MELBURY PARK
Family prayers at Kencote took place at nine o'clock, breakfast
nominally at a quarter past, though there was no greater interval
between the satisfaction of the needs of the soul and those of the body
than was necessary to enable the long string of servants to file out
from their seats under the wall, and the footmen to return immediately
with the hot dishes. The men sat nearest to the door and frequently
pushed back to the dining-room against the last of the outflowing tide;
for the Squire was ready for his breakfast the moment he had closed the
book from which he had read the petition appointed for the day. If there
was any undue delay he never failed to speak about it at once. This
promptness and certainty in rebuke, when rebuke was necessary, made him
a well-served man, both indoors and out.
Punctuality was rigidly observed by the Clinton family. It had to be;
especially where the women were concerned. If Dick or Humphrey, when
they were at home, missed prayers, the omission was alluded to. If
Cicely, or even Mrs. Clinton was late, the Squire spoke about it. This
was more serious. In the case of the boys the rebuke hardly amounted to
speaking about it. As for the twins, they were never late. For one thing
their abounding physical energy made them anything but lie-abeds, and
for another, they were so harried during the ten minutes before the gong
sounded by Miss Bird that there would have been no chance of their
overlooking the hour. If they had been late, Miss Bird would have been
spoken to, and on the distressing occasions when that had happened, it
had put her, as she said, all in a twitter.
When it still wanted a few minutes to the hour on the morning after the
return from London, Cicely was standing by one of the big open windows
talking to Miss Bird, the twins were on the broad gravel path
immediately outside, and two footmen were putting the finishing touches
to the appointments of the table.
It was a big table, although now reduced to the smallest dimensions of
which it was capable, for the use of the six people who were to occupy
it. But in that great room it was like an island in the midst of a waste
of Turkey carpet. The sideboards, dinner-wagon, and carving-table, and
the long row of chairs against the wall opposite to the three windows
were as if they lined a distant shore. The wallpaper of red flock had
been an expensive one, but it was ugly, and faded in places where the
sun caught it. It had been good enough for the Squire's grandfather
forty years before, and it was good enough for him. It was hung with
portraits of men and women and portraits of horses, some of the latter
by animal painters of note. The furniture was all of massive mahogany,
furniture that would last for ever, but had been made after the date at
which furniture left off being beautiful as well as lasting. The
mantelpiece was of brown marble, very heavy and very ugly.
At one minute to nine Mrs. Clinton came in. She carried a little
old-fashioned basket of keys which she put down on the dinner-wagon,
exactly in the centre of the top shelf. Cicely came forward to kiss her,
followed by Miss Bird, with comma-less inquiries as to how she had spent
the night after her journey, and the twins came in through the long
window to wish her good morning. She replied composedly to the old
starling's twittering, and cast her eye over the attire of the twins,
which was sometimes known to require adjustment. Then she took her seat
in one of the big easy-chairs which stood on either side of the
fireplace, while Porter, the butler, placed a Bible and a volume of
devotions, both bound in brown leather, before the Squire's seat at the
foot of the table, and retired to sound the gong.
It was exactly at this moment that the Squire, who opened his letters in
the library before breakfast, was accustomed to enter the room, and,
with a word of greeting to his assembled family, perch his gold-rimmed
glasses on his fine straight nose, and with the help of two book-markers
find the places in the Bible and book of prayers to which the year in
its diurnal course had brought him. The gong would sound, either
immediately before or immediately after he had entered the room, the
maids and the men who had been assembling in the hall would file in, he
would throw a glance towards them over his glasses to see that they were
all settled, and then begin to read in a fast, country gentleman's voice
the portion of Scripture that was to hallow the day now officially
beginning.
The gong rolled forth its sounding reverberation, Miss Bird and the
three girls took their seats, and then there was a pause. In a house of
less rigid habits of punctuality it would have been filled by small
talk, but here it was so unusual that when it had lasted for no more
than ten seconds the twins looked at one another in alert curiosity and
Cicely's eyes met those of her mother, which showed a momentary
apprehension before they fixed themselves again upon the shining steel
of the fire bars. Another ten seconds went by and then the library door
was heard to open and the Squire's tread, heavy on the paved hall.
Four pairs of eyes were fixed upon him as he entered the room, followed
at a short but respectful interval by the servants. Mrs. Clinton still
looked inscrutably at the grate. The Squire's high colour was higher
than its wont, his thick grizzled eyebrows were bent into a frown, and
his face was set in lines of anger which he evidently had difficulty in
controlling. He fumbled impatiently with the broad markers as he opened
the books, and omitted the customary glance towards the servants as he
began to read in a voice deeper and more hurried than usual. When he
laid down the Bible and took up the book of prayers he remained
standing, as he sometimes did if he had a touch of rheumatism; but he
had none now, and his abstention from a kneeling position amounted to a
declaration that he was willing to go through the form of family prayers
for routine's sake but must really be excused from giving a mind to it
which was otherwise occupied.
