LADY GEORGE
The Squire had a touch of rheumatism, and was annoyed about it, but
also inclined to give Providence due credit for so visiting him, if he
must be visited at all, at a time of hard frost. "If I coddle myself
up to-day and perhaps to-morrow," he said over the luncheon table, "I
shall be able to hunt all right on Monday, if the frost breaks. I
suppose you wouldn't care to go over those Deepdene Farm figures this
afternoon, Dick, eh?"
"We might have an hour with them before dinner," replied Dick. "I
thought of riding over to Mountfield to see Jim this afternoon. I want
a little exercise."
"I don't know whether you will find Jim in," said Mrs. Clinton.
"Muriel, and I think Mrs. Graham, are coming over here this afternoon."
"I'll take my chance," said Dick.
The twins saw him off from the hall door. He rode a tall bay horse,
which danced with impatience on the hard gravel of the drive as he
looked him over, drawing on his gloves.
"Dear old Cicero! doesn't he look a beauty?" said Nancy. "What was his
figure, Dick?"
"You will never be able to get on him," said Joan. "Shall I bring a
chair?"
But Dick was up and cantering over the crisp grass of the park,
managing his nervous powerful mount as if he and the horse were of one
frame and as if nothing could separate them.
"He does look jolly," said Joan admiringly.
"He's a good man on a horse," acquiesced Nancy.
"All the boys are. So they ought to be. They think about nothing
else."
"You know, I think Dick is just the sort of man a girl might fall in
love with," said Joan. "He's very good-looking, and he has just that
sort of way with him, as if he didn't care for anybody."
"I expect lots of girls have fallen in love with him. The question is
whether he is ever going to fall in love with them. I'm inclined to
think he's turning it over in his mind. I dare say you were blinded by
all that business at the dower-house this morning. I wasn't. You mark
my word, Joan, Dick is going to get married."
"I shouldn't wonder. He's grown softer somehow. See how interested he
was in the kitchen. Who do you think it is, Nancy?"
"My dear! Don't you know that? It's Grace Ettien. Didn't you notice
what a fuss father made of her when she last come over? Took her all
round, and almost _gave_ her the place. He doesn't treat girls like
that as a rule."
"You didn't say so at the time."
"No; but I've put two and two together since. You see if I'm not
right. By this time next year the dower-house will be occupied by
Captain and Lady Grace Clinton--and oh, Joan! perhaps there'll be
another baby in the family!"
The ecstasy of the twins at this prospect was broken into by Miss Bird,
who appeared behind them in the doorway and promised them their deaths
of cold if they did not come indoors _at once_.
In the meantime Dick was trotting along the hard country lanes, between
the silent silvered winter woods and the frozen fields, always with an
eye about him to see what things of fur and feather might share with
him the winter solitude, what was doing in the hard-bound soil, and
what in the clear spaces of the air. He had the eye of the countryman,
trained from boyhood to observe and assimilate. He had lived for years
the life of court and camp, had adapted himself as readily to the
turmoil of London gaieties as to regimental duties in other stations at
home and abroad, or to months of campaigning in Egypt and South Africa.
He had skimmed the cream of all such experiences as had come in his
way, but here in the depths of the English country, just here where his
ancestors had lived for generation after generation, were placed the
foundations of his life. Here he was at home, as nowhere else in the
world. All the rest was mere accident of time and place, of no account
as compared with this one spot of English soil. Here alone he was
based and firmly rooted.
Mountfield lay about four miles from Kencote, and the two estates
marched, although the one was small as compared with the other. Two
years before, Jim Graham, the owner of Mountfield, had married Cicely
Clinton, and his only sister just before that had married Walter
Clinton, the doctor of Melbury Park, where the Squire was so averse to
looking for an heir. So the Clintons and the Grahams were bound
together by close ties, and there was much coming and going between the
two houses.
Cicely's carriage was before the door as Dick rode up, and she herself
came out as he dismounted. She looked very pretty in her thick furs,
young and fresh, and matronly at the same time.
"Oh, Dick, I'm so glad to see you," she said. "Have you come to see
Jim? I'm afraid he's gone over to Bathgate, and won't be back for some
time."
"H'm! That's a bore," said Dick. "You're going over to Kencote,
aren't you, Siskin?"
"Yes. I'm going to fetch Mrs. Graham and drive her over. But do come
in for a minute or two."
