The Country House - John Galsworthy

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not impinge upon his creed. What would come after, though full of unpleasant possibilities, he left to the future. His real disquiet, far nearer, far more primitive and simple, was the feeling of drifting helplessly in a current so strong that he could not keep his feet.

      “Ah yes; a bad case. Dreadful thing for the Sweetenhams! That young fellow's been obliged to give up the Army. Can't think what old Sweetenham was about. He must have known his son was hit. I should say Bethany himself was the only one in the dark. There's no doubt Lady Rose was to blame!” Mr. Pendyce was speaking.

      Mrs. Bellew smiled.

      “My sympathies are all with Lady Rose. What do you say, George?”

      George frowned.

      “I always thought,” he said, “that Bethany was an ass.”

      “George,” said Mr. Pendyce, “is immoral. All young men are immoral. I notice it more and more. You've given up your hunting, I hear.”

      Mrs. Bellew sighed.

      “One can't hunt on next to nothing!”

      “Ah, you live in London. London spoils everybody. People don't take the interest in hunting and farming they used to. I can't get George here at all. Not that I'm a believer in apron-strings. Young men will be young men!”

      Thus summing up the laws of Nature, the Squire resumed his knife and fork.

      But neither Mrs. Bellew nor George followed his example; the one sat with her eyes fixed on her plate and a faint smile playing on her lips, the other sat without a smile, and his eyes, in which there was such a deep resentful longing, looked from his father to Mrs. Bellew, and from Mrs. Bellew to his mother. And as though down that vista of faces and fruits and flowers a secret current had been set flowing, Mrs. Pendyce nodded gently to her son.

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      At the head of the breakfast-table sat Mr. Pendyce, eating methodically. He was somewhat silent, as became a man who has just read family prayers; but about that silence, and the pile of half-opened letters on his right, was a hint of autocracy.

      “Be informal—do what you like, dress as you like, sit where you like, eat what you like, drink tea or coffee, but——” Each glance of his eyes, each sentence of his sparing, semi-genial talk, seemed to repeat that “but”.

      At the foot of the breakfast-table sat Mrs. Pendyce behind a silver urn which emitted a gentle steam. Her hands worked without ceasing amongst cups, and while they worked her lips worked too in spasmodic utterances that never had any reference to herself. Pushed a little to her left and entirely neglected, lay a piece of dry toast on a small white plate. Twice she took it up, buttered a bit of it, and put it down again. Once she rested, and her eyes, which fell on Mrs. Bellow, seemed to say: “How very charming you look, my dear!” Then, taking up the sugar-tongs, she began again.

      On the long sideboard covered with a white cloth reposed a number of edibles only to be found amongst that portion of the community which breeds creatures for its own devouring. At one end of this row of viands was a large game pie with a triangular gap in the pastry; at the other, on two oval dishes, lay four cold partridges in various stages of decomposition. Behind them a silver basket of openwork design was occupied by three bunches of black, one bunch of white grapes, and a silver grape-cutter, which performed no function (it was so blunt), but had once belonged to a Totteridge and wore their crest.

      No servants were in the room, but the side-door was now and again opened, and something brought in, and this suggested that behind the door persons were collected, only waiting to be called upon. It was, in fact, as though Mr. Pendyce had said: “A butler and two footmen at least could hand you things, but this is a simple country house.”

      At times a male guest rose, napkin in hand, and said to a lady: “Can I get you anything from the sideboard?” Being refused, he went and filled his own plate. Three dogs—two fox-terriers and a decrepit Skye circled round uneasily, smelling at the visitors' napkins. And there went up a hum of talk in which sentences like these could be distinguished: “Rippin' stand that, by the wood. D'you remember your rockettin' woodcock last year, Jerry?” “And the dear old Squire never touched a feather! Did you, Squire?” “Dick—Dick! Bad dog!—come and do your tricks. Trust-trust! Paid for! Isn't he rather a darling?”

      On Mr. Pendyce's foot, or by the side of his chair, whence he could see what was being eaten, sat the spaniel John, and now and then Mr. Pendyce, taking a small portion of something between his finger and thumb, would say:

      “John!— Make a good breakfast, Sir James; I always say a half-breakfasted man is no good!”

      And Mrs. Pendyce, her eyebrows lifted, would look anxiously up and down the table, murmuring: “Another cup, dear; let me see—are you sugar?”

      When all had finished a silence fell, as if each sought to get away from what he had been eating, as if each felt he had been engaged in an unworthy practice; then Mr. Pendyce, finishing his last grape, wiped his mouth.

      “You've a quarter of an hour, gentlemen; we start at ten-fifteen.”

      Mrs. Pendyce, left seated with a vague, ironical smile, ate one mouthful of her buttered toast, now very old and leathery, gave the rest to “the dear dogs,” and called:

      “George! You want a new shooting tie, dear boy; that green one's quite faded. I've been meaning to get some silks down for ages. Have you had any news of your horse this morning?”

      “Yes, Blacksmith says he's fit as a fiddle.”

      “I do so hope he'll win that race for you. Your Uncle Hubert once lost four thousand pounds over the Rutlandshire. I remember perfectly; my father had to pay it. I'm so glad you don't bet, dear boy!”

      “My dear mother, I do bet.”

      “Oh, George, I hope not much! For goodness' sake, don't tell your father; he's like all the Pendyces, can't bear a risk.”

      “My dear mother, I'm not likely to; but, as a matter of fact, there is no risk. I stand to win a lot of money to nothing.”

      “But, George, is that right?”

      “Of course it's all right.”

      “Oh, well, I don't understand.” Mrs. Pendyce dropped her eyes, a flush came into her white cheeks; she looked up again and said quickly: “George, I should like just a little bet on your horse—a real bet, say about a sovereign.”

      George Pendyce's creed permitted the show of no emotion. He smiled.

      “All right, mother, I'll put it on for you. It'll be about eight to one.”

      “Does that mean that if he wins I shall get eight?”

      George nodded.

      Mrs. Pendyce looked abstractedly at his tie.

      “I think it might be two sovereigns; one seems very little to lose, because I do so want him to win. Isn't Helen Bellew perfectly charming this morning! It's delightful to see a woman look her best in the morning.”

      George turned, to hide the colour in his cheeks.

      “She looks fresh enough, certainly.”

      Mrs. Pendyce glanced up at him; there was a touch of quizzicality in one of her lifted eyebrows.

      “I mustn't keep you, dear; you'll be late for the shooting.”

      Mr.

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