THE PIED ROOK
Constance Morton was leaning on the rail that divided the gardens at
Northmoor from the park, which was still rough and heathery. Of all the
Morton family, perhaps she was the one who had the most profited by the
three years that had passed since her uncle's accession to the title.
She had been at a good boarding-house, attending the High School in
Colbeam, and spending Saturday and Sunday at Northmoor. It had been a
happy life, she liked her studies, made friends with her companions, and
enjoyed to the very utmost all that Northmoor gave her, in country beauty
and liberty, in the kindness of her uncle and aunt, and in the religious
training that they were able to give her, satisfying longings of her
soul, so that she loved them with all her heart, and felt Northmoor her
true home. The holiday time at Westhaven was always a trial. Mrs.
Morton had tried Brighton and London, but neither place agreed with Ida:
and she found herself a much greater personage in her own world than
elsewhere, and besides could not always find tenants for her house. So
there she lived at her ease, called by many of her neighbours the
Honourable Mrs. Morton, and finding listeners to her alternate accounts
of the grandeur of Northmoor, and murmurs at the meanness of its master
in only allowing her 300 pounds a year, besides educating her children,
and clothing two of them.
Ida considered herself to be quite sufficiently educated, and so she was
for the society in which she was, or thought herself, a star, chiefly
consisting of the families of the shipowners, coalowners, and the like.
She was pretty, with a hectic prettiness of bright eyes and cheeks, and
had a following of the young men of the place; and though she always
tried to enforce that to receive attentions from a smart young mate, a
clerk in an office, a doctor's assistant, or the like, was a great
condescension on her part, she enjoyed them all the more. Learning new
songs for their benefit, together with extensive novel reading, were her
chief employments, and it was the greater pity because her health was not
strong. She dreamt much in a languid way, and had imagination enough to
work these tales into her visions of life. Her temper suffered, and
Constance found the atmosphere less and less congenial as she grew older
and more accustomed to a different life.
She was a gentle, ladylike girl, with her brown hair still on her
shoulders, as on that summer Saturday she stood looking along the path,
but with her ears listening for sounds from the house, and an anxious
expression on her young face. Presently she started at the sound of a
gun, which caused a mighty cawing among the rooks in the trees on the
slopes, and a circling of the black creatures in the sky. A whistling
then was heard, and her brother Herbert came in sight in a few minutes
more, a fine tall youth of sixteen, with quite the air and carriage of a
gentleman. He had a gun on his shoulder, and carried by the claws the
body of a rook with white wings.
'Oh, Herbert,' cried Constance in dismay, 'did you shoot that by
mistake?'
'No; Stanhope would not believe there was such a crittur, and betted half
a sov that it was a cram.'
'But how could you? Our uncle and aunt thought so much of that poor dear
Whitewing, and Best was told to take care of it. They will be so vexed.'
'Nonsense! He'll come to more honour stuffed than ever he would flying
and howling up there. When I've shown him to Stanhope, I shall make that
old fellow at Colbeam come down handsomely for him. What a row those
birds kick up! I'll send my other barrel among them.'
'Oh no, don't, Bertie. Uncle Frank has one of his dreadful headaches
to-day.'
'Seems to me he is made of headaches.'
'Yes, Aunt Mary is very anxious. Oh, I would have done anything that you
had not vexed them now and killed this poor dear pretty thing!' said
Constance, stroking down the glossy feathers of the still warm victim,
and laying them against her cheek, almost tearfully.
'Well, you are not going to tell them. Perhaps they won't miss it. I
would not have done it if Stanhope had not been such a beast,' said
Herbert.
'I shall not tell them, of course,' said Constance; 'but, if I were you,
I should not be happy till they knew.'
'Oh, that's only girl's way! I can't have the old Stick upset now, for
I'm in horrid want of tin.'
'Oh, Bertie, was it true then?'
'What, you don't mean that they have heard?'
'That you were out at those Colbeam races!'
'To be sure I was, with Stanhope and Hailes and a lot more. We all went
except the little kids and Sisson, who is in regular training for as
great a muff as the governor there. Who told him?'
'Mr. Hailes, who is very much concerned about his grandson.'
'Old sneak; I wonder how he ferreted it out. Is there no end of a jaw
coming, Con?'
'I don't know. Uncle Frank seemed quite knocked down and wretched over
it. He said something about feeling hopeless, and the old blood coming
out to be your ruin.'
'Of course it's the old blood! How did he miss it, and turn into the
intolerable old dry fogey that he is, without a notion of anything fit
for a gentleman?'
'Now, Herbert--'
'Oh yes. You should just hear what the other fellows say about him.
Their mothers and their sisters say there is not so stupid a place in the
county, he hasn't a word to say for himself, and they would just as soon
go to Portland at once as to a party here.'
'Then it is a great shame! I am sure Aunt Mary works hard to make it
pleasant for them!'
