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PART I


CHAPTER I

Light, entering the vast room--a room so high that its carved ceiling
refused itself to exact scrutiny--travelled, with the wistful, cold
curiosity of the dawn, over a fantastic storehouse of Time. Light,
unaccompanied by the prejudice of human eyes, made strange revelation
of incongruities, as though illuminating the dispassionate march of
history.

For in this dining hall--one of the finest in England--the Caradoc
family had for centuries assembled the trophies and records of their
existence. Round about this dining hall they had built and pulled
down and restored, until the rest of Monkland Court presented some
aspect of homogeneity. Here alone they had left virgin the work of
the old quasi-monastic builders, and within it unconsciously
deposited their souls. For there were here, meeting the eyes of
light, all those rather touching evidences of man's desire to persist
for ever, those shells of his former bodies, the fetishes and queer
proofs of his faiths, together with the remorseless demonstration of
their treatment at the hands of Time.

The annalist might here have found all his needed confirmations; the
analyst from this material formed the due equation of high birth; the
philosopher traced the course of aristocracy, from its primeval rise
in crude strength or subtlety, through centuries of power, to
picturesque decadence, and the beginnings of its last stand. Even
the artist might here, perchance, have seized on the dry ineffable
pervading spirit, as one visiting an old cathedral seems to scent out
the constriction of its heart.

>From the legendary sword of that Welsh chieftain who by an act of
high, rewarded treachery had passed into the favour of the conquering
William, and received, with the widow of a Norman, many lands in
Devonshire, to the Cup purchased for Geoffrey Caradoc; present Earl
of Valleys, by subscription of his Devonshire tenants on the occasion
of his marriage with the Lady Gertrude Semmering--no insignia were
absent, save the family portraits in the gallery of Valleys House in
London. There was even an ancient duplicate of that yellow tattered
scroll royally, reconfirming lands and title to John, the most
distinguished of all the Caradocs, who had unfortunately neglected to
be born in wedlock, by one of those humorous omissions to be found in
the genealogies of most old families. Yes, it was there, almost
cynically hung in a corner; for this incident, though no doubt a
burning question in the fifteenth century, was now but staple for an
ironical little tale, in view of the fact that descendants of John's
'own' brother Edmund were undoubtedly to be found among the cottagers
of a parish not far distant.

Light, glancing from the suits of armour to the tiger skins beneath
them, brought from India but a year ago by Bertie Caradoc, the
younger son, seemed recording, how those, who had once been foremost
by virtue of that simple law of Nature which crowns the adventuring
and strong, now being almost washed aside out of the main stream of
national life, were compelled to devise adventure, lest they should
lose belief in their own strength.

The unsparing light of that first half-hour of summer morning
recorded many other changes, wandering from austere tapestries to the
velvety carpets, and dragging from the contrast sure proof of a
common sense which denied to the present Earl and Countess the
asceticisms of the past. And then it seemed to lose interest in this
critical journey, as though longing to clothe all in witchery. For
the sun had risen, and through the Eastern windows came pouring its
level and mysterious joy. And with it, passing in at an open
lattice, came a wild bee to settle among the flowers on the table
athwart the Eastern end, used when there was only a small party in
the house. The hours fled on silent, till the sun was high, and the
first visitors came--three maids, rosy, not silent, bringing brushes.
They passed, and were followed by two footmen--scouts of the
breakfast brigade, who stood for a moment professionally doing
nothing, then soberly commenced to set the table. Then came a little
girl of six, to see if there were anything exciting--little Ann
Shropton, child of Sir William Shropton by his marriage with Lady
Agatha, and eldest daughter of the house, the only one of the four
young Caradocs as yet wedded. She came on tiptoe, thinking to
surprise whatever was there. She had a broad little face, and wide
frank hazel eyes over a little nose that came out straight and
sudden. Encircled by a loose belt placed far below the waist of her
holland frock, as if to symbolize freedom, she seemed to think
everything in life good fun. And soon she found the exciting thing.

"Here's a bumble bee, William. Do you think I could tame it in my
little glass bog?"

"No, I don't, Miss Ann; and look out, you'll be stung!"

"It wouldn't sting me."

"Why not?"

"Because it wouldn't."

"Of course--if you say so----"

"What time is the motor ordered?"

