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pubOne.info present you this new edition. 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.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819943150
Langue	English

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THE COUNTRY HOUSE
By John Galsworthy
PART I.
CHAPTER I
A PARTY AT WORSTED SKEYNES
The year was 1891, the month October, the dayMonday. In the dark outside the railway-station at Worsted SkeynesMr. Horace Pendyce's omnibus, his brougham, his luggage-cart,monopolised space. The face of Mr. Horace Pendyce's coachmanmonopolised 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 thefeudal system. On the platform within, Mr. Horace Pendyce's firstfootman and second groom in long livery coats with silver buttons,their appearance slightly relieved by the rakish cock of theirtop-hats, awaited the arrival of the 6. 15.
The first footman took from his pocket a half-sheetof stamped and crested notepaper covered with Mr. Horace Pendyce'ssmall and precise calligraphy. He read from it in a nasal, derisivevoice:
“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 noattention.
“If this here Ambler of Mr. George's wins onWednesday, ” 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, rightwing— that Foxleigh; he's no good. 'Take all you can and givenothing' sort! But can't he shoot just! That's why they ask him!”
From behind a screen of dark trees the train ranin.
Down the platform came the first passengers— twocattlemen with long sticks, slouching by in their frieze coats,diffusing an odour of beast and black tobacco; then a couple, andsingle figures, keeping as far apart as possible, the guests of Mr.Horace Pendyce. Slowly they came out one by one into the loom ofthe carriages, and stood with their eyes fixed carefully beforethem, as though afraid they might recognise each other. A tall manin a fur coat, whose tall wife carried a small bag of silver andshagreen, spoke to the coachman:
“How are you, Benson? Mr. George says CaptainPendyce told him he wouldn't be down till the 9. 30. I suppose we'dbetter— — ”
Like a breeze tuning through the frigid silence of afog, 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. GeoffreyWinlow's leisurely gaze caught the gleam of eyes, a lady steppedforward, and with a backward glance vanished into the brougham. Herhead appeared again behind the swathe of gauze.
“There's plenty of room, George. ”
George Pendyce walked quickly forward, anddisappeared beside her. There was a crunch of wheels; the broughamrolled away.
The Hon. Geoffrey Winlow raised his face again.
“Who was that, Benson? ”
The coachman leaned over confidentially, holding hispodgy white-gloved hand outspread on a level with the Hon.Geoffrey's hat.
“Mrs. Jaspar Bellew, sir. Captain Bellew's lady, ofthe Firs. ”
“But I thought they weren't— -”
“No, sir; they're not, sir. ”
“Ah! ”
A calm rarefied voice was heard from the door of theomnibus:
“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 andlow, standing well within its acres, had come into the possessionof his great-great-great-grandfather through an alliance with thelast of the Worsteds. Originally a fine property let in smallishholdings to tenants who, having no attention bestowed on them, didvery well and paid excellent rents, it was now farmed on modellines at a slight loss. At stated intervals Mr. Pendyce imported anew kind of cow, or partridge, and built a wing to the schools. Hisincome was fortunately independent of this estate. He was incomplete accord with the Rector and the sanitary authorities, andnot infrequently complained that his tenants did not stay on theland. His wife was a Totteridge, and his coverts admirable. He hadbeen, needless to say, an eldest son. It was his individualconviction that individualism had ruined England, and he had sethimself deliberately to eradicate this vice from the character ofhis tenants. By substituting for their individualism his owntastes, plans, and sentiments, one might almost say his ownindividualism, and losing money thereby, he had gone far todemonstrate his pet theory that the higher the individualism themore sterile the life of the community. If, however, the matter wasthus put to him he grew both garrulous and angry, for he consideredhimself not an individualist, but what he called a “Tory Communist.” In connection with his agricultural interests he was naturally aFair Trader; a tax on corn, he knew, would make all the differencein the world to the prosperity of England. As he often said: “A taxof three or four shillings on corn, and I should be farming myestate at a profit. ”
Mr. Pendyce had other peculiarities, in which he wasnot too individual. He was averse to any change in the existingorder of things, made lists of everything, and was never really sohappy as when talking of himself or his estate. He had a blackspaniel dog called John, with a long nose and longer ears, whom hehad bred himself till the creature was not happy out of hissight.
In appearance Mr. Pendyce was rather of the oldschool, upright and active, with thin side-whiskers, to which,however, for some years past he had added moustaches which droopedand were now grizzled. He wore large cravats and square-tailedcoats. He did not smoke.
At the head of his dining-table loaded with flowersand plate, he sat between the Hon. Mrs. Winlow and Mrs. JasparBellew, nor could he have desired more striking and contrastedsupporters. Equally tall, full-figured, and comely, Nature hadfixed between these two women a gulf which Mr. Pendyce, a man ofspare figure, tried in vain to fill. The composure peculiar to theashen type of the British aristocracy wintered permanently on Mrs.Winlow's features like the smile of a frosty day. Expressionless toa degree, they at once convinced the spectator that she was a womanof the best breeding. Had an expression ever arisen upon thesefeatures, it is impossible to say what might have been theconsequences. She had followed her nurse's adjuration: “Lor, MissTruda, never you make a face— You might grow so! ” Never since thatday had Gertrude Winlow, an Honourable in her own right and in thatof her husband, made a face, not even, it is believed, when her sonwas born. And then to find on the other side of Mr. Pendyce thatpuzzling Mrs. Bellew with the green-grey eyes, at which the bestpeople of her own sex looked with instinctive disapproval! A womanin her position should avoid anything conspicuous, and Nature hadgiven her a too-striking appearance. People said that when, theyear before last, she had separated from Captain Bellew, and leftthe Firs, it was simply because they were tired of one another.They said, too, that it looked as if she were encouraging theattentions of George, Mr. Pendyce's eldest son.
Lady Maiden had remarked to Mrs. Winlow in thedrawing-room before dinner:
“What is it about that Mrs. Bellew? I never likedher. A woman situated as she is ought to be more careful. I don'tunderstand her being asked here at all, with her husband still atthe Firs, only just over the way. Besides, she's very hard up. Shedoesn't even attempt to disguise it. I call her almost anadventuress. ”
Mrs. Winlow had answered:
“But she's some sort of cousin to Mrs. Pendyce. ThePendyces are related to everybody! It's so boring. One never knows—-”
Lady Maiden replied:
“Did you know her when she was living down here? Idislike those hard-riding women. She and her husband were perfectlyreckless. One heard of nothing else but what she had jumped and howshe had jumped it; and she bets and goes racing. If George Pendyceis not in love with her, I'm very much mistaken. He's been seeingfar too much of her in town. She's one of those women that men arealways hanging about! ”
At the head of his dinner-table, where before eachguest was placed a menu carefully written in his eldest daughter'shandwriting, Horace Pendyce supped his soup.
“This soup, ” he said to Mrs. Bellew, “reminds me ofyour dear old father; he was extraordinarily fond of it. I had agreat respect for your father— a wonderful man! I always said hewas the most determined man I'd met since my own dear father, andhe was the most obstinate man in the three kingdoms! ”
He frequently made use of the expression “in thethree kingdoms, ” which sometimes preceded a statement that hisgrandmother was descended from Richard III. , while his grandfathercame down from the Cornish giants, one of whom, he would say with adisparaging smile, had once thrown a cow over a wall.
“Your father was too much of an individualist, Mrs.Bellew. I have a lot of experience of individualism in themanagement of my estate, and I find that an individualist is nevercontented. My tenants have everything they want, but it'simpossible to satisfy them. There's a fellow called Peacock, now, amost pig-headed, narrowminded chap. I don't give in to him, ofcourse. If he had his way, he'd go back to the old days, farm theland in his own fashion. He wants to buy it from me. Old vicioussystem of yeoman farming. Says his grandfather had it. He's thatsort of man. I hate individualism; it's ruining England. You won'tfind better cottages, or better farm-buildings anywhere than on myestate. I go in for centralisation. I dare say you know what I callmyself— a 'Tory Communist. ' To my mind, that's the party of thefuture. Now, your father's motto was: 'Every man for himself!