The Country House | Page 4

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: