THE LIFE
Mrs. Graham, in spite of her good points, was not overburdened with the
maternal spirit. She had little love for children as children, and when
her own were small she had lavished no great amount of affection on
them. In the case of other people's children she frankly averred that
she didn't understand them and preferred dogs. But she was equable by
nature and had companionable gifts, and as Jim and Muriel had grown up
they had found their mother pleasant to live with, never anxious to
assert authority, and always interested in such of their pursuits as
chimed in with her own inclinations; also quite ready with sensible
advice and some sympathy when either was required of her, and showing no
annoyance at all if the advice was not followed.
It was not altogether surprising then that Jim, when he had been back at
Mountfield for three or four days, should have taken her into his
confidence. She had heard what, thanks to the Squire, every one in that
part of the county had heard, that Cicely had run off to London without
taking any clothes with her--this point always emerged--and that Dick,
and, for some as yet unexplained reason, Jim, had gone up after her. But
when Jim returned, and told her simply that Cicely was staying with
Muriel and that everything was all right, she had asked no further
questions, although she saw that there was something that she had not
been told. She had her reward when Jim, sitting in her drawing-room
after dinner, told her that he would like to talk over something with
her.
The drawing-room at Mountfield was a long, rather low room, hung with an
old French paper of nondescript grey, upon which were some water-colours
which were supposed to be valuable. The carpet was of faded green, with
ferns and roses. The curtains were of thick crimson brocade under a gilt
canopy. There was a large Chippendale mirror, undoubtedly valuable, over
the white marble mantelpiece, upon which were three great vases of blue
Worcester and some Dresden china figures. The furniture was upholstered
in crimson to match the curtains. There was an old grand piano, there
were one or two china cabinets against the walls, a white skin rug
before the fire, palms in pots, a rosewood table or two, and a low glass
bookcase with more china on the top of it. There was nothing modern, and
the chairs and sofas were not particularly comfortable. The room had
always been like that ever since Jim could remember, and his mother,
sitting upright in her low chair knitting stocking tops, also belonged
to the room and gave it a comforting air of home. She had on a black
gown and her face and neck were much redder than the skin beneath them,
but, like many women to whom rough tweeds and thick boots seem to be the
normal wear, she looked well in the more feminine attire of the evening.
"Talk away, my dear boy," she said, without raising her head. "Two heads
are better than one. I suppose it is something about Cicely."
"When Cicely went away the other day she didn't go to see Muriel; she
went to marry Mackenzie."
She did raise her head then to throw an astonished look at her son, who
did not meet it, but she lowered it again and made one or two stitches
before she replied, "She didn't marry him, of course?"
"No. Dick and I found them, and got her away just in time. That is all
over now, and I can't think about that fellow."
"Well, I won't ask you to. But I suppose you won't mind telling me why
she did such an extraordinary thing."
"Because she is bored to death at Kencote, and I don't wonder at it."
"And do you still intend to bring her to be bored to death at
Mountfield?"
"Yes, I do, if she will come. And I'll see that she's not bored. At
least that is what I want to talk to you about. Muriel could tell me
what she wants to make her happy, but I can't go to Muriel as long as
Cicely is there, and I can't write; I've tried. You've been happy enough
here, mother. You ought to be able to tell me."
Mrs. Graham kept silence for a considerable time. Then she said, "Well,
Jim, I'm glad you have come to me. I think I can help you. In the first
place, you mustn't play the martinet as Mr. Clinton does."
"It isn't likely I should treat her as he does Mrs. Clinton, if that is
what you mean."
"I mean a good deal more than that. If Mr. Clinton knew how disagreeable
it was to other people to hear him talk to her as he does, he probably
wouldn't do it. But even if he didn't he might still make her life a
burden to her, by taking away every ounce of independence she had. I
don't know whether her life is a burden to her or not; I don't pretend
to understand her; but I do know that you couldn't treat Cicely like
that, and I suppose this escapade of hers proves it."
"The poor old governor was a bit of a martinet," said Jim, after a
pause.
"He thought he was," said Mrs. Graham drily.
Jim looked at her, but did not speak.
"I know what it all means," his mother went on. "I think things over
more than you would give me credit for, Jim, and I've seen it before.