It was plain that he had received a letter which had upset his
equanimity. This had happened before, and the disturbance created made
manifest in much the same way. But it had happened seldom, because a man
who is in possession of an income in excess of his needs is immune from
about half the worries that come with the morning's post, and any
annoyance arising from the administration of his estate was not usually
made known to him by letter. The Squire's letter-bag was normally as
free of offence as that of any man in the country.
The twins, eying one another with surreptitious and fearful pleasure,
conveyed in their glances a knowledge of what had happened. The thing
that Walter and Muriel had made up their minds about, whatever it
was--that was what had caused the Squire to remain behind a closed door
until he had gained some slight control over his temper, and led him now
to prefer the petitions appointed in the book bound in brown leather in
a voice between a rumble and a bark. Perhaps everything would come out
when Porter and the footman had brought in the tea and coffee service
and the breakfast dishes, and left the room. If it did not, they would
hear all about it later. Their father's anger held no terrors for them,
unless it was directed against themselves, and even then considerably
less than might have been supposed. He was often angry, or appeared to
be, but he never did anything. Even in the memorable upheaval of seven
years before--when Walter had finally refused to become a clergyman and
announced his determination of becoming a doctor--which had been so
unlike anything that had ever happened within their knowledge that it
had impressed itself even upon their infant minds, and of which they had
long since worried all the details out of Cicely, he had made a great
deal of noise but had given way in the end. He would give way now,
however completely he might lose his temper in the process. The twins
had no fear of a catastrophe, and therefore looked forward with
interest, as they knelt side by side, with their plump chins propped on
their plump hands, to the coming storm.
The storm broke, as anticipated, when the servants had finally left the
room, and the Squire had ranged over the silver dishes on the side-table
for one to his liking, a search in which he was unsuccessful.
"I wish you would tell Barnes that if she can't think of anything for
breakfast but bacon, and scrambled eggs, and whiting, and mushrooms, she
had better go, and the sooner the better," he said, bending a terrifying
frown on his wife. "Same thing day after day!" But he piled a plate with
bacon and eggs and mushrooms and carried it off to his seat, while his
daughters and Miss Bird waited round him until he had helped himself.
"I have just had a letter from Walter," he began directly he had taken
his seat, "which makes me so angry that, 'pon my word, I scarcely know
what to do. Nina, this milk is burnt. Barnes shall go. She sends up food
fit for the pig-tub. Why can't you see that the women servants do their
duty? I can't take _everything_ on my shoulders. God knows I've got
enough to put up with as it is."
"Joan, ring the bell," said Mrs. Clinton.
"Oh--God's sake--no, no," fussed the Squire. "I don't want the servants
in. Give me some tea. Miss Bird, here's my cup, please. Take it, please,
_take_ it, Miss Bird. I don't know when I've felt so annoyed. You do all
you can and put yourself to an infinity of trouble and expense for the
sake of your children, and then they behave like this. Really, Walter
wants a good thrashing to bring him to his senses. If I had nipped all
this folly of doctoring in the bud, as I ought to have done, I might
have been able to live my life in peace. It's too bad; 'pon my word,
it's too bad."
The twins, sustaining their frames diligently with bacon and eggs and
mushrooms--the whiting was at a discount--waited with almost too obvious
expectation for the full disclosure of Walter's depravity. Cicely,
alarmed for the sake of Muriel, ate nothing and looked at her father
anxiously. Miss Bird was in a state of painful confusion because she had
not realised effectively that the Squire had wanted his cup of coffee
exchanged for a cup of tea, and might almost be said to have been
"spoken to" about her stupidity. Only with Mrs. Clinton did it rest to
draw the fire which, if she did it unskilfully, might very well be
turned upon herself. A direct question would certainly have so turned
it.
"I am sorry that Walter has given you any further cause of complaint,
Edward," she said.
This was not skilful enough. "Cause of complaint!" echoed the Squire
irritably. "Am I accustomed to complain about anything without good
reason? You talk as if I am the last man in the world to have the right
to expect my wishes to be consulted. Every one knows that I gave way to
Walter against my better judgment. I allowed him to take up this
doctoring because he had set his mind on it, and I have never said a
word against it since. And how now does he reward me when he has got to
the point at which he might begin to do himself and his family some
credit? Coolly writes to me for money--_to me_--_for money_--to enable
him to buy a practice at Melbury Park, if you please. Melbury _Park_!
Pah!!"
