense, but, as was natural in a wife, the fears of Horace Pendyce as
well. The poor Squire found this the only time when he could get
relief from worry; he came to bed much earlier on purpose. By dint of
reiterating dreads and speculation he at length obtained some rest. Why
had not George answered? What was the fellow about? And so on and so on,
till, by sheer monotony, he caused in himself the need for slumber. But
his wife's torments lasted till after the birds, starting with a sleepy
cheeping, were at full morning chorus. Then only, turning softly for
fear she should awaken him, the poor lady fell asleep.

For George had not answered.

In her morning visits to the village Mrs. Pendyce found herself, for the
first time since she had begun this practice, driven by her own trouble
over that line of diffident distrust which had always divided her from
the hearts of her poorer neighbours. She was astonished at her own
indelicacy, asking questions, prying into their troubles, pushed on by a
secret aching for distraction; and she was surprised how well they took
it--how, indeed, they seemed to like it, as though they knew that they
were doing her good. In one cottage, where she had long noticed with
pitying wonder a white-faced, black-eyed girl, who seemed to crouch
away from everyone, she even received a request. It was delivered with
terrified secrecy in a back-yard, out of Mrs. Barter's hearing.

"Oh, ma'am! Get me away from here! I'm in trouble--it's comin', and I
don't know what I shall do."

Mrs. Pendyce shivered, and all the way home she thought: 'Poor little
soul--poor little thing!' racking her brains to whom she might confide
this case and ask for a solution; and something of the white-faced,
black-eyed girl's terror and secrecy fell on her, for, she found no one
not even Mrs. Barter, whose heart, though soft, belonged to the Rector.
Then, by a sort of inspiration, she thought of Gregory.

'How can I write to him,' she mused, 'when my son----'

But she did write, for, deep down, the Totteridge instinct felt that
others should do things for her; and she craved, too, to allude, however
distantly, to what was on her mind. And, under the Pendyce eagle and the
motto: 'Strenuus aureaque penna', thus her letter ran:


"DEAR GRIG,

"Can you do anything for a poor little girl in the village here who is
'in trouble'?--you know what I mean. It is such a terrible crime in
this part of the country, and she looks so wretched and frightened, poor
little thing! She is twenty years old. She wants a hiding-place for her
misfortune, and somewhere to go when it is over. Nobody, she says,
will have anything to do with her where they know; and, really, I have
noticed for a long time how white and wretched she looks, with great
black frightened eyes. I don't like to apply to our Rector, for though
he is a good fellow in many ways, he has such strong opinions; and, of
course, Horace could do nothing. I would like to do something for her,
and I could spare a little money, but I can't find a place for her to
go, and that makes it difficult. She seems to be haunted, too, by the
idea that wherever she goes it will come out. Isn't it dreadful? Do do
something, if you can. I am rather anxious about George. I hope the dear
boy is well. If you are passing his club some day you might look in and
just ask after him. He is sometimes so naughty about writing. I wish
we could see you here, dear Grig; the country is looking beautiful just
now--the oak-trees especially--and the apple-blossom isn't over, but I
suppose you are too busy. How is Helen Bellew? Is she in town?

"Your affectionate cousin,

"MARGERY PENDYCE."


It was four o'clock this same afternoon when the second groom, very much
out of breath, informed the butler that there was a fire at Peacock's
farm. The butler repaired at once to the library. Mr. Pendyce, who had
been on horseback all the morning, was standing in his riding-clothes,
tired and depressed, before the plan of Worsted Skeynes.

"What do you want, Bester?"

"There is a fire at Peacock's farm, sir." Mr. Pendyce stared.

"What?" he said. "A fire in broad daylight! Nonsense!"

"You can see the flames from the front, sir." The worn and querulous
look left Mr. Pendyce's face.

"Ring the stable-bell!" he said. "Tell them all to run with buckets
and ladders. Send Higson off to Cornmarket on the mare. Go and tell Mr.
Barter, and rouse the village. Don't stand there--God bless me! Ring the
stable-bell!" And snatching up his riding-crop and hat, he ran past the
butler, closely followed by the spaniel John.

