If I were given my choice of all the charming residences in the county
of Midlandshire, I fancy I should decide in favour of Detwich Hall. To
my thinking it is, in every respect, an ideal residence. While
sufficiently old to have a history (one of the Charleses spent some days
in hiding there), it has proved itself capable of being adapted to
modern ideas of comfort. The main portion was built, I believe, toward
the close of the reign of the Virgin Queen; a wing was added by the
owner who occupied it in the time of the early Georges; while the father
of the man who had bequeathed the property to Godfrey, was responsible
for the stables, and a somewhat obscure wing on the southern front. It
was admirably situated in the centre of a park of some three hundred
acres, and was approached by a picturesque drive, about half a mile
long, which ran for some distance along the banks of an ornamental
lake. On this lake, by the way, some of the finest duck shooting in the
county is to be obtained. In his boyhood Godfrey had spent many happy
days there, little dreaming that some day it would become his own
property. Indeed, it is quite certain it would not have done so had his
cousin Wilfred not been killed in India in the performance of a piece of
desperate heroism that will be remembered as long as a certain native
regiment exists. As for Godfrey, the old man had always liked the boy,
but had been bitterly disappointed when he had resolved to embark upon
an artistic career instead of playing the part of a country gentleman,
as so many of his ancestors had done before him. To have proved himself
a capable Master of Hounds would have been in the old bachelor’s eyes a
greater distinction than to have painted the finest picture that ever
graced the walls of Burlington House. Yet in his heart he knew the power
of the young man, and honoured him for the dogged persistence with which
he had fought the uphill fight of a painter’s life.
“Well, well, I suppose he’ll come out of it all right in the end,” he
was wont to say to himself when he thought of the matter. “He’ll be
none the worse for having known a little poverty. I like the boy and he
likes me, and, please God, he’ll do his best by the dear old place when
he comes into it. I should like to see him in it.”
This, unfortunately, he was not able to do; but could he have heard the
universal expression of approbation so lavishly bestowed upon the young
master of Detwich when he had been six months in possession he would
have felt that his generosity had been rewarded. Indeed, there could be
no sort of doubt as to Godfrey’s popularity. He was received by the
county with open arms, and by his tenantry with a quiet appreciation
that showed they knew how to value the blood that ran in his veins
without making a fuss about it. Owing to the short time that had elapsed
since his uncle’s death it was necessarily impossible for him to see
very much society, but those who partook of his hospitality returned
home not only delighted with their host, but also with the quality of
their entertainment.
“An acquisition, a decided acquisition,” said old Sir Vivian Devereux,
the magnate of the district. “His idea of game preservation is
excellent, and he is prepared to support the hunt with the utmost
liberality. All he wants to make him perfect is a wife.”
On hearing this Lady Devereux looked at her lord and her lord looked at
her. Between them they had a very shrewd idea that they knew where to
look for the future mistress of Detwich Hall. Mistress Margaret, their
daughter, called by her friends Molly, who had that season made her bow
before her Majesty, said nothing, but maybe that was because she did not
think there was anything to be said. She had her own ideas on the
subject. She had seen the young squire of Detwich, though he had not
been aware of the fact, and, being an unaffected, straightforward
English girl, without prudery or conceit of any sort, had come to the
conclusion that she liked the look of him. Eligible young men were
scarce in the neighbourhood, and if she dreamt dreams of her own who
shall blame her? Not I, for one.
Three months had passed since Godfrey had escorted Teresina and her
mother to the Opera. The summons which had brought him home so hurriedly
had, fortunately, proved to be a false alarm. Though his mother had been
seriously ill, there had not been so much danger as they had led him to
suppose. A month at Torquay had completely restored her to health, and
now she was back at Detwich once more, as hale and hearty an old lady as
any to be found in the kingdom. Assisted by her youngest daughter,
Kitty, she welcomed the wanderer home with every sign of delight.
Godfrey, unlike so many other people, had the good fortune to be as
popular in his own family circle as he was out of it, and he and his
youngest sister had been on the best of terms from the days when they
had gone bird’s-nesting together, until the time when she had assisted
him in packing his first picture for the Academy. Since then, however,
she had not seen so much of him.
“Kit’s no end of a brick,” he had been heard to say, “and the fellow who
marries her may consider himself lucky.”
It was scarcely to be wondered at, therefore, if Miss Devereux and
Kitty, living as they did within two miles of each other, should soon
have become intimate. They were in the habit of seeing each other
several times a week, a fact which Godfrey, from a distance, had felt
somewhat inclined to resent.
“When I get home I shall find this girl continually in the house,” he
said to himself; and when he _did_ arrive and the many charming
qualities of her friend had been explained to him he did not feel any
the more disposed to be cordial.
“I can see what it will be,” he said to his sister, “I shall not catch a
glimpse of you now.”
“Perhaps you won’t want to when you meet Molly,” was the arch rejoinder.
“You have no idea what a pretty girl she is. They say she created a
tremendous sensation when she was presented this year. Folks raved about
her.”
“The bigger duffers they,” was the uncompromising reply. “You have one
fault, my dear girl. Ever since I have known you your swans have
invariably turned out to be geese. I fancy I can realize what Miss
Devereux will be like.”
“In that case pray describe her,” was the saucy rejoinder, and Miss
Kitty made a very pretty losing hazard (they were playing billiards at
the time), after which she failed to score and chalked her cue.
Now it seems scarcely fair to say so, but Godfrey, being taken at a
disadvantage, fell back on what can be only considered by all honest
people a mean device. In describing Miss Devereux he used the almost
identical terms used by Fensden when he had attempted to draw a picture
of his friend’s future wife.
“You are quite at sea,” said Miss Kitty, patting her dainty shoe with
the end of her cue as she spoke. “Some day, if you are not very careful,
I will tell Miss Devereux what you have said about her. She would never
forgive you the large feet and thick boots.”
“As you are strong be merciful,” said Godfrey, potting the red into the
right-hand pocket and going into the left himself. “I don’t mind
admitting without prejudice that I am getting anxious to see this
paragon. When do you think she will next honour you with her society?”
“On Friday,” Kitty replied. “We have taken up wood-carving together, and
she is coming to see some patterns I bought in town last week.”
“In that case we will defer consideration of her merits and
demerits--for I suppose she has some--until then,” Godfrey replied, and
then once more going into the pocket off the red he announced the game
as standing at one hundred to ninety-five.
On the following afternoon he had occasion to drive to the market town.
It was a bright, clear day, with a promise of frost in the air, and as
his dog-cart rolled along the high road, drawn by a tandem team he had
purchased the previous week, he felt as well satisfied with himself and
his position in the world as it was possible for a young man to be. His
business transacted in the town he turned his horses’ heads homeward
once more. The handsome animals, knowing that they were on their way to
their stables, stepped out bravely, and many an approving glance was
thrown at the good-looking young squire of Detwich by folk upon the
road. He had completed upward of half his journey when he became aware
that a young lady, who had appeared from a by-road, was making her way
in the same direction as himself.
“Whoever she is she certainly sits her horse well,” he said to himself,
as he watched her swinging along at a slow canter on the soft side of
the road. “I wonder who she can be?”
As soon as the turf gave place to hard metal she pulled her hack up and
proceeded at a walk. This very soon brought Godfrey alongside, and as
he passed he managed to steal a glance at a very pretty face and as neat
a figure as he ever remembered to have seen.
“I wonder who she can be?” he repeated. And as he continued his drive he
meditated on the subject.
On the Friday following he was unexpectedly called to town. His
solicitors desired an interview with him respecting the purchase of a
farm, and he had no option but to comply with their request. As luck
would have it, however, he was able to return by a somewhat earlier
train than he expected, and was just in time to hear from his butler
that afternoon tea had been carried into the drawing-room.
“Are there any visitors?” he inquired.
“Miss Devereux, sir,” said the man; “she came to lunch.”
“I had forgotten that she was to be here to-day,” he said to himself as
he crossed the hall in the direction of the drawing-room. “I wonder what
she will be like?”
As every one who has visited Detwich is aware, the drawing-room is an
exceedingly handsome room. It is long and lofty, if possible a little
_too_ long for cosiness. This fault, if fault it be, is amply atoned
for, however, by a capitally constructed ingle-nook, in which it was the
custom for the ladies to take afternoon tea. Godfrey strolled across the
floor to this charming contrivance, little guessing what was in store
for him. A lady was sitting with her back to him holding a cup of tea in
her hand.
“I don’t think you have met Miss Devereux, Godfrey,” said his sister.
“I have not yet had that pleasure,” he replied. Then to himself he
added: “Good gracious! It’s the fair equestrienne.” Then aloud: “I’ve
heard a good deal of you from Kitty, Miss Devereux.”
“And I of you,” she answered. “You seem to have been everywhere, and to
have seen everything. Doubtless you find this part of the world very
dull.”
“Not at all,” he answered. “I am extremely fond of the country, and
particularly of that about here.”
If the truth were told I fancy he had never thought much about it until
that moment. For the future, however, under a certain magic influence,
he was to view it with very different eyes.
“In spite of what some people say,” he continued, “I consider English
country scenery charming.”
“And yet it must be very beautiful abroad. Kitty read me one or two of
your letters, and from the description you gave of the various places
you had visited, I gathered that you thought nothing could be so
beautiful on earth.”
“No doubt they are very beautiful,” he answered. “But for my part give
me the old-world peace of England. There is certainly nothing like that
to be found elsewhere. I would rather stand on the hill yonder and look
down the valley in summer-time, than gaze upon the Rhine at Heidelberg,
or Naples harbour at daybreak, or visit ancient Philæ by moonlight.”
What further heresies this young man would have pledged himself to in
his enthusiasm I can not say. Fortunately for him, however, the vicar
and his wife were announced at that moment, and a distraction was thus
caused. Until that moment Miss Kitty had been regarding him with
steadfast eyes. Clever beyond all other men, as she considered her
brother, she had never seen him come out of his shell like this before.
Hitherto he had been rather given to pooh-poohing the country, and had
once been known even to assert that “London and Paris were the only two
places in which it was possible for a civilized man to live.” What was
the reason of this sudden change?