The Squire pushed his half-emptied plate away from him in uncontrollable
disgust. He was really too upset to eat his breakfast. The utterance of
the two words which summed up Walter's blind, infatuated stampede from
respectability brought back all the poignant feelings with which he had
first read his letter. For the moment he was quite beside himself with
anger and disgust, and unless relief had been brought to him he would
have left his breakfast unfinished and stalked out of the room.
Nancy brought the relief with the artless question, "Where is Melbury
Park, father?"
"Hold your tongue," said the Squire promptly, and then drew a lurid
picture of a place delivered over entirely to the hovels of nameless
people of the lower middle classes, and worse, a place in which you
would be as effectually cut off from your fellows as if you went to live
in Kamschatka. Indeed, you would not be so cut off if you went to
Kamschatka, for you might be acknowledged to be living there, but to
have it said that you lived at Melbury Park would _stamp_ you. It would
be as easy to say you were living in Halloway Goal. It was a place they
stopped you at when you came into London on the North Central Railway,
to take your tickets. The Squire mentioned this as if a place where they
took your tickets was of necessity a dreadful kind of a place. "Little
have I ever thought," he said, "when I have been pulled up there, and
looked at those streets and streets of mean little houses, that a son of
mine would one day want to go and _live_ there. 'Pon my word, I think
Walter's brain must be giving way."
It was Cicely who asked why Walter wanted to live at Melbury Park, and
what Muriel said about it.
"He doesn't say a word about Muriel," snapped the Squire. "I suppose
Muriel is backing him up. I shall certainly speak to Jim and Mrs. Graham
about it. It is disgraceful--positively disgraceful--to think of taking
a girl like Muriel to live in such a place. She wouldn't have a soul to
speak to, and she would have to mix with all sorts of people. A doctor's
wife can't keep to herself like other women. Oh, I don't know why he
wants to go there. Don't ask me such questions. I was ready to start him
amongst nice people, whatever it had cost, and he might have been in a
first-class position while other men of his age were only thinking about
it. But no, he must have his own silly way. He shan't have his way. I'll
put my foot down. I won't have the name of Clinton disgraced. It has
been respected for hundreds of years, and I don't know that I've ever
done anything to bring it down. It's a little too much that one of my
own sons should go out of his way to throw mud at it. I've stood enough.
I won't stand any more. Melbury Park! A pretty sort of _park_!"
Having thus relieved his feelings the Squire was enabled to eat a fairly
good breakfast, with a plateful of ham to follow his bacon and eggs and
mushrooms, a spoonful or two of marmalade, and some strawberries to
finish up with. It came out further that Walter was coming down by the
afternoon train to dine and sleep, and presumably to discuss the
proposal of which he had given warning, and that the Squire proposed to
ask Tom and his wife to luncheon, or rather that Mrs. Clinton should
drop in at the Rectory in the course of the morning and ask them, as he
would be too busy.
Then Cicely asked if she might have Kitty, the pony, for the morning,
and the Squire at once said, "No, she'll be wanted to take up food for
the pheasants," after which he retired to his room, but immediately
returned to ask Cicely what she wanted the pony for.
"I want to go over to Mountfield," said Cicely.
"Very well, you can have her," said the Squire, and retired again.
Mrs. Clinton made no comment on the disclosures that had been made, but
took up her basket of keys and left the room.
"Now, Joan and Nancy, do not linger but get ready for your lessons at a
quarter to ten punctually," Miss Bird broke forth volubly. "Every
morning I have to hunt you from the breakfast table and my life is spent
in trying to make you punctual. I am sure if your father knew the
trouble I have with you he would speak to you about it and then you
would see."
"Melbury Park!" exclaimed Nancy in a voice of the deepest disgust, as
she rose slowly from the table. "'Pon my word, Joan, it's too bad. I
spend my life in trying to make you punctual and then you want to go to
Melbury Park! Pah! A nice sort of a _park_!"
"Are you going to see Muriel, Cicely?" asked Joan, also rising
deliberately. "Starling, _darling_! Don't hustle me, I'm coming. I only
want to ask my sister Cicely a question."
"Yes," said Cicely. "If I couldn't have had Kitty I should have walked."
"How unreasonable you are, Cicely," said Nancy. "The pony is wanted to
take chickweed to the canaries at Melbury Park."
"Find out all about it, Cis," said Joan in process of being pushed out
of the room. "Oh, take it, Miss Bird, _please_, take it."
