Chapter XI

Outside the house it seemed as if Nature as well as Art had done her utmost to make the great day a success. It was not yet ten o'clock; and the full August heat had not reached its zenith; yet even now, above the terrace where the chairs stood ready, and the little tables and the bandstand, amongst which buzzed earnest men in black trousers and green-baize aprons, the air shook and shimmered from the refracted light. The beds between the cedar-trees were one blaze of radiance; the tall trees themselves reared against the burning sky heads that were at the very height of luxuriant green; birds skimmed from shrubbery to shrubbery, at present undisturbed, gathering their last * meal before the midday siesta, and before, too — if they had but known it — the invasion of the entire County into their wide domains.

Art too — at least that form of Art which can be provided by a wholesale London decorator — had done her utmost. Large striped tents, with canvas doors at present hooked back, enclosed the edges of the lawn at either end, and hung out drooping flags from their pairs of poles. From the eastern door of the great house ran already a strip of carpet, and other cylindrical bundles awaited their unrolling. Across the gardens too, where, like dignified though not very wealthy relations, lay the church and rectory embowered in trees, rose a flag-post from which hung the standard of St. George — (" Which, one must always remember," said the Rector, " is the proper

Digitized by Google flag for England"); and about the lych-gate, through which the Family proceeded to church on Sundays, appeared other strips and streamers of bunting.

It was a scene of extraordinary opulence and prosperity, and even of beauty. There is nothing in the whole world which so combines to produce the appearance of these things, as a really first-rate English country-house. When such a place as Marston, then, lays herself out to be splendid — when beneath an August sky, cloudless from horizon to horizon, and behind the bunting and the carpet and the chairs and the bandstand and the tents, there stands a glorious Georgian mansion that is the very last word in classicism — a place of shallow steps and Greek columns and circular windows and curved balustrades — all entirely perfect of their kind; when absolutely no expense has been spared, and its mistress is a dominant woman of large ideas who will have things her own way — when all these powers conspire together, the effect is indescribably great.

Within, too, the house promised at least an equal glory. Doors stood open, and busy persons hurried through them in all directions: banked about the foot of the great curving staircase were positive shrubberies of flowering bushes; chairs stood in pairs, one on the top of the other in ranks and battalions — presently to be grouped suitably — in every space of the great hall that was not a thoroughfare; a sound of footsteps and talking came through the open doors of the drawing-room where the furniture was being arranged for the reception of a big crowd. And upon all this looked down the solemn gigantic portraits of dead and gone Brandreths, watching it seemed these tremendous preparations for the wedding festivities of their present heir.

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In the morning-room, resembling Napoleon on the eve of a battle in which his victory is pre-destined, sat Mrs. Brandreth-Smith herself, with Mrs. Bennett, who rashly adventuring herself here on an errand from the Rectory was ordered to remain, while a man took the message back to the Rector.

" My dear, I positively must insist on your remaining. Helen is useless to me, and I was forced to let her go over to Cleever last night; and there is not a soul who understands anything here except myself. I was really ashamed at breakfast; it was no better than a picnic. Underhill has completely lost his head/*

So here sat meek and helpful Mrs. Bennett, distracted with the thought of what her husband would do without her, yet unable to resist. For she too, like all the world, like the poor Major himself, now struggling into the prescribed white spats, with a button-hook, overhead — (he had received some species of a commission in some auxiliary force of His Majesty's dominions last month) — like Underhill, and the Rector, and the gamekeepers and the schoolmistress — she too had capitulated to the masterful adequacy of the great lady, and now revolved round her like a planet about a central sun. The Rectory must look after itself for the present: she must sit here and be talked to. For Mrs. Brandreth-Smith, like a true strategist, had perceived that she herself must be a fixed point. Presently she would make a Progress through house and gardens; but just now it was essential that everyone must know where to find her. So she sat here, and discoursed, with a roving eye, interrupting herself to deliver distinct answers to all who came for direction.

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Her successes had, indeed, been extraordinary. She had not made a single mistake in the complicated processes of taking her place in the County. Her instincts had been as unerring in all things as in, for example, the case of the Matthieson-Howleys, who had abandoned the Nook three months ago in despair and fled to hide themselves again in the crowds of London. For instance, it was she who had decided that her husband must not undertake the Harriers (since he was still but imperfectly acquainted with the art of riding), but must subscribe largely instead; she who had fixed the number of pheasants to be reared; she who had manoeuvred the coming of the Flower Show to Marston, on which oecasion, with brilliant delicacy of intuition, she had selected for the presenting of the prizes the very lady who had hoped to have the Show at her own house, thus completely satisfying everybody. She had not made a mistake: more, she had not neglected an opportunity; and her reward was come, in the supreme achievement of having planned, conducted and concluded the engagement between her only son and Lord Marridon's only daughter.