The vicar was a tall man with a pompous air, who looked forward some day
to being a bishop, and had already assumed the appearance and manners of
one. His wife, on the other hand, was small, and of a somewhat peevish
disposition. It was currently reported that the husband and wife spent
the greater portion of their time in squabbling, while it was certain
that they contradicted each other in public with an openness and
frequency that at times was apt to be a little embarrassing.
“Possibly I may have been wrong,” said the vicar, when he had seated
himself and had taken a cup of tea from his hostess’s hands, “but did I
not hear you extolling the beauties of a country life as I entered the
room, Mr. Henderson?”
He put the question as if it were one of world-wide importance, which,
answered carelessly, might involve great international complications.
Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued: “For my part, while
admitting that a country life is possessed of many charms, with which
the Metropolis can not compare, I must go on to say that there is a
breadth, if I may so express it, in London life that is quite lacking
outside.”
His wife saw her opportunity, and, as was her habit, was quick to take
advantage of it.
“You have never had any experience of London life, William, so how can
you possibly tell?” she said, sharply.
“My dear, I venture to say that it is a generally admitted fact,” her
husband replied.
“Generally admitted facts are as often as not rubbish,” retorted the
lady with some asperity. “What I say is, let a man do his duty wherever
he is, and make the best of what he’s got, without grumbling.”
There was an unmistakable innuendo in this speech, and for a moment an
awkward silence ensued.
“I hear you have built a new conservatory, Mr. Henderson?” said Miss
Devereux, as if to change the subject.
“It is just completed,” said Godfrey. “Would you care to see it?”
A general desire to inspect this new wonder having been expressed,
Godfrey led the way from the room, contriving, when all had passed out,
to take up his position beside their youngest visitor.
“Will you take pity upon a stranger in the land?” he said, “and give me
some information?”
“What can I tell you?” she asked.
He glanced at the vicar and his wife, who were some little distance in
front.
“Do they always squabble like this?” he inquired.
“Yes, invariably,” she replied. “We are used to it, but strangers are
apt to find it embarrassing. I really believe the habit of squabbling
has grown upon them until they have become so accustomed to it that they
do not notice it. By the way, Mr. Henderson, there is one question of
vital importance I must decide with you. Are you going to hunt?”
As a matter of fact Godfrey had made up his mind to do so occasionally,
but now, remembering that Miss Devereux possessed the reputation of a
second Diana, he spoke as if it were the hunting that had mainly induced
him to live in Midlandshire. He registered a vow that he would purchase
a stud immediately, and that he would look upon missing a run as a sin
that could only be expurgated by religiously attending the next.
By this time they had reached the new conservatory, which adjoined the
studio Godfrey had built for himself. It was a handsome building, and
gave a distinction to that side of the house which it certainly had
lacked before.
“Admirable, admirable,” said the vicar, complacently. “It reminds me of
the palm-house at Kew.”
“It is twenty years since you were at Kew, William; how can you possibly
remember what the palm-house is like?” retorted his wife.
“My dear, I have always been noted for the excellence of my memory,” the
vicar replied. “I assure you I have the most vivid recollection of the
house in question.”
“You mislaid your spectacles this morning, and if I hadn’t seen you put
them in your pocket you would never have thought of looking for them
there,” said his wife, to whom this fact appeared to be relative to the
matter at issue.
From the conservatory to the studio was a natural transition, and the
latest work upon the easel was duly inspected and admired.
“I remember your picture in the Academy last year, Mr. Henderson,” said
Miss Devereux. “I can assure you that it brought the tears into my
eyes.”
“It is very kind of you to say so,” he said, feeling that no compliment
that had ever been paid him was so much worth having.
Then a luminous idea occurred to him.
“I wonder if, some day, you would let me paint you a little picture?” he
asked, almost timidly.
“I really could not think of such a thing,” his companion replied. “Your
time is too valuable to be wasted in that way.”
“I shall paint one, nevertheless,” he replied. “In return, perhaps, you
will instruct me in the ways of the Midlandshire hunt?”
“I shall be delighted,” she answered. “You must make Kitty come too.”
Godfrey promised to do so, but for once in his life he was ungallant
enough to think that he could dispense with his sister’s society.
Presently Miss Devereux’s cart was announced and Kitty and Godfrey
accompanied her to the front door. She kissed Kitty and then held out
her hand to Godfrey.
“Good-bye, Mr. Henderson,” she said. “Remember that the hounds meet at
Spinkley Grove on Thursday, at eleven o’clock, when you will be
permitted an opportunity of making the acquaintance of the Master and
the Hunt.”
“I shall be there without fail,” he answered, as he helped her into the
cart and arranged her rug for her. She thereupon nodded to the groom,
who left the ponies’ heads and jumped on to the step behind as the cart
passed him, with an adroitness that was the outcome of long practice. A
moment later the vehicle had turned the corner of the drive and was lost
to view.
“Well?” said Kitty as they turned to go in.
“Well,” Godfrey replied.
“You like her?”
“Very much indeed,” he answered, and as they passed down the hall
together he made an important decision to himself. “Provided she will
have me,” he said, “I think I have found my wife.”