The Westcotes | Page 3

age of forty-two, he could
claim to be an authority on the Roman occupation of Britain, and
especially on the conquests of Vespasian. The circle of--the Westcotes'
acquaintance gathered in the fine hall of Bayfield--or, as Narcissus
preferred to call it, the atrium--drank tea, admired the pavement,
listened to the alleged exploits of Vespasian, and wondered when the
brothers would marry. Time went on, repeating these assemblies; and
the question became, Will they ever marry? Apparently they had no
thought of it, no idea that it was expected of them; and since they had
both passed forty, the question might be taken as answered. But that so
personable a man as Endymion Westcote would let the family perish
was monstrous to suppose. He kept his good looks and his fresh
complexion; even now some maiden would easily be found to answer
his Olympian nod; and a vein of recklessness sometimes cropped up
through his habitual caution, and kept his friends alert for surprises. In
the hunting-field, for instance,--and he rode to hounds twice a
week,--he made a rule of avoiding fences; but the world quite rightly
set this down to a proper care for his person rather than to timidity,
since on one famous occasion, riding up to find the whole field

hesitating before a "rasper" (they were hunting a strange country that
day), he put his horse at it and sailed over with a nonchalance relieved
only by his ringing laugh on the farther side. It was odds he would clear
the fence of matrimony, some day, with the same casual heartiness; and,
in any case, he was masterful enough to insist on Narcissus marrying,
should it occur to him to wish it.
Oddly enough, the gossips who still arranged marriages for the brothers
had given over speculating upon their hostess, Miss Dorothea. She
could not, of course, perpetuate the name; but this by no means
accounted for all the difference in their concern. Dorothea Westcote
was now thirty- seven, or five years younger than Narcissus, whose
mother had died soon after his birth. The widower had created one of
the few scandals in the Westcote history by espousing, some four years
later, a young woman of quite inferior class, the daughter of a
wholesale glover in Axcester. The new wife had good looks, but they
did not procure her pardon; and she made the amplest and speediest
amends by dying within twelve months, and leaving a daughter who in
no way resembled her. The husband survived her just a dozen years.
Dorothea, the daughter, was a plain girl; her brothers, though kind and
fond of her after a fashion, did not teach her to forget it. She loved them,
but her love partook of awe: they were so much cleverer, as well as
handsomer, than she. Having no mother or friend of her own sex to
imitate, she grow into an awkward woman, sensitive to charm in others
and responding to it without jealousy, but ignorant of what it meant or
how it could be acquired. She picked up some French from her brother
Endymion, and masters were hired who taught her to dance, to paint in
water colours, and to play with moderate skill upon the harp. But few
partners had ever sought her in the ballroom; her only drawings which
anyone ever asked to see were half-a-dozen of the Bayfield pavement,
executed for Narcissus' monograph; and her harp she played in her own
room. Now and then Endymion would enquire how she progressed
with her music, would listen to her report and observe: "Ah, I used to
do a little fiddling myself." But he never put her proficiency to the test.
Somehow, and long before the world came to the same conclusion, she

had resolved that marriage was not for her. She adored babies, though
they usually screamed at the sight of her, and she thought it would be
delightful to have one of her own who would not scream; but apart
from this vague sentiment, she accepted her fate without sensible regret.
By watching and copying the mistresses of the few houses she visited
she learned to play the hostess at Bayfield, and, as time brought
confidence, played it with credit. She knew that people laughed at her,
and that yet they liked her; their liking and their laughter puzzled her
about equally. For the rest, she was proud of Bayfield and content,
though one day much resembled another, to live all her life there,
devoted to God and her garden. Visitors always praised her garden.
Axcester lies on the western side and mostly at the foot of a low hill set
accurately in the centre of a ring of hills slightly higher-the raised
bottom of a saucer would be no bad simile. The old Roman road