Over the stile and along the footpath which cut diagonally across a
field of barley he moved at a stiff trot, and his spaniel, who had not
grasped the situation, frolicked ahead with a certain surprise. The
Squire was soon out of breath--it was twenty years or more since he had
run a quarter of a mile. He did not, however, relax his speed. Ahead of
him in the distance ran the second groom; behind him a labourer and a
footman. The stable-bell at Worsted Skeynes began to ring. Mr. Pendyce
crossed the stile and struck into the lane, colliding with the Rector,
who was running, too, his face flushed to the colour of tomatoes. They
ran on, side by side.

"You go on!" gasped Mr. Pendyce at last, "and tell them I'm coming."

The Rector hesitated--he, too, was very out of breath--and started
again, panting. The Squire, with his hand to his side, walked painfully
on; he had run himself to a standstill. At a gap in the corner of the
lane he suddenly saw pale-red tongues of flame against the sunlight.

"God bless me!" he gasped, and in sheer horror started to run again.
Those sinister tongues were licking at the air over a large barn, some
ricks, and the roofs of stables and outbuildings. Half a dozen figures
were dashing buckets of water on the flames. The true insignificance of
their efforts did not penetrate the Squire's mind. Trembling, and with
a sickening pain in his lungs, he threw off his coat, wrenched a bucket
from a huge agricultural labourer, who resigned it with awe, and joined
the string of workers. Peacock, the farmer, ran past him; his face and
round red beard were the colour of the flames he was trying to put out;
tears dropped continually from his eyes and ran down that fiery face.
His wife, a little dark woman with a twisted mouth, was working like a
demon at the pump. Mr. Pendyce gasped to her:

"This is dreadful, Mrs. Peacock--this is dreadful!"

Conspicuous in black clothes and white shirt-sleeves, the Rector was
hewing with an axe at the boarding of a cowhouse, the door end of which
was already in flames, and his voice could be heard above the tumult
shouting directions to which nobody paid any heed.

"What's in that cow-house?" gasped Mr. Pendyce.

Mrs. Peacock, in a voice harsh with rage and grief answered:

"It's the old horse and two of the cows!"

"God bless me!" cried the Squire, rushing forward with his bucket.

Some villagers came running up, and he shouted to these, but what he
said neither he nor they could tell. The shrieks and snortings of the
horse and cows, the steady whirr of the flames, drowned all lesser
sounds. Of human cries, the Rector's voice alone was heard, between the
crashing blows of his axe upon the woodwork.

Mr. Pendyce tripped; his bucket rolled out of his hand; he lay where he
had fallen, too exhausted to move. He could still hear the crash of
the Rector's axe, the sound of his shouts. Somebody helped him up, and
trembling so that he could hardly stand, he caught an axe out of the
hand of a strapping young fellow who had just arrived, and placing
himself by the Rector's side, swung it feebly against the boarding.
The flames and smoke now filled the whole cow-house, and came rushing
through the gap that they were making. The Squire and the Rector stood
their ground. With a furious blow Mr. Barter cleared a way. A cheer rose
behind them, but no beast came forth. All three were dead in the smoke
and flames.

The Squire, who could see in, flung down his axe, and covered his eyes
with his hands. The Rector uttered a sound like a deep oath, and he,
too, flung down his axe.

Two hours later, with torn and blackened clothes, the Squire stood
by the ruins of the barn. The fire was out, but the ashes were still
smouldering. The spaniel John, anxious, panting, was licking his
master's boots, as though begging forgiveness that he had been so
frightened, and kept so far away. Yet something in his eye seemed to be
saying:

"Must you really have these fires, master?"

A black hand grasped the Squire's arm, a hoarse voice said:

"I shan't forget, Squire!"

"God bless me, Peacock!" returned Mr. Pendyce, "that's nothing! You're
insured, I hope?'

"Aye, I'm insured; but it's the beasts I'm thinking of!"

"Ah!" said the Squire, with a gesture of horror.

The brougham took him and the Rector back together. Under their feet
crouched their respective dogs, faintly growling at each other. A cheer
from the crowd greeted their departure.

They started in silence, deadly tired. Mr. Pendyce said suddenly:

"I can't get those poor beasts out of my head, Barter!"

The Rector put his hand up to his eyes.

"I hope to God I shall never see such a sight again! Poor brutes, poor
brutes!"

And feeling secretly for his dog's muzzle, he left his hand against the
animal's warm, soft, rubbery mouth, to be licked again and again.

On his side of the brougham Mr. Pendyce, also unseen, was doing
precisely the same thing.