"Nine o'clock."

"I'm going with Grandpapa as far as the gate."

"Suppose he says you're not?"

"Well, then I shall go all the same."

"I see."

"I might go all the way with him to London! Is Auntie Babs going?"

"No, I don't think anybody is going with his lordship."

"I would, if she were. William!"

"Yes."

"Is Uncle Eustace sure to be elected ?"

"Of course he is."

"Do you think he'll be a good Member of Parliament?"

"Lord Miltoun is very clever, Miss Ann."

"Is he?"

"Well, don't you think so?"

"Does Charles think so?"

"Ask him."

"William!"

"Yes."

"I don't like London. I like here, and I like Cotton, and I like
home pretty well, and I love Pendridny--and--I like Ravensham."

"His lordship is going to Ravensham to-day on his way up, I heard
say."

"Oh! then he'll see great-granny. William----"

"Here's Miss Wallace."

>From the doorway a lady with a broad pale patient face said:

"Come, Ann."

"All right! Hallo, Simmons!"

The entering butler replied:

"Hallo, Miss Ann!"

"I've got to go."

"I'm sure we're very sorry."

"Yes."

The door banged faintly, and in the great room rose the busy silence
of those minutes which precede repasts. Suddenly the four men by the
breakfast fable stood back. Lord Valleys had come in.

He approached slowly, reading a blue paper, with his level grey eyes
divided by a little uncharacteristic frown. He had a tanned yet
ruddy, decisively shaped face, with crisp hair and moustache
beginning to go iron-grey--the face of a man who knows his own mind
and is contented with that knowledge. His figure too, well-braced
and upright, with the back of the head carried like a soldier's,
confirmed the impression, not so much of self-sufficiency, as of the
sufficiency of his habits of life and thought. And there was
apparent about all his movements that peculiar unconsciousness of his
surroundings which comes to those who live a great deal in the public
eye, have the material machinery of existence placed exactly to their
hands, and never need to consider what others think of them. Taking
his seat, and still perusing the paper, he at once began to eat what
was put before him; then noticing that his eldest daughter had come
in and was sitting down beside him, he said:

"Bore having to go up in such weather!"

"Is it a Cabinet meeting?"

"Yes. This confounded business of the balloons." But the rather
anxious dark eyes of Agatha's delicate narrow face were taking in the
details of a tray for keeping dishes warm on a sideboard, and she was
thinking: "I believe that would be better than the ones I've got,
after all. If William would only say whether he really likes these
large trays better than single hot-water dishes!" She contrived how-
ever to ask in her gentle voice--for all her words and movements were
gentle, even a little timid, till anything appeared to threaten the
welfare of her husband or children:

"Do you think this war scare good for Eustace's prospects, Father?"

But her father did not answer; he was greeting a new-comer, a tall,
fine-looking young man, with dark hair and a fair moustache, between
whom and himself there was no relationship, yet a certain negative
resemblance. Claud Fresnay, Viscount Harbinger, was indeed also a
little of what is called the 'Norman' type--having a certain firm
regularity of feature, and a slight aquilinity of nose high up on the
bridge--but that which in the elder man seemed to indicate only an
unconscious acceptance of self as a standard, in the younger man gave
an impression at once more assertive and more uneasy, as though he
were a little afraid of not chaffing something all the time.

Behind him had come in a tall woman, of full figure and fine
presence, with hair still brown--Lady Valleys herself. Though her
eldest son was thirty, she was, herself, still little more than
fifty. From her voice, manner, and whole personality, one might
suspect that she had been an acknowledged beauty; but there was now
more than a suspicion of maturity about her almost jovial face, with
its full grey-blue eyes; and coarsened complexion. Good comrade, and
essentially 'woman of the world,' was written on every line of her,
and in every tone of her voice. She was indeed a figure suggestive
of open air and generous living, endowed with abundant energy, and
not devoid of humour. It was she who answered Agatha's remark.

"Of course, my dear, the very best thing possible."

