Troy Chimneys

by Margaret Kennedy

  He interrupted me with an oath.

  ‘I’ll be damned if I think it. You were always a good fellow, Miles. You were after her too. I knew that. But you would always have been above-board, and once she was my wife you would keep off.’

  ‘You say that I lie? You insult your wife?’

  She advanced upon Ned as though about to strike him, but he pushed her roughly aside exclaiming:

  ‘I have had enough of your tricks. I know them. Come along, Miles! If you are going to see Ridding, I think I will come too.’

  As soon as we were out of the house he said that women are all the same and that one cannot trust a word they say. They are never satisfied until they have got a man hugging them and squeezing them in some snug corner, and then they cry out that it is all his fault. He was not by any means as shocked or as embarrassed as I was. Fifteen years with her have, I suppose, rid him of what little delicacy he possessed. But it was intolerable to me that she should so have exposed herself before us both, – that we should be obliged to admit what she is. I had an impulse to excuse and defend her, and said that it might have been difficult for her to understand us, coming amongst us as a stranger and unused to our way of thinking.

  ‘Ay! That’s what she says. They are all against her, because she is a foreigner.’

  I suggested that, for this very reason, she should not play so great a part in managing his affairs. She might mean well, and, with such a family, it was but common sense that she should watch every penny. But she could not be expected to understand the management of a great property, and I was sure that Simmons imposed upon her. If he would but get an honest steward, and attend to these matters himself, a heavy burden would be taken from her.

  He listened moodily, but he did not disagree with me.

  We went to Ribstone and settled the business of the farm. Before we left I had the pleasure of seeing Harry grasp Ned’s hand with something of the old cordiality. This part of the affair I can never regret. Neither Edmée nor Simmons can get Harry out now, unless he has very bad luck.

  My spirits rose upon the journey home. I dared to hope that this might be the turn of the tide and that, having once asserted himself, Ned might continue. He is very stupid, but I think that he could manage well, with a good steward to advise him. His family life must always be wretched, but in the world, would he but exert himself, he might be useful and respectable. He looked more like his old self, when we were at Ribstone, than I have seen him for many a year. But I noticed that his face grew longer and longer as we approached the Park. When we came into the village he burst out with:

  ‘’Tis all very well, Miles! You are not married.’

  Since it was dinner-time I suggested that he might come to the Parsonage, when we had stabled our horses. He accepted with alacrity, poor fellow! Had I suggested that he remain for the rest of his life at the Parsonage, I believed he would have jumped at the offer.

  All the family had known of my errand, when I started for the Park that morning, and were upon the watch for my return. The sight of Ned with me assured them that the news must be good, and they welcomed him with all the affection which we have missed for so long. By good luck we had an eatable dinner; Nanny had dressed some ducks and we had a side of beef.

  Sukey pleased me by putting aside all her grievances against the Park; she could not have been more pleasant and civil to Ned. When at her best, as she was that night, she can be very charming. She is the cleverest, the most amusing, of all my sisters, just as Caroline was the sweetest, Kitty is the kindest, and Harriet the most beautiful. My father and George both displayed their unqualified pleasure in this settlement of Harry’s business and even Anna managed to smile. It was the pleasantest evening that we have had since my mother died; something of her spirit seemed to have returned to us.

  Ned stayed late, though I knew that they were all wishing him gone, that they might learn how I managed to circumvent Edmée. When, at last, he was forced to move, he did so very unwillingly. I took him to the door and watched him slowly cross the lane and let himself into the Park by the little gate. His day of freedom was over and now he must spend the night with Edmée.

  A thousand questions awaited me when I returned to the parlour. I merely told them that Edmée had been outrageous, – so outrageous that I should not repeat what she had said. I daresay they all supposed her to have said something insulting about my father. He looked a trifle grave when he heard that I had carried my point in face of open opposition from her, and said that he was sorry I should have taken part in a conjugal dispute. Nobody, said he, is justified in coming between husband and wife.