This quiet country life happens to suit me down to the ground, but I
don't believe it satisfies the majority of women. And that is what men
don't understand. It suits _them_, of course, and if it doesn't they can
always get away from it for a bit. But to shut women up in a country
house all the year round, and give them no interests in life outside
it--you won't give one woman in ten what she wants in that way."
"What _do_ they want then?"
"It is more what Cicely wants, isn't it? I don't know exactly, but I can
give a pretty shrewd guess. If you want to find out something about a
person, it isn't a bad thing to look at their parentage on both sides.
On one side she comes of a race of yokels."
"Oh, come, mother. The Birkets are----"
"I'm not talking about the Birkets, I'm talking about the Clintons. Poor
dear Mr. Clinton _is_ a yokel, for all his ancestry. If he had been
changed at birth and brought up a farm labourer, he wouldn't have had an
idea in his head above the average of them; he would only have had a
little more pluck. Any Birket's brains are worth six of any Clinton's in
the open market. Mrs. Clinton is a clever woman, although she doesn't
show it, and her dear, stupid old husband would smother the brains of
Minerva if he lived with her. You've only got to look at their children
to see where the Birket comes in. Dick is exactly like his father,
except that he is not a fool; Humphrey _is_ a fool to my thinking, but
not the same sort of fool; Walter--there's no need to speak of him;
Frank I don't know much about, but he isn't a yokel; Cicely simply
hasn't had a chance, but she'll take it fast enough when she gets it;
and as for the twins, they're as sharp as monkeys, for all their blue
eyes and sweet innocence."
"Well, what does it all lead to, mother?"
"It leads to this, Jim: I believe Cicely will be as happy living in the
country as most girls, but at Kencote she doesn't even get the pleasures
that a woman _can_ get out of the country; those are all kept for the
men. You _must_ take her about a bit. Take her to other houses and get
people to come here. Don't shut her up. Take her to London every now and
then, and try and let her see some of the sort of people that go to her
Uncle Herbert Birket's house. I believe she could hold her own with any
of them, and you'll be proud of her. Let her stir her mind up; she
doesn't know what's in it yet. Take her abroad. That always helps; even
I should have liked it, only your father didn't, and I wasn't keen
enough to let it make a disturbance. Give her her head; that's what it
comes to. She won't lose it again."
Jim thought for a long time while Mrs. Graham went on knitting.
"A woman wants some brightness in her life, especially before the babies
begin to come," she said, before he spoke.
"Thanks, mother," he said simply. "I'll think it all over."
"I have thought it over," she answered, "and it's all sound sense."
Jim's next speech was some time coming, but when it did come it was
rather a startling one.
"I've given Weatherley notice to leave the Grange at Christmas."
Mrs. Graham's needles stopped, and then went on again rather more
quickly. Her voice shook a little as she said in a matter-of-fact tone,
"I suppose you won't mind altering the stables for me. There is only one
loose-box."
"I thought it would be best to add on a couple under another roof," said
Jim, and they went on to discuss other alterations that would be
necessary when Mrs. Graham should leave Mountfield to go to live at the
Grange, but without any approach to sentiment, and no expressions of
regret on either side.
When they had done, and there had followed another of those pauses with
which their conversations were punctuated, Mrs. Graham said, "You are
making very certain of Cicely, Jim."
"I'm going to claim her," said Jim quietly. "I was a fool not to do it
before. I've wanted her badly enough."
Perhaps this news was as fresh to Mrs. Graham as it had been to all
those others who had heard it lately. Perhaps it was no news at all. She
was an observant woman and was accustomed to keep silence on many
subjects, except when she was asked to speak, and then she spoke
volubly.
"I have often wondered," she said, "why you left it so long."
Jim did not reply to this, but made another surprising statement. "I'm
going to stand for Parliament," he said.
Mrs. Graham's observation had not covered this possibility. "Good
gracious!" she exclaimed. "Not as a Liberal, I hope!"
"No, as a Free Trade Unionist."
"I should think you might as well save your time and your money."
"I don't expect to get in. But if I can find a seat to fight for, I'll
fight."
"Well, I'll help you, Jim. I believe the others are right, but if you
will give me something to read I dare say I can persuade myself that
they're wrong. I like a good fight, and that is one thing you don't get
the chance of when you live with your pigs and your poultry. Excuse me
asking, but what about the money?"
"I've settled all that, and I'm going to let this place for two years at
least."