Of course the swiftness of it all was the sign of her genius. Many mothers could have managed the business ultimately, under the circumstances, but few in so short a time. It was not a year since they had come to the place. Mabel, of course, was by no means a supreme matrimonial prize: her father was not particularly wealthy, and practically the whole estate would pass to his son. But in every other respect she was desirable. She was an Honourable; she was quite pretty; she was very good; she was socially quite first-rate; she was thoroughly well known in the neighbourhood. It was good enough for Mrs. Brandreth-Smith.

Her handling of the reins, of course, cannot adequately

Digitized by Google be described here. It is enough to say that it had to be very delicate. For, first there was Percy to drive; and when one reflects on Percy as he was nine months ago, her adroitness is evident. First, he had to be taught how to carry himself, how to dress, how to shoot, how to ride, how to dance — even how to think — how, in a word, to get rid of the Old Man of the City and how to put on the New Man of the County. She had done this quite perfectly — seldom by a direct touch of the whip. Of course he had been trainable, yet it was none the less credit to the trainer. Next there was the matter of his religion — his regrettable tendency to Romanism; and in the managing of this more, perhaps, might be set down to the pliability of Percy than to his actual handling by his mother. Yet she had been very adroit: she had surrounded him by suggestion; she had made it just a little inconvenient (but not more than a little) for him to go up to see his priest; she had soothed and comforted him with luxury; she had never once abused his faith; yet she had instilled into his atmosphere on every possible occasion a continual stream of the most delicate and tactful hints that his proposed religion would be a real draw-back in the future. Lastly, and supremely, she had actually employed Mabel herself in the business, thus accomplishing two strokes in one — she had thrown the two together upon intimate lines — (since spiritual flirtations are the most promising of all) — and had, simultaneously, put her own views through lips which were more likely to prevail than her own. It was Percy's responsiveness that had done the rest.

The matter of Mabel had been far easier. First, the lady had encouraged Helen's friendship with her in every possible way; then she had hinted to Helen her future hopes — again more by suggestion than direct statement;

Digitized by Google then she asked Mabel over on every occasion when Percy would be likely to see much of her, and had praised her emphatically in her absence. All this she did, long before Mabel knew the story of Percy's unhappy religious entanglement Certainly it is the horses that pull the carriage along; no amount of skilful handling of the reins and whip can take the place of the flesh and blood between the shafts. Yet the most ardent flesh and blood in the world will not pull the carriage safely and swiftly through crowded traffic unless there is a competent driver upon the box. Percy and Mabel both thought that it was themselves who had arranged the marriage and talked over their respective parents. Mrs. Brandreth-Smith knew better. She had squared Lord Marridon frankly and straightforwardly by the generosity of her proposals with regard to the settlements she would make upon the pair, if the marriage took place at once.

" And why should they wait, after all? " she had asked pathetically. " I'm sure they know their own minds — the dears!"

Ill

She was deploring presently the one single shadow on all this sunshine.

44 Such a pity/' she said, " about her poor brother! I had hoped he would be best man."

" Have they heard anything for certain yet? 99 asked Mrs. Bennett, who like so many very good people, took a strange interest in iniquity.

44 Simply that he's gone with this woman abroad — an actress, you know. She was making quite a name for herself, I hear, on the stage, and was actually on the eve of sailing for America — Miss Farham, you know."

" They're not married then? " asked Mrs. Bennett softly.

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Mrs. Brandreth-Smith shook her head lamentably; but her lips were tight and severe.

"They don't know—" she said. "It may be so. It may not. They've been gone five or six months now. They were last heard of in Italy. They must be simply living on money-lenders. It's terribly sad in any case. Not even here at his sister's wedding!... (She broke off to issue an order.) " No, Charles, I distinctly told Underhill not to take the Persian carpet from the landing. He must find something else. • • •

"Well, and so Percy's got young Blakenham as his best man. I am only thankful that he didn't want that young clerk — Ballard, I think his name was. But he never even suggested him.... Percy is really behaving very well indeed."