  ‘Would you have had me desert Harry’s cause?’ said I.

  ‘No. But I would have had you avoid an open dispute with her. You could have waited until you could get Ned alone.’

  ‘That would have been never. She would have seen to it.’

  ‘Poor Ned,’ cried Sukey. ‘She will make him pay for this piece of independence.’

  ‘He must stand up for himself better. Since he has begun, he had better go on.’

  Sukey shook her head at this and doubted whether Ned could keep it up.

  ‘But we shall know if he does,’ she said, ‘because in that case, he will come here again quite soon. He knows that we all support him. If he keeps away from us, that will mean that he has hauled his colours down.’

  We did not see him again until church on Sunday. What he must have suffered in the interval defeats imagination. He gave me a baleful, furious look, more like the glare of a baited animal than of a human being. I daresay he is now angry at me for getting him into this scrape. I fear that all may now be over, in the way of friendship between us. But, if I had not stood my ground, it would have been all over with poor Harry. I cannot regret what I did.

  But I must record that I dreamt again, that night, of Maria Cotman, – in what connection I cannot remember. The fact would not have struck me had I not recently recorded my former dream. In fairness to Ludovic, I have written to tell him of it. But I do not see what reason she has, upon this occasion, to triumph over Miles.

  Not that I am quite satisfied at the way in which I managed the business. I believe that I should not have tried to excuse or defend Edmée, as we rode to Ribstone. I should have let him speak out, which I believe he would have done, had I not checked him. We could have agreed that he has married a horrible creature, but that all women are much the same. In that way we could have formed a kind of brutal male alliance which might hold against such assaults as she must have made since then. Once again, we were harassed by the wish to behave and speak like gentlemen. What is a man to say about such a woman, if he may not describe her in ungentlemanly terms?

  I believe that it is upon account of creatures like this that men most usually fight. ‘A woman’s honour’ is a cant phrase. It is a total lack of it in some women which engenders violence. If a man cannot describe his wife without disgracing himself, he must relinquish reason and become a fighting animal. Swords and pistols are his escape from the truth. We are lucky, Ned and I, to have come out of this as well as we did.

  MEMOIR: 1808-1818

  Lingshot

  LADY AMERSHAM WAS seldom wrong. All that she had foretold at Colesworth came to pass within a twelvemonth. Portland resigned. Perceval succeeded him. Pronto got his place, and stuck to it for eight years.

  Respectable and hard-working years were they for Pronto. He was able to drop some uncongenial acquaintance and he grew very steady. When visiting in the country he spent more evenings at his writing-desk than in the drawing-room. He was no longer obliged to sing for his supper or to put up with people who called him Pronto to his face.

  Miles did not care for all this work, but otherwise had no quarrel with him. Money was laying by, Troy Chimneys grew more charming every year, and the doorway to escape stood ever open. So, at least, thought Miles. That it had been slammed, and barred, by Pronto before the house was even bought – but I must go back a little in order
to explain how that came about.

  Pronto, in those first years of struggle, never neglected civility in certain quarters which a less thorough fellow might have been liable to overlook. He knew that great people will often forget a promise, or a friend, unless there is someone at hand to remind them at the critical moment. This someone need not be a person of any great consequence so long as he or she is certain to be there when need arises; a poor relation, a spinster aunt, even a confidential servant will do, – any of those permanent fixtures in great houses which rate almost with the furniture. If chairs and tables could be grateful for polite attention, and could express gratitude by crying out: PRONTO! whenever his lordship is about to dispose of a piece of patronage, – then Pronto would have been very civil to the chairs and tables. He would, of course, make no parade of it, but he would pay some pleasant little compliment to the table as he took his seat at it, suggest that it has been frequently in his thoughts since he saw it last, and enquire with concern after the great scratch it got last year.