Mrs. Graham dropped her knitting once more. "Well, really, Jim!" she
said. "Have you got anything else startling to break to me, because I
wish you would bring it out all at once now. I can bear it."
"That's all," said Jim, with a grin. "I shall save a lot of money. I
shall take a flat or a little house in London and do some work. There
are lots of things besides Free Trade; things I'm keener about, really.
I don't think Cicely will mind. I think she will go in with me."
Mrs. Graham took up her knitting again and put on another row of
stitches. Then she said, "I don't know why you asked my advice as to
what Cicely wanted. It seems to me you have thought it out pretty well
for yourself."
* * * * *
Jim rode over to Kencote two days after Cicely's return. It was a lovely
morning, and harvesting was in full swing as he trotted along between
the familiar fields. He felt rather sad at being about to leave it all;
he was a countryman at heart, although he had interests that were not
bucolic. But there was not much room for sadness in his mind. He was
sure of himself, and had set out to grasp a great happiness.
He met the Squire on his stout cob about a mile from Kencote, and pulled
up to speak to him.
"How are you, Jim?" he said heartily. "Birds doing all right? Ours are
first-class this year."
"I was coming to see you," he said. "I've got something to say."
"Well, say it here, my boy," said the Squire, "I'm not going to turn
back."
So they sat on their horses in the middle of the road and Jim said, "I
want to marry Cicely as soon as possible."
The Squire's jaw dropped as he stared at the suitor. Then he threw back
his head and produced his loud, hearty laugh. "Well, that's a funny
thing," he said. "I was only saying to my wife this morning that Cicely
would die an old maid if she looked to you to come and take her."
Jim's red face became a little redder, but the Squire did not give him
time to reply. "I was only joking, you know, Jim, my boy," he said
kindly. "I knew _you_ were all right, and I tell you frankly there's
nobody I'd sooner give my girl to. But why do you want to rush it now?
What about those rascally death duties?"
"It's only a question of income," said Jim shortly. "And I'm going to
let Mountfield for a year or two."
The Squire's jaw fell again. "Let Mountfield!" he cried. "O my dear
fellow, don't do that, for God's sake. Wait a bit longer. Cicely won't
run away. Ha! ha! Why she did run away--what? Look here, Jim, you're
surely not worrying yourself about that. She won't do it again, I'll
promise you that. I've talked to her."
"I think it is time I took her," said Jim, "if she'll have me."
"Have you? Of course she'll have you. But you mustn't let Mountfield.
Don't think of that, my boy. We'll square it somehow, between us. My
girl won't come to you empty-handed, you know, and as long as the
settlements are all right you can keep her a bit short for a year or
two; tell her to go easy in the house. She's a good girl, and she'll do
her best. No occasion to let down the stables, and you must keep a good
head of game. We'll make that all right, and it won't do you any harm to
economise a bit in other ways. In fact it's a good thing for young
people. You might put down your carriage for a year, and perhaps a few
maids--I should keep the men except perhaps a gardener or two. Oh, there
are lots of ways; but don't let the place, Jim."
"Well, I'll think about it," said Jim, who had no intention of
prematurely disclosing his intentions to the Squire, "but you'll let me
have her, Mr. Clinton? I thought of going over to see her now."
"Go by all means, my boy," said the Squire heartily. "You'll find her
about somewhere, only don't make her late for lunch. You'll stay, of
course. You haven't seen Hayles about anywhere, have you? He's not in
the office."
Jim had not, and the Squire trotted off to find his agent, with a last
word of dissuasion on letting Mountfield.
The ubiquitous twins were in the stableyard when he rode in, raiding the
corn bin for sustenance for their fantails. "Hullo, Jim, my boy," said
Joan. "You're quite a stranger."
"You'll stay to lunch, of course," said Nancy. "How are the birds at
Mountfield? I think we ought to do very well here this year."
"Where is Cicely?" asked Jim, ignoring these pleasantries.
"She's out of doors somewhere," said Joan. "We'll help you find her. We
ought to be going in to lessons again, but starling won't mind."
"I can find her myself, thanks," said Jim. "Is she in the garden?"
"We'll show you," said Nancy. "You can't shake us off. We're like the
limpets of the rock."
But here Miss Bird appeared at the schoolroom window, adjuring the twins
to come in _at once_. "Oh, how do you do, Jim?" she cried, nodding her
head in friendly welcome. "Do you want to find Cicely she has gone down
to the lake to sketch."