" And he's very happy? " asked Mrs. Bennett in her soft voice.

" My dear; of course he is...."

(" Please, madam, Hubbard has sent up to know whether the landau or the brougham is to come to the door first."

" The brougham — I said so distinctly.")

" And they get to Como to-morrow night," mused Mrs. Bennett romantically.

And as for Percy as he stood regarding himself, for the last time as a bachelor, in the tall mirror of his walnut wardrobe upstairs — regarding his patent-leather boots and white spats, his silky-looking grey trousers, his white waistcoat, his exquisite frockcoat, his lilac tie, his boyish face and curly black hair — who shall say all that he thought?

The mind of an average man — above all when he is scarcely more than just a man — is all but infinitely corn-

Digitized by Google plex. Yet if there is one thing that rises dominant and rigid out of the myriad motives and desires and faculties that twine and intertwine beneath, it is the power of an astounding self-deception.

For, since Percy was just now quite content and intensely excited, it is practically certain that he believed himself to have acted quite properly during the last year. Certainly he had made mistakes — in fact two — yet even these had been sincerely made. One was when he had determined to be a Catholic, and the other when he had asked Gladys Farham to marry him.

These mistakes he had hastened to set right. As regards the second of the two he had practically no scruples at all. He had acted, he believed, resolutely and bravely, and even kindly. From the point of view at which at that time he had stood, he could have done nothing else. Had not Father Hilary told him so? And had not the appalling escapade of Gladys since that date abundantly showed him how right, even from the human point of view, his instinct had been?

And, as regards the first of his mistakes, which he had last remedied; on that, too, he had no scruples. He thought he saw himself now, like a little mad figure (as he looked back) — emotional, inexperienced and boyish. It was the knowledge of life, he thought, that had taught him better. Certainly it was a remarkable fall of the dice that had caused him to sacrifice Gladys for the sake of his faith; and then, quite tolerably soon afterwards, his faith for... well, for a Larger Life. Yet he was not responsible for that sequence. Surely a man, he had told himself, while he had still been a little uncomfortable about it all, four or five months ago — surely a man must take each step as it presents itself! One can only move one

Digitized by Google step at a time!... There was a hymn that said so, wasn't there?

But now he was content enough that all was as it should be. Those heart-storms of the past were over — those heavings of great waves that run out of the illimitable distances and toss the journeying craft to and fro; those great winds that blow where they list and come no man knows whence, and go again no man knows whither. And he had kept his head, he thought, during the tempest; at least, if he had lost it for a little, he had recovered it again, and let down his anchor and ridden out the swirl and the rush. If he had not — well, if he had not, even now he might still be driving before it, in the company of such mad souls as Father Hilary — (to think that he too once thought he would be a friar!) — or with poor narrow-minded Mr. Main who actually preferred to be a Commercial Traveller than a curate! — or with Reggie Ballard, clerk and acolyte, who lived at Wimbledon, and went to the City every day, and to St. Francis* every Sunday. (What a bounder poor Reggie was, by the way!)

He looked slowly round the room. There were the tall white-framed windows; the inlaid dressing-table all set out with silver things; the wardrobes; the boot-cupboard; the thick black mat at the fireplace; the deep carpet.... (By the way, he had forgotten his pencil-case.)

He went to the little Japanese cabinet that stood on a side-table — (it was the one little thing he had brought from his old bedroom at Hanstead) — and pulled open one of the drawers. A bunch of keys, a pocket-knife or two, a pair of tiny tin candlesticks, from a Christmas-tree, smeared with drippings of pink wax, some coppers and

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86B three or four other things were there. He pushed these aside to find his pencil-case, and, among them, a little brass and black-wood crucifix. But he did not notice it

Well; surely all this was better. The comfort and the wealth and the secured position — these were the elements of his life now — his responsibilities as a future landowner, and as a husband, and a father — these were the stars by which he must guide his course.

He was excited? Yes; and, naturally, and yet ironically enough, too, it was the future that excited him. It seemed to him that Life was going to begin — as his father had solemnly and uncomfortably told him last night in the smoking-room. It did not even occur to him that possibly Life was over; that he had had his chances and lost them. On the contrary, he was quite convinced that they were just opening out, really, for the first time.

His repeater struck like a tiny cathedral-bell in his pocket, as he moved back again towards the door. That was eleven, he reflected; and his mother had told him to be down by then.

So he opened the door and went slowly out.

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