"Oughtn't to keep the horses long in this weather," said Dick. "Drive
'em about for a few minutes, Carter. I'll just come in and throw my
eye over the babies, Siskin."
Cicely's face brightened. She led the way into her morning-room, and
turned to kiss her brother, her hands on his shoulders. "Dear old
Dick!" she said. "Do you really want to see the babies?"
"Of course I do," he replied. "You've given us the taste for them over
at Kencote. The Twankies foam at the mouth with pleasure whenever the
babies are mentioned, and even the governor looks as if a light were
switched on in his face when anything is said about them."
Cicely rang the bell. "He is a doting grandfather," she said, with a
smile. "I would take them over this afternoon, but it's too cold."
"Nice room, this!" said Dick, looking round him. "Are you glad to be
settled down in the country again, Sis?"
"Yes. Awfully glad," she said. "I hated London, really. At least, I
liked meeting the people, but you can only feel at home in the country."
"There was a time," said Dick.
She blushed. "Oh, don't talk about that, Dick," she said, in some
distress. "I was all wrong. I didn't know what I wanted. I know now.
I want just this, and Jim, and the babies. I was overjoyed when our
two years in London were up, and Jim said we could come back here if we
kept quiet and lived carefully. Here they are--the darlings!"
The tiny morsels of lace and silk-clad humanity--Dick, the boy, Nina,
the baby girl--who were brought into the room in charge of a staid
elderly smiling nurse, looked as happy babies ought to look--as if they
belonged to the house and the house belonged to them. Dick took up his
namesake and godson in his arms and his keen face softened. "He's
getting a great little man," he said. "When are you going to cut his
hair, Cicely?"
Cicely scouted the idea. "Men are always in such a hurry," she said.
"Dick, you ought to marry and have babies of your own."
"Ah, well! perhaps I shall some day," said Dick. "Now I must be
pushing on, and you oughtn't to keep the horses waiting, Sis.
Good-bye, little chap."
"Aren't you coming back to Kencote?" Cicely asked.
"Not just yet. Going to hack a few more miles. I haven't been on a
horse for three weeks."
So Cicely got into her carriage and Dick's horse was brought round, and
they went off in different directions.
Cicely picked up her mother-in-law at her house just outside the park.
Mrs. Graham was waiting for her at her garden gate, in company with a
deerhound, a spaniel, and an Irish terrier. She had on a coat and
skirt of thick tweed, and a cloth hat with a cock's feather.
"I suppose there won't be a tea-party," she said, as she got into the
carriage. "I did intend to put on smart clothes, but I found I
couldn't be bothered when the time came. They must take me in my rags
or not at all. _You_ look smart enough, my girl."
"If I had your figure," said Cicely, "I should never want to wear
anything but country clothes."
"Ah! now that's very nice of you," said Mrs. Graham. "I do wear well
for fifty-three, and I'm not going to deny it. My face is a bit
battered, of course. I must expect that, riding and tramping about in
all weathers. But I'm as fit as if I were thirty years younger, and I
don't know what more you can ask of life--unless it's to have your own
people round you instead of a pack of molly-coddles."
Cicely laughed. Jim Graham had let Mountfield for two years after
their marriage to a rich and childless couple, who spent most of their
time in working at embroidery, and motoring about the country in a
closed-in car, for neither of which pursuits Mrs. Graham had found it
in her heart to forgive them.
"Well, _they're_ gone," she said. "And thank goodness for it. I
should have let the Lodge and gone away myself if they had stayed here
any longer. Cumberers of the ground, I call them, and what they wanted
with a country house beats me. But you never know who you're going to
get for neighbours nowadays. By the by, have you heard that old Parson
Marsh has let Blaythorn Rectory for the hunting season?"
Blaythorn was about three miles from Mountfield, on the opposite side
to Kencote. Cicely had not heard this piece of news.
"Yes," said Mrs. Graham, "and to a lady of title, my dear--Lady George
Dubec--no less. I haven't the ghost of an idea who she is. But no
doubt your father will know. He is a regular walking peerage--knows
who everybody is and whom everybody has married to the third and fourth
generation. What accommodation poor old Parson Marsh has for hunters I
don't know. I should think the lady must have been done in the eye.
And as for the house--the last time I was in it it smelt so of dogs and
tobacco-smoke that even I couldn't put up with it, and Lord knows I'm
not particular."