"Bother!" exclaimed Joan. "Starling is so officious."
"You will find our sister in the Temple of Melancholy," said Nancy. "It
will be your part to smooth the lines of trouble from her brow."
"Oh, coming, coming, Miss Bird!" called out Joan. "We've only got an
hour more, Jim--spelling and dictation; then we will come and look you
up."
Jim strode off across the park and entered the rhododendron dell by an
iron gate. He followed a broad green path between great banks of shrubs
and under the shade of trees for nearly a quarter of a mile. Every now
and then an open grassy space led to the water, which lay very still,
ringed with dark green. He turned down one of these and peeped round the
edge of a bush from whence he could see the white pillared temple at the
head of the lake. Cicely was sitting in front of it, drawing, and his
heart gave a little leap as he saw her. Then he walked more quickly, and
as he neared the temple began to whistle, for he knew that, thinking
herself quite alone. Cicely would be disagreeably startled if he came
upon her suddenly.
Perhaps she thought it was a gardener who was coming, for she did not
move until he spoke her name, coming out from behind the building on to
the stained marble platform in front of it. Then she looked up with a
hot blush. "O Jim!" she said nervously. "I was just trying to paint a
picture."
"It's jolly good," said Jim, looking at it with his head on one side,
although she had not as yet gone further than light pencil lines.
"It won't be when I've finished," she said hurriedly. "How is Mrs.
Graham? I am coming over to see her as soon as I can, to tell her about
Muriel."
"She's all right, thanks," said Jim. "She sent her love. Do you mind my
watching you?"
"I'd much rather you didn't," she said, with a deprecating laugh. "I
shall make an awful hash of it. Do you want to see father? I'll go and
find him with you if you like."
"No, I've seen him," said Jim, going into the temple to get himself a
chair. "I've come to see you, to tell you something I thought you'd be
interested in. I want to stand for Parliament, and I'm going to let
Mountfield."
She looked up at him with a shade of relief in her face. "O Jim," she
said, "I do hope you will get in."
"Well, to tell you the truth, I don't expect to get in," said Jim. "They
won't have fellows who think as I do in the party now if they can help
it. But there's a good deal to do outside that. I kept my eyes open when
I was travelling, and I do know a bit about the Colonies, and about land
too. There are societies I can make myself useful in, even if I don't
get into Parliament. Anyway I'm going to try."
"I am so glad, Jim," said Cicely. "But won't you miss Mountfield
awfully? And where are you going to live?"
"In London for a year or two. Must be in the thick of things."
"I suppose you won't go before the spring."
"I want to. It depends on you, Cicely."
She had nothing to say. The flush that coloured her delicate skin so
frequently, flooded it new.
"I want you to come and help me," said Jim. "I can't do it without you,
my dear. You're much cleverer than I am. I want to get to know people,
and I'm not much good at that. And I don't know that I could put up with
London, living there by myself. If you were with me I shouldn't care
where I lived. I would rather live all my life at Melbury Park with you,
than at Mountfield without you."
"O Jim," she said in a low voice, bending over her drawing board, "you
are good and generous. But you can't want me now."
"Look here, Cicely dear," he said, "let's get over that business now,
and leave it alone for ever. I blame myself for it, I blame--that man,
but I haven't got the smallest little piece of blame for you, and I
shouldn't have even if I didn't love you. Why, even Dick is the same. He
was angry at first, but not after he had seen you. And Walter thinks as
I do. I saw him one day and we had it all out; you didn't know. There's
not a soul who knows who blames you, and nobody ever will."
"I know," she said, "that every one has been most extraordinarily kind.
I love Dick and Walter more than ever for it, because I know how it must
have struck them when they first knew. And you too, Jim. It makes me
feel such a beast to think how sweet you were to me, and how I've
treated you."
Jim took her hand. "Cicely, darling," he said. "I'm a slow fellow, and,
I'm afraid, rather stupid. If I hadn't been this would never have
happened. But I believe I'm the only person in the world that can make
you forget it. You'll let me try, won't you?"
She tried to draw away her hand, but he held it.
"Oh, I don't know what to say," she cried. "It is all such a frightful
muddle. I don't even know whether I love you or not. I do; you know
that, Jim. But I don't know whether I love you in the right way. I
thought before that I didn't. And how can I when I did a thing like
that? I'm a girl who goes to any man who calls her."
