THE RECTOR
The Rector was shown into the library where the Squire was reading the
_Times_, for which a groom rode over to Bathgate every morning at eleven
o'clock, and woe betide him if he ever came back later than half-past
twelve. It was a big room lined with books behind a brass lattice which
nobody ever opened. Though the Squire used it every day, and had used it
for five-and-thirty years, he had never altered its appointments, and
his grandfather had not lived in it. Merchant Jack had furnished it
handsomely for a library, and the Reverend John Clinton Smith, the
historian of Kencote, had bought the books for him, and read most of
them for him too. If he had returned from the tomb in which he had lain
for a hundred years to this room where he had spent some of the happiest
hours of his life, he would only have had to clear out a boxful or two
of papers from the cupboards under the bookshelves and the drawers of
the writing-tables, and remove a few photographs and personal
knick-knacks, and there would have been nothing there that was not
familiar, except the works of Surtees and a few score other books, which
he would have taken up with interest and laid down again with contempt,
in some new shelves by the fireplace. The Squire had no skill with a
room. He hated any alteration in his house, and he had debated this
question of a new bookcase to hold the few books he did read from time
to time with as much care as the Reverend John Clinton Smith, book-lover
as he was, had devoted to the housing of the whole library.
"Ah, my dear Tom," said the Squire heartily, "I'm glad you came up. I
should have come down to you, but I've been so busy all the morning that
I thought you wouldn't mind a summons. Have you brought Grace?"
"She is with Nina," said the Rector, and sat heavily down in the
easy-chair opposite to that from which the Squire had risen. He was a
big man, with a big face, clean shaven except for a pair of abbreviated
side whiskers. He had light-blue eyes and a mobile, sensitive mouth. His
clothes were rather shabby, and except for a white tie under a
turned-down collar, not clerical. His voice, coming from so massive a
frame, seemed thin, but it was of a pleasant tenor quality, and went
well with the mild and attractive expression of his face. All the
parishioners of Kencote liked the Rector, though he was not at all
diligent in visiting them. Perhaps they liked him the better on that
account.
The Rector was the Squire's half-brother. Colonel Thomas Clinton, the
Squire's grandfather, had followed, amongst other traditions of his
family, that of marrying early, and marrying money. His wife was a city
lady, daughter of Alderman Sir James Banket, and brought him forty
thousand pounds. Besides his six daughters, he had one son, who was
delicate and could not support the fatigue of his own arduous pursuit of
sport. He was sent to Eton and to Trinity College, and a cornetcy was
bought for him in the Grenadier Guards. He also married early, and
married, following an alternative tradition, not money, but blood. His
wife was a sister of a brother officer, the Marquis of Nottingham, and
they were happy together for a year. He died of a low fever immediately
after the birth of his son, Edward, that Squire of Kencote with whom we
have to do.
Colonel Thomas took a great deal more pride in his sturdy grandson than
ever he had been able to take in his weakly son. He taught him to ride
and to shoot, and to tyrannise over his six maiden aunts, who all took a
hand in bringing him up. His own placid, uncomplaining wife had died
years before, and Lady Susan Clinton, tired of living in a house where
women seemed to exist on sufferance, had married again, but had not been
allowed to take her child to her new home. She had the legal right to do
so, of course, but was far too frightened of the weather-beaten,
keen-eyed old man, who could say such cutting things with such a sweet
smile upon his lips, to insist upon it. Her second husband was the
Rector of a neighbouring parish, who grew hot to the end of his days
when he thought of what he had undergone to gain possession of his
bride. He did not keep her long, for she died a year later in giving him
a son. That son was now the Reverend Thomas Beach, Rector of Kencote, to
which preferment the Squire had appointed him nearly thirty years
before, when he was only just of canonical age to receive it. And in the
comfortable Rectory of Kencote, except for a year's curacy to his
father, he had lived all his clerical life.
The Squire and the Rector were not altogether unlike in appearance. They
were both tall and well covered with flesh, and there was a family
resemblance in their features. But the Squire's bigness and ruddiness
were those of a man who took much exercise in the open air, the Rector's
of a man physically indolent, who lived too much indoors, and lived too
well.