  Universal geniality is so much a habit with him that he continued in it long after he had no need to do so. ‘Mr. Lufton has a kind word for everybody!’ says the housekeeper. ‘Mr. Lufton never forgets to ask after my rheumatism,’ cries the poor old cousin. ‘Mr. Lufton made a snowman for us,’ remember the children. With so many voices in his favour, Mr. Lufton is less likely to be forgotten.

  No ally is more useful, in this way, than one of those supernumerary gentlewomen who sit in corners making fringe, who write notes, run errands, wash lap-dogs, play country dances, and ride backwards in the carriage. They are immensely important, and their good word should always be secured. Pronto never forgot their names and took pains to discover their tastes. If one pressed flowers, he would always contrive to bring some for her when he took a country walk; they might be the commonest of weeds, but she was pleased with the attention. If another netted a shawl, he always knew for whom it was intended and never failed to enquire after its progress. He was seldom so busy dancing that he forgot to thank the lady at the instrument.

  It was as an ally of this sort that he first took notice of Miss Caroline Audley, in the early days of his servitude to fortune, when he was obliged to look very sharp about him. She was the half-sister of his friend Frank Morrill of Lingshot, in Surrey, with whom Pronto stayed a good deal about the year 1806, before he got West Malling. Morrill had two seats in his pocket and Pronto hoped to get one of them.

  Miss Audley was at that time about five and twenty, but seemed older in comparison with a bevy of blooming half-sisters in their teens. She was tall, above the middle height, with light-brown hair which she wound into a grecian knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were hazel and her complexion clear, but too pale. There was nothing in her to strike one, in that house full of handsome girls. Her manner was grave, although she smiled often enough to contradict any suggestion of melancholy. Her voice, low and very clear, was seldom heard; but when she spoke all listened, for she spoke only when applied to for her opinion.

  Pronto noticed that she had a good deal of influence with her half-brother. He therefore lost no time in acquainting himself with her circumstances and history. He is very adroit at getting information without seeming to ask ill-bred questions. He learnt that Captain Audley, her father and Mrs. Morrill’s first husband, had left her no fortune, that she had been engaged, seven years before, to a naval officer who had fallen in action, and that since then she had refused an offer from a clergyman. (Most of this information must have come from Louisa Morrill, a prattler of sixteen who never knew the meaning of reserve.) She was no favourite with her mother, for whom she slaved without complaint. Mrs. Morrill’s affection was entirely reserved for her second family. Gentle, pensive Caroline had always been regarded by her as, in childhood an encumbrance, and later as an unpaid servant. The half-brothers and -sisters were all fond of her, but they had been brought up to regard her as of no consequence, – her comfort or wishes were seldom considered.

  Her good graces might be valuable to Pronto, and he set himself to secure them. He paid her a good deal of attention, – not so marked as to arouse expectations, he was too sharp for that, – but he certainly took more notice of her than other people did. It was no unpleasant task, for she was very conversible and a good musician, the best accompanist he ever had. He may have indicated a little more admiration than he felt; most women expect that and like it. And he had a genuine regard for her, so that Miles was not entirely banished from the scene; she had, obviously, enough taste to prefer his style to Pronto’s.

  After securing West Malling he saw less of the Morrills for some years. But the intimacy revived when Perceval was succeeded by Liverpool, and Vansittart went to the Exchequer. Morrill was a connection of Vansittart and had gone into Parliament himself; he and Pronto were thrown together a good deal in their joint support of Vansittart, and from 1812 onwards Pronto was a constant visitor at Lingshot.

  Mrs. Morrill was now dead and her son married. But Miss Audley was still there, doing for young Mrs. Morrill everything that she had formerly done for her mother. All the Morrill girls were married except Margaret, the eldest, but it was not to be expected that Caroline Audley would now marry; she was past thirty and an old maid. Pronto was pleased to see her again, to resume their pleasant chats and to sing to her accompaniment.