The carriage went first to the Rectory, where Mrs. Barter and her
children stood in the doorway. The Rector put his head back into the
brougham to say:

"Good-night, Pendyce. You'll be stiff tomorrow. I shall get my wife to
rub me with Elliman!"

Mr. Pendyce nodded, raised his hat, and the carriage went on. Leaning
back, he closed his eyes; a pleasanter sensation was stealing over him.
True, he would be stiff to-morrow, but he had done his duty. He had
shown them all that blood told; done something to bolster up that system
which was-himself. And he had a new and kindly feeling towards Peacock,
too. There was nothing like a little danger for bringing the lower
classes closer; then it was they felt the need for officers, for
something!

The spaniel John's head rose between his knees, turning up eyes with a
crimson touch beneath.

'Master,' he seemed to say, 'I am feeling old. I know there are things
beyond me in this life, but you, who know all things, will arrange that
we shall be together even when we die.'

The carriage stopped at the entrance of the drive, and the Squire's
thoughts changed. Twenty years ago he would have beaten Barter running
down that lane. Barter was only forty-five. To give him fourteen years
and a beating was a bit too much to expect: He felt a strange irritation
with Barter--the fellow had cut a very good figure! He had shirked
nothing. Elliman was too strong! Homocea was the thing. Margery would
have to rub him! And suddenly, as though springing naturally from the
name of his wife, George came into Mr. Pendyce's mind, and the respite
that he had enjoyed from care was over. But the spaniel John, who
scented home, began singing feebly for the brougham to stop, and beating
a careless tail against his master's boot.

It was very stiffly, with frowning brows and a shaking under-lip, that
the Squire descended from the brougham, and began sorely to mount the
staircase to his wife's room.




CHAPTER VI

THE PARK

There comes a day each year in May when Hyde Park is possessed. A cool
wind swings the leaves; a hot sun glistens on Long Water, on every
bough, on every blade of grass. The birds sing their small hearts out,
the band plays its gayest tunes, the white clouds race in the high blue
heaven. Exactly why and how this day differs from those that came before
and those that will come after, cannot be told; it is as though the Park
said: 'To-day I live; the Past is past. I care not for the Future!'

And on this day they who chance in the Park cannot escape some measure
of possession. Their steps quicken, their skirts swing, their sticks
flourish, even their eyes brighten--those eyes so dulled with looking at
the streets; and each one, if he has a Love, thinks of her, and here and
there among the wandering throng he has her with him. To these the Park
and all sweet-blooded mortals in it nod and smile.

There had been a meeting that afternoon at Lady Maiden's in Prince's
Gate to consider the position of the working-class woman. It had
provided a somewhat heated discussion, for a person had got up and
proved almost incontestably that the working-class woman had no position
whatsoever.

Gregory Vigil and Mrs. Shortman had left this meeting together, and,
crossing the Serpentine, struck a line over the grass.

"Mrs. Shortman," said Gregory, "don't you think we're all a little mad?"

He was carrying his hat in his hand, and his fine grizzled hair, rumpled
in the excitement of the meeting, had not yet subsided on his head.

"Yes, Mr. Vigil. I don't exactly----"

"We are all a little mad! What did that woman, Lady Maiden, mean by
talking as she did? I detest her!"

"Oh, Mr. Vigil! She has the best intentions!"

"Intentions?" said Gregory. "I loathe her! What did we go to her stuffy
drawing-room for? Look at that sky!"

Mrs. Shortman looked at the sky.

"But, Mr. Vigil," she said earnestly, "things would never get done.
Sometimes I think you look at everything too much in the light of the
way it ought to be!"

"The Milky Way," said Gregory.

Mrs. Shortman pursed her lips; she found it impossible to habituate
herself to Gregory's habit of joking.

They had scant talk for the rest of their journey to the S. R. W. C.,
where Miss Mallow, at the typewriter, was reading a novel.

"There are several letters for you, Mr. Vigil"

"Mrs. Shortman says I am unpractical," answered Gregory. "Is that true,
Miss Mallow?"

The colour in Miss Mallow's cheeks spread to her sloping shoulders.

"Oh no. You're most practical, only--perhaps--I don't know, perhaps you
do try to do rather impossible things, Mr. Vigil."

"Bilcock Buildings!"