"Where is Mr. Marsh going to live?" asked Cicely.
"Oh, I believe he has sacked his curate on the strength of it, and has
taken his rooms. I don't know why he should have wanted a curate at
all, except that he's so bone-idle, and I'm sure he can't afford one.
He owes Joynes the butcher over forty pounds. But, good gracious,
Cicely, don't encourage me to gossip. I'm getting a regular old hag.
It's the influence of your late tenants, my dear. They _loved_ village
tittle-tattle, and I had to join in with it whenever we met, because
there was nothing else in the wide world I could talk to them about.
The worst of it is I was acquiring quite a taste for scandal. But I've
turned over a new leaf. So has old Marsh I suppose, and is going to
pay up all his debts. I wish him well over his difficulties."
With such sprightly talk did Mrs. Graham pass away the time till they
reached Kencote, when she began all over again with Mrs. Clinton as
audience. Cicely had gone upstairs to see the twins and Miss Bird, and
Mrs. Graham asked point-blank that Mr. Clinton might be informed of her
arrival. "I have lots to tell him," she said, "and I want to ask him
some questions besides."
Mrs. Clinton rang the bell, without saying anything, and a footman was
sent with a message to the Squire, who presently came in, bluff and
hearty, but walking with a slight list.
"Ah, Mrs. Graham!" he said as he shook hands. "Come to cheer us up
with a little gossip--what? But where are the grandchildren?"
"Dear me! I forgot to ask," said Mrs. Graham. "I suppose it is too
cold for them. But I've brought the dogs, Mr. Clinton."
"Oh, the dogs!" said the Squire, with his loud laugh. "No dogs in
_this_ house."
"I know," said Mrs. Graham. "And it's such a mistake. Kencote is the
only country house I know where there isn't a dog indoors. I never
feel that it's properly inhabited."
"It was swarming with them in my grandfather's time," said the Squire,
"and I dare say would be now if that mongrel hadn't gone for Dick when
he was a little fellow. Always kept 'em outside since. Outside is the
place for a dog."
"I don't agree with you," said Mrs. Graham. "And it isn't like a
sportsman to say so. However, we needn't quarrel about that. Who is
Lady George Dubec, Mr. Clinton?"
"Lady George Dubec?" repeated the Squire. "I suppose she's the
wife--or the widow rather--of George Dubec, the Duke of Queenstown's
brother, and a pretty good rascal _he_ was. Got killed in a railway
accident in America two or three years ago, and it was the best thing
that could have happened to him. Wish they'd kill off a few more like
him. I didn't know he was married. Why do you ask?"
"She has taken Blaythorn Rectory to hunt from. She came down yesterday
or the day before."
"Blaythorn Rectory! To hunt from!'" exclaimed the Squire. "Well,
that's the most extraordinary thing! Are there any stables there? I
never heard of Marsh keeping anything but an old pony, and the whole
place must be in the depths of dilapidation."
"Well, I don't know. But there she is. And you don't know _who_ she
is. I thought you knew who everybody was, Mr. Clinton."
"Wait a minute," said the Squire, and he went over to a table where
there were books of reference. "No, there's no marriage here," he
said, turning over the pages of one of them, "except his first marriage
thirty years ago. Poor Lady Bertha Grange that was, and he drove her
into her grave within five years. The fellow was a brute and a
blackleg. I was at school with him, and he was sacked. And I was at
Cambridge with him and he was sent down, for some disgraceful business,
I forget what. Then he was in the Guards, and had to clear out of the
service within a year for some precious shady racing transaction. The
fellow had every possible chance, and he _couldn't_ run straight. He
went abroad after that, but used to turn up occasionally. Nobody would
have anything to do with him. I believe he settled down in America, if
he could ever be said to settle down anywhere. I know he was in some
scandalous divorce case. One used to hear his name come up
occasionally, and always in an unsavoury sort of way. He was a wrong
'un, through and through, but a good-looking blackguard in his young
days, and women used to stick up for him."
"Well, he seems to be better out of the world than in it," said Mrs.
Graham. "But what about his widow? You say she isn't down there."
"No, but this book is out of date. I've got a later one in my room.
I'll send for it."
The new book gave the information required. Lord George Dubec had
married five years before Miss Virginia Vanreden, of Philadelphia.
