The Country House

The Country House
John Galsworthy

John Galsworthy

The Country House

PART I

CHAPTER I

A PARTY AT WORSTED SKEYNES

The year was 1891, the month October, the day Monday. In the dark outside the railway-station at Worsted Skeynes Mr. Horace Pendyce’s omnibus, his brougham, his luggage-cart, monopolised space. The face of Mr. Horace Pendyce’s coachman monopolised the light of the solitary station lantern. Rosy-gilled, with fat close-clipped grey whiskers and inscrutably pursed lips, it presided high up in the easterly air like an emblem of the feudal system. On the platform within, Mr. Horace Pendyce’s first footman and second groom in long livery coats with silver buttons, their appearance slightly relieved by the rakish cock of their top-hats, awaited the arrival of the 6.15.

The first footman took from his pocket a half-sheet of stamped and crested notepaper covered with Mr. Horace Pendyce’s small and precise calligraphy. He read from it in a nasal, derisive voice:

“Hon. Geoff, and Mrs. Winlow, blue room and dress; maid, small drab. Mr. George, white room. Mrs. Jaspar Bellew, gold. The Captain, red. General Pendyce, pink room; valet, back attic. That’s the lot.”

The groom, a red-cheeked youth, paid no attention.

“If this here Ambler of Mr. George’s wins on Wednesday,” he said, “it’s as good as five pounds in my pocket. Who does for Mr. George?”

“James, of course.”

The groom whistled.

“I’ll try an’ get his loadin’ to-morrow. Are you on, Tom?”

The footman answered:

“Here’s another over the page. Green room, right wing – that Foxleigh; he’s no good. ‘Take all you can and give nothing’ sort! But can’t he shoot just! That’s why they ask him!”

From behind a screen of dark trees the train ran in.

Down the platform came the first passengers – two cattlemen with long sticks, slouching by in their frieze coats, diffusing an odour of beast and black tobacco; then a couple, and single figures, keeping as far apart as possible, the guests of Mr. Horace Pendyce. Slowly they came out one by one into the loom of the carriages, and stood with their eyes fixed carefully before them, as though afraid they might recognise each other. A tall man in a fur coat, whose tall wife carried a small bag of silver and shagreen, spoke to the coachman:

“How are you, Benson? Mr. George says Captain Pendyce told him he wouldn’t be down till the 9.30. I suppose we’d better – ”

Like a breeze tuning through the frigid silence of a fog, a high, clear voice was heard:

“Oh, thanks; I’ll go up in the brougham.”

Followed by the first footman carrying her wraps, and muffled in a white veil, through which the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow’s leisurely gaze caught the gleam of eyes, a lady stepped forward, and with a backward glance vanished into the brougham. Her head appeared again behind the swathe of gauze.

“There’s plenty of room, George.”

George Pendyce walked quickly forward, and disappeared beside her. There was a crunch of wheels; the brougham rolled away.

The Hon. Geoffrey Winlow raised his face again.

“Who was that, Benson?”

The coachman leaned over confidentially, holding his podgy white-gloved hand outspread on a level with the Hon. Geoffrey’s hat.

“Mrs. Jaspar Bellew, sir. Captain Bellew’s lady, of the Firs.”

“But I thought they weren’t – ”

“No, sir; they’re not, sir.”

“Ah!”

A calm rarefied voice was heard from the door of the omnibus:

“Now, Geoff!”

The Hon. Geoffrey Winlow followed his wife, Mr. Foxleigh, and General Pendyce into the omnibus, and again Mrs. Winlow’s voice was heard:

“Oh, do you mind my maid? Get in, Tookson!”

Mr. Horace Pendyce’s mansion, white and long and low, standing well within its acres, had come into the possession of his great-great-great-grandfather through an alliance with the last of the Worsteds. Originally a fine property let in smallish holdings to tenants who, having no attention bestowed on them, did very well and paid excellent rents, it was now farmed on model lines at a slight loss. At stated intervals Mr. Pendyce imported a new kind of cow, or partridge, and built a wing to the schools. His income was fortunately independent of this estate. He was in complete accord with the Rector and the sanitary authorities, and not infrequently complained that his tenants did not stay on the land. His wife was a Totteridge, and his coverts admirable. He had been, needless to say, an eldest son. It was his individual conviction that individualism had ruined England, and he had set himself deliberately to eradicate this vice from the character of his tenants. By substituting for their individualism his own tastes, plans, and sentiments, one might almost say his own individualism, and losing money thereby, he had gone far to demonstrate his pet theory that the higher the individualism the more sterile the life of the community. If, however, the matter was thus put to him he grew both garrulous and angry, for he considered himself not an individualist, but what he called a “Tory Communist.” In connection with his agricultural interests he was naturally a Fair Trader; a tax on corn, he knew, would make all the difference in the world to the prosperity of England. As he often said: “A tax of three or four shillings on corn, and I should be farming my estate at a profit.”