But if they were not unlike in appearance, they were as dissimilar as
possible in character. The Squire's well-carried, massive frame
betokened a man who considered himself to have a right to hold his head
high and plant his footsteps firmly; the Rector's big body disguised a
sensitive, timorous character, and a soul never quite at ease in its
comfortable surroundings. That ponderous weight of soft flesh, insistent
on warmth and good food and much rest, had a deal to answer for. Spare
and active, with adventures of the spirit not discouraged by the
indolence of the flesh, the Rector of Kencote might have been anything
in the way of a saint that his Church encourages. He would certainly not
have been Rector of Kencote for thirty years, with the prospect of being
Rector of Kencote for thirty years more if he lived so long. He had a
simple, lovable soul. It told him that he did nothing to speak of in
return for his good income and the fine house in which he lived in such
comfort, and troubled him on this score more than it would have troubled
a man with less aptitude for goodness; and it omitted to tell him that
he had more direct influence for righteousness than many a man who would
have consciously exercised all the gifts with which he might have been
endowed. He simply could not bring himself to visit his parish
regularly, two or three afternoons a week, as he had made up his mind to
do when he was first ordained. The afternoons always slipped away
somehow, and there were so many of them. The next would always do. So it
had been for the first years of his pastorate, and he had long since
given way altogether to his indolence and shyness in respect of visiting
his flock; but his conscience still troubled him about it. He was a
great reader, but his reading had become quite desultory, and he now
read only for his own entertainment. His sermons were poor; he had no
delivery and no gift of expression; he could not even give utterance to
the ideas that did, not infrequently, act on his brain, nor hardly to
the human tenderness which was his normal attitude towards mankind. But
he did go on writing fresh ones, stilted and commonplace as they were.
Mental activity was less of a burden to him than bodily activity, and he
had kept himself up to that part of what he thought to be his clerical
duty.
For the rest, he was fond of his books and his garden, fond of his
opulent, well-appointed house, and all that it contained, and fond of
the smaller distractions of a country life, but no sportsman. He had no
children, but a graceful, very feminine wife, who reacted pleasantly on
his intellect and looked well after the needs of his body. He sometimes
went to London for a week or two, and had been to Paris; but he liked
best to be at home. He watched the progress of the seasons with
interest, and knew something about birds, something about flowers and
trees, was a little of a weather prophet, and often thought he would
study some branch of natural science, but had lacked the energy to do
so. He liked the winter as well as the summer, for then his warm house
called him more seductively. He liked to tramp home along muddy country
roads in the gloaming, drink tea in his wife's pretty drawing-room, chat
to her a little, and then go into his cosy, book-lined study and read
till dinner-time. He would have been a happy man as a layman, relieved
of that gnawing conviction that his placid, easy life was rather far
from being apostolic. And nobody, not even his wife, had any idea that
he was not quite contented, and grateful for the good things that he
enjoyed.
"Well, Tom," said the Squire, "I'm infernally worried again. It's that
boy Walter. What do you think he wants to do now?" He spoke with none of
the heat of the morning. It might have been thought that he had already
accepted the inevitable and was prepared to make the best of it.
"I don't know, Edward," said the Rector; and the Squire told him.
"And you have a particular objection to this place, Melbury Park?"
inquired the Rector guilelessly.
"O my dear Tom," said the Squire impatiently, "have you ever seen the
place?"
"From the railway only," admitted the Rector; "and chiefly its
back-gardens. It left an impression of washing on my mind."
"It left an impression of _not_ washing on mine," said the Squire, and
leant back in his chair to laugh heartily at his witticism.
The Rector also did justice to it, perhaps more than justice, with a
kind smile. "Well, Edward," he said, "it may be so, but it is,
otherwise, I should say, respectable. It is not like a slum. Has Walter
any particular reason for wishing to go there?"
The Squire gave a grudging summary of the reasons Walter had advanced
for wishing to go there, and made them appear rather ridiculous reasons.
He also produced again such of the arguments he had advanced at
breakfast-time as seemed most weighty, and managed to work himself up
into a fair return of his morning's feeling of being very badly treated.
"Well, Edward," said the Rector gently, when he had come to an end, "I
think if I were you I should not make any objections to Walter's going
to Melbury Park."
"You wouldn't?" asked the Squire, rather weakly.
"No, I don't think I would. You see, my dear Edward, some of us are
inclined to take life too easily. I'm sometimes afraid that I do
myself."
"You do your duty, Tom. Nobody is asked to do more than that."
"Well, you may be right, but I am not sure. However, what I was going to
say was that one cannot help respecting--perhaps even envying--a young
fellow like Walter who doesn't want to take life easily."
"He has stuck to his work," said the Squire. "I will say that for the
boy; and he's never come to me for money to pay bills with, as Humphrey
has, and even Dick--though, as far as Dick goes, he'll have the property
some day, and I don't grudge him what he wants now within reason."
"You see, Edward, when a man has congenial work which takes up his time,
he is not apt to get into mischief. I think, if I may say so, that you
ought to admit now, however much you may have objected to Walter's
choice of a profession in the first instance, that he has justified his
choice. He put his hand to the plough and he has not looked back. That
is a good deal to say for a young man with Walter's temptations towards
an easy, perhaps idle, life."