She was weeping bitterly. All the shame in her heart surged up. She
pulled her hand away and covered her face.
"You never loved that man--not for a moment," said Jim firmly.
"No, I didn't," she cried. "I _hate_ him now, and I believe I hated him
all the time. If I were to meet him I should die of shame. Oh, why did I
do it? And I feel ashamed before you, Jim. I can't marry you. I can't
see you any more. I am glad you are going away."
"I am not going unless you come with me, Cicely," he said. "I want you.
I want you more than ever; I understand you better. If this hadn't
happened I shouldn't have known what you wanted; I don't think I should
have been able to make you happy. Good heavens! do you think I believe
that you wanted that man? I _know_ you didn't, or I shouldn't be here
now. You wanted life, and I had never offered you that. I do offer it
you now. Come and help me to do what I'm going to do. I can't do any of
it without you."
She smiled at him forlornly. "You _are_ good," she said. "And you have
comforted me a little. But you can't forget what has happened. It isn't
possible."
"Look here, my dear," said Jim simply. "Will you believe me when I say
that I have forgotten it already? That is to say it doesn't come into my
mind. I don't have to keep it out; it doesn't come. I've got other
things to think of. There's all the future, and what I'm going to do,
and you are going to help me to do. Really, if I thought of it, I ought
to be glad you did what you did, in a way, for all I've thought of since
comes from that. I saw what you were worth and what you could make of a
man if he loved you as I do, and you loved him. We won't play at it,
Cicely. I'm in earnest. I shall be a better fellow all round if I'm
trying to do something and not only sitting at home and amusing myself.
We shall have to make some sacrifices. We shall only be able to afford a
flat or a little house in London. I must keep things going here and put
by a bit for an election, perhaps. But I know you won't mind not having
much money for a time. We shall be together, and there won't be a thing
in my life that you won't share."
She had kept her eyes fixed upon him as he spoke. "Do you really mean
it, Jim?" she asked quietly. "Do you really want _me_, out of all the
people in the world?"
"I don't want anybody but you," he said, "and I don't want anything
without you."
"Then I will come with you, dearest Jim," she said. "And I will never
want anything except what you want all my life."
He took her in his arms, and she nestled there, laughing and crying by
turns, but happier than she had ever thought she could be. They talked
of a great many things, but not again of Cicely's flight. Jim had
banished that spectre, which, if it returned to haunt her thoughts
again, would not affright them. They came no nearer to it than a speech
of Cicely's, "I do love you, dear Jim. I love you so much that I must
have loved you all the time without knowing it. I feel as if there was
something in you that I could rest on and know that it will never give
way."
"And that's exactly how I feel about you," said Jim.
Two swans sailed out into the middle of the lake, creasing the still
water into tiny ripples. The air was hot and calm, and the heavy leaves
of trees and shrubs hung motionless. The singing-birds were silent. Only
in the green shade were the hearts of the two lovers in tumult--a tumult
of gratitude and confident happiness.
The peace, but not the happiness, was brought to an end when the twins,
relaxed from bondage, heralded their approach by a vociferous rendering
of "The Campbells are coming." They came round the temple arm-in-arm.
Cicely was drawing, and Jim looking on.
"Yes, that's all very well," said Joan, "but it doesn't take two hours
to make three pencil scratches."
"Girls without the nice feeling that we possess," said Nancy, "would
have burst upon you without warning."
"Without giving you time to set to partners," said Joan.
Cicely looked up at them; her face was full of light. "Shall I tell
them, Jim?" she said.
"Got to, I suppose," said Jim.
"My child," said Joan, "you need tell us nothing."
"Your happy faces tell us all," said Nancy.
Then, with a simultaneous relapse into humanity, they threw themselves
upon her affectionately, and afterwards attacked Jim in the same way. He
bore it with equanimity.
"You don't deserve her, Jim," said Joan, "but we trust you to be kind to
her."
"From this day onwards," said Nancy, "you will begin a new life."
_CHRONICLES OF THE CLINTONS_
BY ARCHIBALD MARSHALL
_To be read in the following order_
THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER
THE ELDEST SON
THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS
THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH
THE CLINTONS, AND OTHERS
End of Project Gutenberg's The Squire's Daughter, by Archibald Marshall