'Oh yes, good soul, she does, she can't help it; but when people have
stuck in the mud all their lives, they can't know any better, and it is
abominably hard on a fellow who does, to be under a man who has been an
office cad all his life, and doesn't know what is expected of a
gentleman! Screwing us all up like beggars--'
'Herbert, for shame! for shame! As if he was obliged to do anything at
all for us!'
'Oh, isn't he? A pretty row my mother would kick up about his ears if he
did not, when I must come after him at this place, too!'
'I think you are very ungrateful,' said Constance, with tears, 'when they
are so good to us.'
'Oh, they are as kind as they know how, but they don't know. That's the
thing, or old Frank would be ashamed to give me such a dirty little
allowance. He has only himself to thank if I have to come upon him for
more. Found out about the Blackbird colt, has he? What a bore! And tin
I must have out of him by hook or by crook if he cuts up ever so rough.
I must send off this bird first by the post to confute Stanhope and make
him eat dirt, and then see what's to be done.'
'Indeed, Bertie, I don't think you will see him to-night. His head is
dreadful, and Aunt Mary has sent for Mr. Trotman.'
'Whew! You have not got anything worth having, I suppose, Conny?'
'Only fifteen shillings. I meant it for-- But you shall have it, dear
Bertie, if it will only save worrying them.'
'Fifteen bob! Fifteen farthings you might as well offer. No, no, you
soft little monkey, I must see what is to be made of him or her ladyship,
one or the other, to-day or to-morrow. If they know I have been at the
place it is half the battle. Consequence was! Provided they don't smell
out this unlucky piebald! I wish Stanhope hadn't been such a beast!'
At that moment, too late to avoid her, Lady Northmoor, pale and anxious,
came up the path and was upon them. 'Your uncle is asleep,' she began,
but then, starting, 'Oh, Conny. Poor Whitewing. Did you find him?'
Constance hung her head and did not speak. Then her aunt saw how it was.
'Herbert! you must have shot him by mistake; your uncle will be so
grieved.'
Herbert was not base enough to let this pass. He muttered, 'A fellow
would not take my word for it, so I had to show him.'
She looked at him very sadly. 'Oh, Herbert, I did not think you would
have made that a reason for vexing your uncle!'
The boy was more than half sorry under those gentle eyes. He muttered
something about 'didn't think he would care.'
She shook her head, instead of saying that she knew this was not the
truth; and unable to bear the sting, he flung away from her, carrying the
rook with him, and kicking the pebbles, trying to be angry instead of
sorry. And just then came a summons to Lady Northmoor to see the doctor.
Yet Herbert Morton was a better boy than he seemed at that moment; his
errors were chiefly caused by understanding _noblesse oblige_ in a
different way from his uncle. Moreover, it would have been better for
him if his tutor had lived beyond the neighbourhood of Northmoor, where
he heard, losing nothing in the telling, the remarks of the other pupils'
mothers upon his uncle and aunt; more especially as it was not generally
the highest order of boy that was to be found there. If he had heard
what the fathers said, he would have learnt that, though shy and devoid
of small talk, and of the art of putting guests together, Lord Northmoor
was trusted and esteemed. He might perhaps be too easily talked down; he
could not argue, and often gave way to the noisy Squire; but he was
certain in due time to see the rights of a question, and he attended
thoroughly to the numerous tasks of an active and useful county man,
taking all the drudgery that others shirked. While, if by severe stress
he were driven to public speaking, he could acquit himself far better
than any one had expected. The Bishop and the Chairman of the Quarter
Sessions alike set him down on their committees, not only for his rank,
but for his industry and steadiness of work. Nor had any one breathed
any imputation upon the possession of what used to be known as gentility,
before that good word was degraded, to mean something more like what Mrs.
Morton aspired to. Lord and Lady Northmoor might not be lively, nor a
great accession to society, but the anticipations of either amusement or
annoyance from vulgarity or arrogance were entirely disappointed. No one
could call them underbred, or anything but an ingrain gentleman and lady,
while there were a few who could uphold Lady Northmoor as thoroughly
kind, sweet, sensible, and helpful to her utmost in all that was good.
All this, however, was achieved not only unconsciously but with severe
labour by a man whose powers could only act slowly, and who was not to
the manner born. Conscientiousness is a costly thing, and Strafford's
watchword is not to be adopted for nothing. The balance of duties, the
perplexities of managing an impoverished and involved estate, the
disappointment of being unable to carry out the responsibilities of a
landlord towards neglected cottagers, the incapacity of doing what would
have been desirable for the Church, and the worry and harass that his
sister-in-law did not spare, all told as his office work had never done,
and in spite of quiet, happy hours with his Mary, and her devoted and
efficient aid whenever it was possible, a course of disabling neuralgic
headaches had set in, and a general derangement of health, which had
become alarming, and called for immediate remedy.