"Well," said the Squire, "I do admit it. I do admit it, Tom. I have my
natural prejudices, but I'm the last man in the world that any one has a
right to call obstinate. I objected to Walter becoming a doctor in the
first instance. It was natural that I should. He ought to have succeeded
you, as Dick will succeed me. And none of our family have ever been
doctors. But I gave way, and I've every wish, now, that he should
succeed in his profession. And the reason I object to this move so
strongly is that as far as my judgment goes it is not a step in the
right direction. It might be so for the ordinary doctor--I don't know
and I can't say--but I'm willing to help a son of mine over some of the
drudgery, and it will be very disagreeable for me to have Walter
settling down to married life in a place like Melbury Park, when he
might do so much better. You must remember, Tom, that he is the first of
the boys to get married. Dick will marry some day soon, I hope and
trust, and Humphrey too, but until they do, Walter's son, if he has one,
will be heir to this property, eventually. He ought _not_ to be brought
up in a place like Melbury Park."
"There is a good deal in what you say, Edward," replied the Rector, who
privately thought that there was very little; "but the contingency you
mention is a very unlikely one."
"I don't lay too much stress on it. If I thought that Walter was right
from the point of rising in his profession to go to this place I would
leave all that out of the question."
"Well, I'll tell you what, Edward," said the Rector, with an engaging
smile, "supposing you keep an open mind on the question until you have
heard what Walter has to say about it. How would that be?"
The Squire hummed and ha'd, and thought that on the whole it might be
the best thing to do.
"You see," said the Rector in pursuance of his bright idea, "it is just
possible that there may be reasons which Walter has considered, and may
wish to urge, that _might_ make it advisable for him, even with the
exceptional advantages you could give him, to go through the training
afforded by just such a practice as this. I should let him urge them,
Edward, if I were you. I should let him urge them. You can but repeat
your objections, if they do not appeal to your judgment. You will be in
a better position to make your own views tell, if you dispose your mind
to listen to his. I should take a kindly tone, I think, if I were you.
You don't want to set the boy against you."
"No, I don't want that," said the Squire. "And I should have done what
you advise, in any case. It's the only way, of course. Let us go in and
have some luncheon. Then you don't think, Tom, that there would be any
serious objection to my giving way on this point, if Walter is
reasonable about it?"
"Well, Edward, do you know, I really don't think there would," replied
the Rector, as they crossed the hall to the dining-room.
The ladies were already there. Mrs. Beach was by the window talking to
the twins, who adored her. She was getting on for fifty, but she was
still a pretty woman, and moved gracefully as she came across the room
to shake hands with her brother-in-law. "It is very nice to see you back
again, Edward," she said, with a charming smile. "You do not look as if
London had disagreed with you."
"My dear Grace," said the Squire, holding her white, well-formed hand in
his big one. "I'll tell you my private opinion of London, only don't let
it go any further. It can't hold a candle to Kencote." Then he gave a
hearty laugh, and motioned her to a seat on his right. The twins cast a
look of intelligence at one another, and Cicely glanced at her mother.
The Squire had recovered his good humour.
"For these an' all his mercies," mumbled the Squire, bending his
head.--"Oh, beg your pardon, Tom," and the Rector said grace.
"Have you heard what that silly fellow Walter wants to do, Grace?" asked
the Squire.
"Nothing except that he hopes to get married next month," replied Mrs.
Beach, helping herself to an omelette, "and I hope that he will make a
better husband than Tom."
The Rector, already busy, spared her a glance of appreciation, and the
twins giggled at the humour of their favourite.
"Yes, he is going to be married, and he proposes to take Muriel to live
at Melbury Park, of all places in the world."
"Then in that case," replied Mrs. Beach equably, "Tom and I will not
give them the grand piano we had fixed upon for a wedding present. They
must content themselves with the railway whistles."
The twins laughed outright and were ineffectively rebuked by Miss Bird.
That they were to be seen and not heard at table was a maxim she had
diligently instilled into them. But they were quite right to laugh. Aunt
Grace was surpassing herself. She always kept the Squire in a good
humour, by her ready little jokes and the well-disguised deference she
paid him. The deference was not offered to him alone, but to all men
with whom she came in contact, even her husband, and men liked her
immensely. She teased them boldly, but she deferred to their manhood.
Women sometimes grew tired of her sweetness of manner, which was
displayed to them too, and quite naturally. She was a sweet woman, if
also, in spite of her ready tongue, rather a shallow one. Mrs. Clinton
did not like her, but did not show it, except in withholding her
confidence, and Mrs. Beach had no idea that they were not intimate.
Cicely was indifferent towards her, but had loved her as a child, for
the same reason that the twins thought her the most charming of
womankind, because she treated them as if they were her equals in
intelligence, as no doubt they were. It had never occurred to them to
mimic her, which was a feather in her cap if she had known it. And
another was that Miss Bird adored her, being made welcome in her house,
and, as she said, treated like anybody else.