Mr. Pendyce had other peculiarities, in which he was not too individual. He was averse to any change in the existing order of things, made lists of everything, and was never really so happy as when talking of himself or his estate. He had a black spaniel dog called John, with a long nose and longer ears, whom he had bred himself till the creature was not happy out of his sight.

In appearance Mr. Pendyce was rather of the old school, upright and active, with thin side-whiskers, to which, however, for some years past he had added moustaches which drooped and were now grizzled. He wore large cravats and square-tailed coats. He did not smoke.

At the head of his dining-table loaded with flowers and plate, he sat between the Hon. Mrs. Winlow and Mrs. Jaspar Bellew, nor could he have desired more striking and contrasted supporters. Equally tall, full-figured, and comely, Nature had fixed between these two women a gulf which Mr. Pendyce, a man of spare figure, tried in vain to fill. The composure peculiar to the ashen type of the British aristocracy wintered permanently on Mrs. Winlow’s features like the smile of a frosty day. Expressionless to a degree, they at once convinced the spectator that she was a woman of the best breeding. Had an expression ever arisen upon these features, it is impossible to say what might have been the consequences. She had followed her nurse’s adjuration: “Lor, Miss Truda, never you make a face – You might grow so!” Never since that day had Gertrude Winlow, an Honourable in her own right and in that of her husband, made a face, not even, it is believed, when her son was born. And then to find on the other side of Mr. Pendyce that puzzling Mrs. Bellew with the green-grey eyes, at which the best people of her own sex looked with instinctive disapproval! A woman in her position should avoid anything conspicuous, and Nature had given her a too-striking appearance. People said that when, the year before last, she had separated from Captain Bellew, and left the Firs, it was simply because they were tired of one another. They said, too, that it looked as if she were encouraging the attentions of George, Mr. Pendyce’s eldest son.

Lady Malden had remarked to Mrs. Winlow in the drawing-room before dinner:

“What is it about that Mrs. Bellew? I never liked her. A woman situated as she is ought to be more careful. I don’t understand her being asked here at all, with her husband still at the Firs, only just over the way. Besides, she’s very hard up. She doesn’t even attempt to disguise it. I call her almost an adventuress.”

Mrs. Winlow had answered:

“But she’s some sort of cousin to Mrs. Pendyce. The Pendyces are related to everybody! It’s so boring. One never knows – ”

Lady Malden replied:

“Did you know her when she was living down here? I dislike those hard-riding women. She and her husband were perfectly reckless. One heard of nothing else but what she had jumped and how she had jumped it; and she bets and goes racing. If George Pendyce is not in love with her, I’m very much mistaken. He’s been seeing far too much of her in town. She’s one of those women that men are always hanging about!”

At the head of his dinner-table, where before each guest was placed a menu carefully written in his eldest daughter’s handwriting, Horace Pendyce supped his soup.

“This soup,” he said to Mrs. Bellew, “reminds me of your dear old father; he was extraordinarily fond of it. I had a great respect for your father – a wonderful man! I always said he was the most determined man I’d met since my own dear father, and he was the most obstinate man in the three kingdoms!”

He frequently made use of the expression “in the three kingdoms,” which sometimes preceded a statement that his grandmother was descended from Richard III., while his grandfather came down from the Cornish giants, one of whom, he would say with a disparaging smile, had once thrown a cow over a wall.

“Your father was too much of an individualist, Mrs. Bellew. I have a lot of experience of individualism in the management of my estate, and I find that an individualist is never contented. My tenants have everything they want, but it’s impossible to satisfy them. There’s a fellow called Peacock, now, a most pig-headed, narrowminded chap. I don’t give in to him, of course. If he had his way, he’d go back to the old days, farm the land in his own fashion. He wants to buy it from me. Old vicious system of yeoman farming. Says his grandfather had it. He’s that sort of man. I hate individualism; it’s ruining England. You won’t find better cottages, or better farm-buildings anywhere than on my estate. I go in for centralisation. I dare say you know what I call myself – a ‘Tory Communist.’ To my mind, that’s the party of the future. Now, your father’s motto was: ‘Every man for himself!’ On the land that would never do. Landlord and tenant must work together. You’ll come over to Newmarket with us on Wednesday? George has a very fine horse running in the Rutlandshire a very fine horse. He doesn’t bet, I’m glad to say. If there’s one thing I hate more than another, it’s gambling!”

Mrs. Bellew gave him a sidelong glance, and a little ironical smile peeped out on her full red lips. But Mr. Pendyce had been called away to his soup. When he was ready to resume the conversation she was talking to his son, and the Squire, frowning, turned to the Hon. Mrs. Winlow. Her attention was automatic, complete, monosyllabic; she did not appear to fatigue herself by an over-sympathetic comprehension, nor was she subservient. Mr. Pendyce found her a competent listener.