John Galsworthy - The Country House

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.”