By the time luncheon was over the Squire had so overcome his bitter
resentment at the idea of Walter's going to live at Melbury Park, that
he could afford to joke about it. Aunt Grace had suggested that they
should all go and live there, and had so amused the Squire with a
picture of himself coming home to his villa in the evening and eating
his dinner in the kitchen in his shirt sleeves, with carpet slippers on
his feet, which was possibly the picture in her mind of "how the poor
live," that he was in the best of humours, and drank two more glasses of
port than his slightly gouty tendency usually permitted.
The twins persuaded Miss Bird to take them to the station to meet Walter
in the afternoon. They were not allowed to go outside the park by
themselves, and walked down the village on either side of the old
starling, each of them over-topping her by half a head, like good girls,
as she said herself. They wore cool white dresses, and shady hats
trimmed with poppies, and looked a picture. When they reached the
by-road to the station, Joan said, "One, two, three, and away," and they
shot like darts from the side of their instructress, arriving on the
platform flushed and laughing, not at all like good girls, while Miss
Bird panted in their rear, clucking threats and remonstrances, to the
respectful but undisguised amusement of the porter, and the groom who
had preceded them with the dog-cart.
Walter got out of a third-class carriage when the train drew up and
said, "Hullo, twanky-diddleses! Oh, my adorable _Sturna vulgaris vetus_,
embrace me! Come to my arms!"
"Now, Walter, do behave," said Miss Bird sharply. "What will people
think and Joan 'n Nancy I shall certainly tell Mrs. Clinton of your
_disgraceful_ behaviour I am quite ashamed of you running off like that
which you _know_ you are not allowed to do you are very _naughty_ girls
and I am seriously displeased with you."
"Ellen Bird," said Walter, "don't try and put it on to the twankies. I
looked out of the carriage window and saw you sprinting along the
station road yourself. You have had a little race and are annoyed at
being beaten. I shall put you up in the cart and send you home, and I
will walk back with the twankies." And in spite of Miss Bird's almost
frenzied remonstrances, up into the cart she was helped, and driven off
at a smart pace, with cheers from the twins, now entirely beyond her
control.
"Well, twanky dears," said Walter, starting off at a smart pace with a
twin on either side, "I suppose there's a deuce of a bust up, eh? Look
here, you can't hang on. It's too hot."
"It wouldn't be too hot for Muriel to hang on," said Joan, her arm
having been returned to her.
"There was a bust up this morning at breakfast," said Nancy. "Edward
came in purple with passion two minutes late for prayers."
"Eh?" said Walter sharply. "Look here, you mustn't speak of the governor
like that."
"It's only her new trick," said Joan. "She'll get tired of it."
"You're not to do it, Nancy, do you hear?" said Walter.
"Oh, all right," said Nancy. "Mr. Clinton of Kencote, J.P., D.L., was so
put out that he wouldn't kneel down to say his prayers."
"Annoyed, eh?" said Walter.
"Yes," said Joan, "but he's all right now, Walter. Aunt Grace came to
lunch, and beat Bogey."
"What!"
"It's only her new trick," said Nancy. "She'll get tired of it. She
means put him in a good humour."
"Really, you twankies do pick up some language. Then there's nothing
much to fear, what?"
"No, we are all coming to live at Melbury Park, and Aunt Grace is going
to take in our washing."
"Oh, that's the line taken, is it?" said Walter. "Well, I dare say it's
all very funny, but I can't have you twankies giving yourselves airs,
you know. I don't know why they talk over things before you. The
governor might have kept it to himself until he had seen me."
"Mr. Clinton doesn't keep things to himself," said Nancy. "You might
know that by this time; and Joan and I are quite old enough to take an
intelligent interest in family affairs. We do take the deepest interest
in them, and we know a lot. Little pitchers have long ears, you know."
"So have donkeys, and they get them pinched if they're not careful,"
retorted Walter. "How are you getting on with your lessons, twankies?"
"I believe our progress is quite satisfactory, thank you, Dr. Clinton,"
replied Joan. "Perhaps you would like to hear us a few dates, so that
our afternoon walk may not pass entirely unimproved."
"You had much better look at Joan's tongue," said Nancy. "Starling said
last night that her stomach was a little out of order, and we rebuked
her for her vulgarity."
"You are a record pair, you two," said Walter, looking at them with
unwilling admiration. "I don't believe any of us led that poor old woman
the dance that you do. Do you want some jumbles, twankies?"
"Ra-_ther_," said the twins with one voice, and they turned into the
village shop.
The tea-table was spread on the lawn, and the Squire came out of the
window of the library as Walter reached the garden. "Well, my boy," he
said, "so you're going to settle down at Melbury Park, are you? That's a
nice sort of thing to spring on us; but good luck to you! You can always
come down here when you want a holiday."