SKIES CLEAR
We began with the train, and will end with the train. It was the
material link by which Kencote, standing as it had done through so many
centuries remote and aside from the turmoil of life, had been drawn
into the centre of troublous events. It had brought Joan home from her
fateful visit to Brummels, Humphrey to tell his terrible story, Susan
to her sad resting-place, Mrs. Amberley to demand satisfaction and
threaten vengeance, and latterly the young lover whose coming had
brought joy in place of sorrow.
Now it was to bring, within a few days, enough guests to fill all the
spare rooms of Kencote for Joan's wedding; and it was bringing, this
afternoon, one of the most valued of them all.
This was Miss Bird, affectionately known to the Clinton family as "the
old starling," who had first taught Dick his letters nearly forty years
before, and had gone on teaching letters, and other things, to all the
young Clintons in turn, until the twins had reached the ripe age of
fifteen, six years before. Then she had left, much regretted, partly
because the twins had to be "finished," and she could not undertake
suitably to finish them, partly because duty had called her from the
spacious comforts of Kencote to share the narrow home of a widowed
sister.
The twins were at the station to meet her--tall, beautiful, stately
young women to the outward eye, but, for this occasion, children again
at heart, and mischievous children at that.
"Oh, what fun it is!" said Nancy, with a shiver of pleasure, as the
train came into the station. "I don't feel a day older than fourteen.
There she is, Joan--the sweet old lamb!"
It must be confessed that the years had robbed Miss Bird of such
sweetness as she may at one time have presented to the impartial view.
She was a diminutive, somewhat withered, elderly woman, but still
sprightly in speech and movement, and of breathless volubility.
She flung herself out of the carriage, almost before it had come to a
standstill, and was enveloped in a warm, not to say undignified embrace
by both the twins at once.
"Oh, my darlings," she cried, flinging to the winds all the stops in
the language, "to see you both standing there just as it used to be
though one married and the other going to be and such a _grand_
marriage too as sweet as ever my bonnet Nancy darling and everything
the same here but a new station-master I see oh it is _too_ much."
Joan and Nancy marched her out of the station to the carriage, all
three laughing and talking at once, and made her sit between them,
which was just possible, as she took up very little room.
She wiped away an unaffected tear, and broke out again.
"This is one of the happiest days of my life and to think of _me_ being
an honoured guest and amongst all the lords and ladies I hope I shall
know how to behave myself and one of the first you wrote to darling
Joan as you said and Mr. Clinton saying whoever else was left out _I_
must be asked and how is dear Mrs. Clinton well I hope I'm sure the
kindness I have received in this house I never can forget and never
shall forget darling Nancy my bonnet."
"Isn't she too sweet for words, Joan?" said Nancy. "She hasn't altered
a bit. Starling darling, you are the most priceless treasure. We
didn't value you nearly enough when we had you with us."
"Now my pet that is not a thing to say," said Miss Bird, "two dearer
and more affectionate children you might roam the world over and never
find troublesome sometimes I do not say you were not but never really
naughty no one could say it and now grown up quite and one a married
woman it doesn't seem possible."
"I was very hurt that you didn't come to my wedding," said Nancy. "I
know why it is. Joan is going to be a Countess, and I am only plain
Mrs."
"The idea of such a thing," said Miss Bird in horror, "never so much as
entered my head how can you say it Nancy I'm sure if Joan had been
going to marry a crossing-sweeper not that I don't think she would
adorn _any_ position and much more suitable as it is I should have come
_just_ the same and you know quite well why I couldn't come to your
wedding Nancy and almost cried my eyes out but an infectious illness
you would not have liked to be brought you should not say such things."
"I'll forgive you," said Nancy, "if you promise to love John. He is
here, you know. But we wouldn't let anybody come to the station with
us. We wanted you to ourselves."
"Pets!" said Miss Bird affectionately.
"Ronald is here too, but I wouldn't let him come either," said Joan.
"What is he like tell me about him," said Miss Bird.
Joan cast a quick glance at Nancy, over the rather disordered bonnet.
It was the look that had meant in their childhood, "Let's have her on."
"He is most awfully _good_," she said in rather an apologetic voice.
"Starling dear, I wanted to say something to you before you saw him.
You don't think--if you love anybody very much, and they are really
good--it matters about their looks, do you?"
"Oh, but I consider him _most_ handsome," said Miss Bird, "my sister
gave me that illustrated paper with his photograph and yours in a full
page to each I wrote and told you so and pleased and proud I was to
have it and over my mantelpiece it is hanging now."
"Yes, I know you wrote, darling, and it was very sweet of you. I
couldn't bring myself to answer your letter. You know papers _will_
make mistakes sometimes."
"What do you mean what mistake?" asked Miss Bird. "It said plainly
beneath the photographs 'The Earl of Inverell' and 'Miss Joan Clinton.'"
"Yes, I know it did, and it was me all right. Oh, Starling darling,
can't you guess? Ronald is very good and very sweet, and I love him
dearly; but----"
"But he is no beauty," said Nancy. "You can't expect us both to marry
handsome men."
"I shouldn't call him _scrubby_, exactly, should you, Nancy?" enquired
Joan.
"Not to his face," replied Nancy.
Joan gave a little gurgle, which she turned into a cough. "Starling
darling, you don't mind beards in a young man, do you?" she asked.
"Oh, you will get him to shave that off," said Nancy, "after you are
married. I shouldn't worry about that. And I don't think a _very_
slight squint really matters. You can always call it a cast in the
eye, and some people like it."
"You see, Starling darling, I wanted you to be prepared," said Joan.
"I couldn't let you see him without saying something first, when you
thought he was that good-looking young man in the picture. He is much
better, really, and his looks don't put _me_ off in the least. I don't
think about them. But if I hadn't told you, you might have been so
surprised that you would have said something that would have hurt his
feelings."
"As if I should or could," exclaimed Miss Bird indignantly, "there was
no occasion to say a single word Joan and a good kind heart is _far_
better than good looks as I have often told you you do me a great
injustice."
"I knew she wouldn't really mind, Nancy," said Joan. "But I am glad to
have warned her. She will get used to the beard."
"And the cast in the eye," added Nancy.
"Indeed," said Miss Bird, "I should never notice such things a beard is
a sign of manly vigour your father has a beard."
"Ah, but it isn't a beard like father's," said Joan. "It is more tufty
and fluffy. I suppose you thought that young man in the picture _very_
handsome, didn't you, Starling darling?"
"Indeed no such thing," said Miss Bird, "I said to my sister and she
will bear witness good-looking yes but _not_ a match in looks for my
darling Joan and glad I am now that I said it."
Joan burst into a laugh, and embraced her warmly. "Oh, you're too
sweet and precious for words," she said. "That _was_ Ronald, and I
shall tell him you don't think he is very handsome."
"What a donkey you are, Joan!" said Nancy. "Why didn't you let her
meet him in the hall?"
"Now that is _too_ bad Joan 'n' Nancy," said Miss Bird, quite in her
old style of reproof, "a little piece of fun I can understand but you
might have made it _most_ awkward for me Joan my bonnet well there I
suppose I must say nothing more you _will_ have your joke and neither
of you have altered at all you are very naughty girls and I was just
going to say if you did not behave I should tell Mrs. Clinton pets I
love you more than ever."
Miss Bird was almost overcome with emotion when she arrived at the
house. The story was immediately told against her, and provoked
laughter, especially from the Squire, who said, "The young monkeys!
They want husbands to keep them in order, both of them. 'Pon my word,
with you here, Miss Bird, I feel inclined to pack them off to the
schoolroom, to get them out of the way. It makes me feel young again
to see you here, Miss Bird. You seem to belong to Kencote, and I'm
very pleased to see you here again, very pleased indeed."
Miss Bird's heart was full, as she was taken up to her old bedroom by
Joan and Nancy. Such a welcome! And from the Squire too, of whom she
had always stood much in awe, but to whom she looked up as the type and
perfection of manhood!
But how he had aged! When she was left alone, she looked out on to the
spring green of the park, and the daffodils growing under the trees,
and thought of how many years it was since she had first looked out on
to that familiar scene, and how unchanged it was, although the children
she had taught, and loved, had all grown up, and most of them were
married. She thought of herself as a young, timid girl, for the first
time away from her home, and of the Squire as a splendid young man,
bluff and hearty even then. She had spent the best part of her life at
Kencote, and had slept more nights in this room than in any other.
Kencote had been her home, and she had grown old in it. If the Squire,
who had always been so vigorous that the years had passed over him
imperceptibly, was also at last growing old, it was in the place he
loved above all others. She liked to think of him and dear Mrs.
Clinton still living here, she hoped for many years to come, with
nothing changed about them, but only an added peace and quietness, to
suit the evening of their lives.
Later in the evening, before dinner, the Squire paid a long-deferred
visit to his cellars. The house would soon be filled from top to
bottom with guests, and he wished to put the best he had before them,
or before such of them as could appreciate it; also to take stock
generally of the supply of wines in ordinary use, which he did
regularly, but had not done for many months past. He was accompanied
by his old butler with the cellar-book, and a footman with a candle,
and spent nearly an hour among the bins and cobwebs.
At the end of the inspection, some slight trouble arose. The old
butler had been fetching up claret which the Squire had intended should
be kept for a time. He did not drink claret himself, and had not
noticed the change.
"If we had used the other lot up you ought to have come and told me,
Porter," he said. "I never meant this wine to be used every day. You
come down here without a with-your-leave or a by-your-leave, and act as
if you were master. You've been with me for a number of years, and
have come to think you can do what you like. But you can't. I won't
have it, Porter."
He marched off between the bins, and up the cellar steps. The old
butler looked after him with a smile on his face, of which the
attendant footman mistook the source, remarking, "He do give it you,
don't he?"
"They're the best words I've had from him for a long time," said the
old man. "He's got back to himself again."
But if the Squire had got back to himself, it was not entirely to his
old habits. It had never before been Mrs. Clinton's custom to sit with
him in his room, as he now liked her to do, and as she did that
evening, while the younger members of the party, including Miss Bird,
were disporting themselves in the billiard-room.
"This will be the last of it, Nina," he was saying. "When Frank
marries it won't be from this house. They call it a quiet wedding,
but, 'pon my word, I don't know how we could very well have found room
for any more than are coming. I'm rather dreading it in a way, Nina.
I feel I'm getting too old for all this bustle."
"We shall be very quiet when it is all over," said Mrs. Clinton.
"Yes, my dear," he said. "You and I will be quiet together for the
rest of our lives. We shall have our children with us often, and our
grandchildren; but for the most of the time we shall just be by
ourselves. We've had a long life together, my dear. We've had a great
deal of happiness in it, and have been through some very deep trouble.
But the skies are clear now, and, please God, they'll keep clear.
Nina, my dear, we've got a great deal to thank Him for."
THE END
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES
EXTON MANOR
THE ELDEST SON
THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER
THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS
THE GREATEST OF THESE
THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH
WATERMEADS
UPSIDONIA
ABINGTON ABBEY
THE GRAFTONS
RICHARD BALDOCK
THE CLINTONS AND OTHERS
End of Project Gutenberg's The Honour of the Clintons, by Archibald Marshall