"Oh, an American!" said Mrs. Graham. "Well, I suppose I must go and
call on her. Even if I don't like her I shall be doing my duty to my
neighbours in providing them with gossip. Not that I like gossip--I
detest it. Still, one must find _some_thing to talk about. Shall you
call on her, Mrs. Clinton?"
The Squire answered. "Oh, I think not," he said. "I don't like
hunting--er! hum! ha!"
"You don't like hunting women," said Mrs. Graham imperturbably. "I
know you don't, Mr. Clinton. That's another point between us. But
we're very good friends all the same."
"Oh, of course, of course," said the Squire. "Nearly put my foot in it
that time, Mrs. Graham, eh? Ha! ha! Well, with such old friends one
can afford to make a mistake or two. No, I think we'll leave Lady
George Dubec alone. She won't be here long, and I've no wish to be
mixed up with anybody belonging to George Dubec--alive or dead. I had
the utmost contempt for the fellow. Besides, I don't like Americans,
and any woman who would have married him after the life he'd led ...
well, she may be all right, but I don't want to know her--that's all.
I _should_ like to know, though, how she got hold of Blaythorn Rectory,
of all places, or why she has come to Meadshire to hunt. The country
pleases _us_ all right, and we're quite content with our sport, but
we're not generally honoured by strangers in that way."
"I dare say I can find out all about it," said Mrs. Graham. "And when
I do I'll let you know."
Cicely was sitting on the great roomy shabby sofa in the schoolroom,
with a twin on either side of her, and Miss Bird upright in the corner,
alternately tatting feverishly a pattern of lace thread and dabbing her
eyes with her handkerchief. For the subject of conversation was her
approaching departure, and, as she said, with all the kindness that had
been showered on her and the affection that she felt she never would
lose, it was no use pretending that she was glad she was going away,
for she was not, but, on the contrary, very sorry.
"Nancy and I are going to write to her once a week regularly," said
Joan. "We did think of writing every day at first, but we probably
shouldn't keep it up."
"The spirit is willing, but the flesh might be weak," said Nancy. "And
there's no sense in overdoing things. Anyhow, we have promised that we
will never love Miss Prim half as much as we love our darling Starling,
and she is pleased at that, aren't you, Starling darling?"
"Of course I am pleased to be loved," replied Miss Bird; "but indeed,
Nancy, I should not like you to set yourself against your new governess
on my account; it is not necessary and you can love one person without
visiting it on another and I do not like you to call her Miss Prim."
"She is sure to be," said Nancy elliptically. "We must call her
something, and that's as good a name as any till we see what she is
like."
"If you don't treat her respectfully she won't stay," said Cicely.
"We haven't treated Starling respectfully, but _she_ has stayed all
right," said Joan. "I suppose you know we are going to have lessons
besides, Sis--drawing, and music, and deportment, and all sorts of
things."
"Oh, we're going to be well finished off while we're about it," said
Nancy. "We shall be ready to fill _any_ position, from the highest to
the lowest."
"We shall be the ornament of every drawing-room to which we are
introduced," said Joan. "I think we're worth polishing off handsomely,
don't you, Sis? Have you noticed how awfully pretty we're getting?"
"Now that is a thing," broke in Miss Bird, "that no well-brought-up
girl ought to say of herself, Joan."
"But, Starling darling, it's true, and you can't deny it," replied
Joan. "We must tell the truth, mustn't we?"
"The new booking-clerk at the station casts admiring glances at us,"
said Nancy. "At first it made us uncomfortable; we thought we must
have smuts on our noses. But at last we tumbled to it. Cicely, we are
loved, not only for our worth, but our beauty."
"You are a couple of donkeys," said Cicely, laughing. "Well, I'm glad
you're going to apply yourselves to learning, although it's a dreadful
thing to be losing our dear old Starling. Kencote will be quite
changed."
"There are many changes coming about at Kencote," said Nancy. "Joan
and I can feel them in the air. We'll let you know when there's
anything more to tell you, Cicely."
"Thank you very much," said Cicely. "I think I had better go
downstairs now."
The twins went with her, and on the stairs Cicely said, "I didn't like
to say it before Starling, but I think you're awfully lucky children,
to be going to be taught things. _I_ never was. I do hope you'll take
advantage of it."
"Oh, I _do_ hope we shall," said Joan. "It is such a chance for us.
We feel that."
"Deeply," acquiesced Nancy. "If we don't we shall never forgive
ourselves--never."