Lord Harbinger chimed in:

"By the way, Brabrook's going to speak on it. Did you ever hear him,
Lady Agatha? 'Mr. Speaker, Sir, I rise--and with me rises the
democratic principle----'"

But Agatha only smiled, for she was thinking:

"If I let Ann go as far as the gate, she'll only make it a stepping-
stone to something else to-morrow." Taking no interest in public
affairs, her inherited craving for command had resorted for
expression to a meticulous ordering of household matters. It was
indeed a cult with her, a passion--as though she felt herself a sort
of figurehead to national domesticity; the leader of a patriotic
movement.

Lord Valleys, having finished what seemed necessary, arose.

"Any message to your mother, Gertrude?"

"No, I wrote last night."

"Tell Miltoun to keep--an eye on that Mr. Courtier. I heard him
speak one day--he's rather good."

Lady Valleys, who had not yet sat down, accompanied her husband to
the door.

"By the way, I've told Mother about this woman, Geoff."

"Was it necessary?"

"Well, I think so; I'm uneasy--after all, Mother has some influence
with Miltoun."

Lord Valleys shrugged his shoulders, and slightly squeezing his
wife's arm, went out.

Though himself vaguely uneasy on that very subject, he was a man who
did not go to meet disturbance. He had the nerves which seem to be
no nerves at all--especially found in those of his class who have
much to do with horses. He temperamentally regarded the evil of the
day as quite sufficient to it. Moreover, his eldest son was a riddle
that he had long given up, so far as women were concerned.

Emerging into the outer hall, he lingered a moment, remembering that
he had not seen his younger and favourite daughter.

"Lady Barbara down yet?" Hearing that she was not, he slipped into
the motor coat held for him by Simmons, and stepped out under the
white portico, decorated by the Caradoc hawks in stone.

The voice of little Ann reached him, clear and high above the
smothered whirring of the car.

"Come on, Grandpapa!"

Lord Valleys grimaced beneath his crisp moustache--the word grandpapa
always fell queerly on the ears of one who was but fifty-six, and by
no means felt it--and jerking his gloved hand towards Ann, he said:

"Send down to the lodge gate for this."

The voice of little Ann answered loudly:

"No; I'm coming back by myself."

The car starting, drowned discussion.

Lord Valleys, motoring, somewhat pathetically illustrated the
invasion of institutions by their destroyer, Science. A supporter of
the turf, and not long since Master of Foxhounds, most of whose soul
(outside politics) was in horses, he had been, as it were, compelled
by common sense, not only to tolerate, but to take up and even press
forward the cause of their supplanters. His instinct of self-
preservation was secretly at work, hurrying him to his own
destruction; forcing him to persuade himself that science and her
successive victories over brute nature could be wooed into the
service of a prestige which rested on a crystallized and stationary
base. All this keeping pace with the times, this immersion in the
results of modern discoveries, this speeding-up of existence so that
it was all surface and little root--the increasing volatility,
cosmopolitanism, and even commercialism of his life, on which he
rather prided himself as a man of the world--was, with a secrecy too
deep for his perception, cutting at the aloofness logically demanded
of one in his position. Stubborn, and not spiritually subtle, though
by no means dull in practical matters, he was resolutely letting the
waters bear him on, holding the tiller firmly, without perceiving
that he was in the vortex of a whirlpool. Indeed, his common sense
continually impelled him, against the sort of reactionaryism of which
his son Miltoun had so much, to that easier reactionaryism, which,
living on its spiritual capital, makes what material capital it can
out of its enemy, Progress.

He drove the car himself, shrewd and self-contained, sitting easily,
with his cap well drawn over those steady eyes; and though this
unexpected meeting of the Cabinet in the Whitsuntide recess was not
only a nuisance, but gave food for anxiety, he was fully able to
enjoy the swift smooth movement through the summer air, which met him
with such friendly sweetness under the great trees of the long
avenue. Beside him, little Ann was silent, with her legs stuck out
rather wide apart. Motoring was a new excitement, for at home it was
forbidden; and a meditative rapture shone in her wide eyes above her
sudden little nose. Only once she spoke, when close to the lodge the
car slowed down, and they passed the lodge-keeper's little daughter.

"Hallo, Susie!"

There was no answer, but the look on Susie's small pale face was so
humble and adoring that Lord Valleys, not a very observant man,
noticed it with a sort of satisfaction. "Yes," he thought, somewhat
irrelevantly, "the country is sound at heart!"




The Patrician by John Galsworthy
Category:
Contemporary

General Fiction
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