Cicely drove off through the park at half-past ten. Until she had passed
through the lodge gates and got between the banks of a deep country
lane, Kitty went her own pace, quite aware that she was being driven by
one whose unreasonable inclinations for speed must subordinate
themselves to the comfort of pony-flesh as long as she was in sight of
house or stables. Then, with a shake of her head, she suddenly quickened
her trot, but did not escape the cut of a whip which was always
administered to her at this point. With that rather vicious little cut
Cicely expressed her feelings at a state of things in which, with
fourteen or fifteen horses in the stable and half a dozen at the home
farm, the only animal at the disposal of herself and her sisters was
always wanted for something else whenever they asked for it.
The Squire had four hunters--sometimes more--which nobody but himself
ever used, and the price of a horse that would carry a man of his weight
comfortably ran into treble figures more often than not. Dick kept a
couple always at Kencote, even Walter had one, and Humphrey and Frank
could always be mounted whenever they wanted a day with the South
Meadshire. There were nine or ten horses, standing in stalls or loose
boxes or at grass, kept entirely for the amusement of her father and
brothers, besides half a dozen more for the carriages, the station
omnibus, the luggage cart, and all the dynamic demands of a large
household. The boys had all had their ponies as soon as their legs could
grip a saddle. This very pony that she was driving was really Frank's,
having been rescued for him from a butcher's cart in Bathgate fourteen
years before, and nobody knew how old she was. She was used for the
mowing machine and for every sort of little odd job about the garden,
and seemed as if she might go on for ever. It was only when Cicely or
the twins drove her that the reminder was given that she was not as
young as she had been, and must not be hustled.
And she was all they were ever allowed to drive, and then only when she
was not wanted for something else. It was a Clinton tradition, deriving
probably from Colonel Thomas and his six stay-at-home daughters, that
the women of the family did not hunt. They were encouraged to drive and
allowed to ride to the meets of hounds if there was anything to carry
them, and in Cicely's childhood there had been other ponies besides
Kitty, left-offs of her elder brothers, which she had used. But she had
never been given a horse of her own, and the hunters were far too
precious to be galled by a side-saddle. What did she want to ride for?
The Squire hated to see women flying about the country like men, and he
wasn't going to have any more horses in the stable. The men had more
than enough to do as it was. It was part of the whole unfair scheme on
which life at Kencote was based. Everything was done for the men and
boys of the family, and the women and girls must content themselves with
what was left over.
Pondering these and other things, Cicely drove along the country lanes,
between banks and hedges bright with the growth of early summer, through
woods in which pheasants, reared at great expense that her father and
brothers and their friends might kill them, called one another hoarsely,
as if in a continual state of gratulation at having for a year at least
escaped their destined end; between fields in which broods of partridges
ran in and out of the roots of the green corn; across a bridge near
which was a deep pool terrifically guarded by a notice-board against
those who might have disturbed the fat trout lying in its shadows;
across a gorse-grown common, sacred home of an old dog-fox that had
defied the South Meadshire hounds for five seasons; and so, out of her
father's property on to that of Jim Graham, in which blood relations of
the Kencote game and vermin were protected with equal care, in order
that the Grahams might fulfil the destiny appointed for them and the
Clintons and the whole race of squirearchy alike.
The immediate surroundings of Mountfield were prettier than those of
Kencote. The house stood at the foot of a wooded rise, and its long
white front showed up against a dark background of trees. It was older
in date than Georgian Kencote, and although its walls had been stuccoed
out of all resemblance to those of an old house, its high-pitched roof
and twisted chimney stacks had been left as they were. The effect was so
incongruous that even unaesthetic Alexander Graham, Jim's father, had
thought of uncovering the red brick again. But the front had been
altered to allow for bigger windows and a portico resembling that at
Kencote, and the architect whom he had consulted, had pressed him to
spend more money on it than he felt inclined to. So he had left it alone
and spent none; and Jim, who was not so well off as his father by the
amount of Muriel's portion and the never-to-be-forgiven Harcourt duties,
was not likely to have a thousand pounds to spare for making his rooms
darker for some years to come.
The old stable buildings, untouched by the restorer, flanked the house
on one side and the high red brick wall of the gardens on the other. The
drive sloped gently up from the gates through an undulating park more
closely planted than that of Kencote. There were some very old trees at
Mountfield and stretches of bracken here and there beneath them. It was
a pity that the house had been spoilt in appearance, but its amenities
were not wholly destroyed. Cicely knew it almost as well as she knew
Kencote, but she acknowledged its charm now as she drove up between the
oak and the young fern. Under the blue June sky strewn with light
clouds, it stood for a peaceful, pleasant life, if rather a dull one,
and she could not help wondering whether her friend would really be
happier in a house of her own in Melbury Park, which, if painted in
somewhat exaggeratedly dark colours by Cicely's father, had not struck
her, when she had seen it from the railway, as a place in which any one
could possibly live of choice. Perhaps Walter had over-persuaded her.
She would know very soon now, for Muriel told her everything.