There was a minute's silence. Then Mrs. Shortman at her bureau beginning
to dictate, the typewriter started clicking.

Gregory, who had opened a letter, was seated with his head in his hands.
The voice ceased, the typewriter ceased, but Gregory did not stir.
Both women, turning a little in their seats, glanced at him. Their eyes
caught each other's and they looked away at once. A few seconds later
they were looking at him again. Still Gregory did not stir. An anxious
appeal began to creep into the women's eyes.

"Mr. Vigil," said Mrs. Shortman at last, "Mr. Vigil, do you think---"

Gregory raised his face; it was flushed to the roots of his hair.

"Read that, Mrs. Shortman."

Handing her a pale grey letter stamped with an eagle and the motto
'Strenuus aureaque penna' he rose and paced the room. And as with his
long, light stride he was passing to and fro, the woman at the bureau
conned steadily the writing, the girl at the typewriter sat motionless
with a red and jealous face.

Mrs. Shortman folded the letter, placed it on the top of the bureau, and
said without raising her eyes--

"Of course, it is very sad for the poor little girl; but surely, Mr.
Vigil, it must always be, so as to check, to check----"

Gregory stopped, and his shining eyes disconcerted her; they seemed to
her unpractical. Sharply lifting her voice, she went on:

"If there were no disgrace, there would be no way of stopping it. I know
the country better than you do, Mr. Vigil."

Gregory put his hands to his ears.

"We must find a place for her at once."

The window was fully open, so that he could not open it any more, and he
stood there as though looking for that place in the sky. And the sky he
looked at was very blue, and large white birds of cloud were flying over
it.

He turned from the window, and opened another letter.


"LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS,

"May 24, 1892.

"MY DEAR VIGIL,

"I gathered from your ward when I saw her yesterday that she has
not told you of what, I fear, will give you much pain. I asked her
point-blank whether she wished the matter kept from you, and her answer
was, 'He had better know--only I'm sorry for him.' In sum it is this:
Bellow has either got wind of our watching him, or someone must have
put him up to it; he has anticipated us and brought a suit against your
ward, joining George Pendyce in the cause. George brought the citation
to me. If necessary he's prepared to swear there's nothing in it. He
takes, in fact, the usual standpoint of the 'man of honour.'

"I went at once to see your ward. She admitted that the charge is true.
I asked her if she wished the suit defended, and a counter-suit brought
against her husband. Her answer to that was: 'I absolutely don't care.'
I got nothing from her but this, and, though it sounds odd, I believe
it to be true. She appears to be in a reckless mood, and to have no
particular ill-will against her husband.

"I want to see you, but only after you have turned this matter over
carefully. It is my duty to put some considerations before you. The
suit, if brought, will be a very unpleasant matter for George, a still
more unpleasant, even disastrous one, for his people. The innocent in
such cases are almost always the greatest sufferers. If the cross-suit
is instituted, it will assume at once, considering their position in
Society, the proportions of a 'cause celebre', and probably occupy the
court and the daily presses anything from three days to a week, perhaps
more, and you know what that means. On the other hand, not to defend the
suit, considering what we know, is, apart from ethics, revolting to my
instincts as a fighter. My advice, therefore, is to make every effort to
prevent matters being brought into court at all.

"I am an older man than you by thirteen years. I have a sincere regard
for you, and I wish to save you pain. In the course of our interviews
I have observed your ward very closely, and at the risk of giving
you offence, I am going to speak out my mind. Mrs. Bellew is a rather
remarkable woman. From two or three allusions that you have made in
my presence, I believe that she is altogether different from what you
think. She is, in my opinion, one of those very vital persons upon whom
our judgments, censures, even our sympathies, are wasted. A woman
of this sort, if she comes of a county family, and is thrown by
circumstances with Society people, is always bound to be conspicuous.
If you would realise something of this, it would, I believe, save you
a great deal of pain. In short, I beg of you not to take her, or her
circumstances, too seriously. There are quite a number of such men and
women as her husband and herself, and they are always certain to be more
or less before the public eye. Whoever else goes down, she will swim,
simply because she can't help it. I want you to see things as they are.

"I ask you again, my dear Vigil, to forgive me for writing thus, and
to believe that my sole desire is to try and save you unnecessary
suffering.

"Come and see me as soon as you have reflected:

"I am,

"Your sincere friend,

"EDMUND PARAMOR."