  The Morrills were well-bred people of the sort now cultivated by him. They never called him by that odious name and, in fact, the protean creature least deserved it when in their house. Though possessed of considerable influence, they did not move, never aspired to move, in the highest circles. They were a good old respectable county family. Since they were not in the peerage they could be nice in their choice of acquaintance; they were not obliged to entertain a Lowestoft or invite a Crockett to keep him in the billiard-room. They only asked that Pronto should behave like a gentleman and for this Miles was grateful, though he thought them a trifle dull. The Pronto of Richmond Hill, the Pronto who sang Mary Hawker’s song at Colesworth, never showed up at Ling-shot.

  He was a particular favourite with young Mrs. Morrill, who hoped to make up a match between him and Miss Margaret. The sisters-in-law did not hit it off very well, and Pronto in 1813 was far more eligible than Pronto in 1806. He had a brother an admiral, a sister married to a baronet, he was earning £4000 a year, had property in Wiltshire, a place at the Exchequer and a promising future. It was high time that he married. Many of his fair friends were agreed upon that. In houses where, seven years earlier, he would never have been tolerated as a suitor, he was now encouraged to admire those daughters who had hung too long upon the family tree. Had he wished to marry, he could have got a wife with a larger fortune and greater connections than Margaret could bring him. He was, however, in no hurry. He did not care to subject himself to the influence of any one set, and he was also, perhaps, aware that Miles might give trouble if he took a wife. Miles had kept quiet, all these years, because it was understood that he might claim his freedom some day. He had submitted to Pronto’s domestic arrangements, including the villa at St. John’s Wood (which was given up in 1814), but a wife of Pronto’s choosing was not to be imagined at Troy Chimneys.

  This long truce came to an end at Easter last year. I was staying with the Morrills, and one morning I took a stroll before breakfast. Whenever I am in the country it is my habit to rise early and take a walk before Pronto comes on duty. My path took me through a beech wood; the bluebells were particularly fine that year. Pronto had taken that path the day before, with Mrs. Morrill and Margaret, and had said as much as they required in praise of so lovely a sight. But Miles could not fully enjoy it until he was alone.

  Walking some way before me, down the noble aisle made by the trees, I caught sight of a young woman whom I did not recognise as staying in the house. I presumed her to be young, although I could not see her face, because of a something in her walk. How shall I describe it? Few women walk so, after the age of one and twenty. They may move wi
th conscious grace until they are ninety, but they are marching in step with Time’s heavy foot, and they know it. Only the young, who never heard that tramp, walk as easily as the light flows on my ceilings at Troy Chimneys, can muse while skipping along, and never know that half an hour’s walk will bring them thirty minutes nearer to the end of all. This girl did not skip; she was walking slowly. I thought for a moment of my mother, who also had a something in her walk which I have already likened to the gliding of some beautiful ship. But this other, thought I, evokes a different image, – her progress is more solitary, more mysterious – one does not know whence she comes, or whither she goes – she does not appear to know it herself – she is like a cloud which floats slowly onward, not of its own will, but carried by some quiet wind unfelt upon earth. ‘Lonely as a cloud.’ I must find out who she is!

  I quickened my pace so as to catch up with her. As I drew nearer I recognised, with a pang of disappointment, that grecian knot of hair. This mysterious stranger was but my old friend, Miss Audley. I had never seen her before at a moment when she thought herself alone. The enchantment dissolved and I was about to turn off into a side avenue, for I was in no mood to sacrifice my solitude, when she heard my footsteps and turned.

  I hastily summoned Pronto, who was delighted at the encounter and convinced that she must find it equally gratifying. A stroll through the woods with so universal a favourite as himself could not displease her. He offered his arm and she took it. But they had not proceeded very far before he became aware that he was de trop. This meeting was unwelcome, and he knew it because he is very sensitive to atmosphere. She was tranquilly pleasant, as ever; in fact she was too much as ever. They might have been walking with a dozen people. The tone, the pace, the glances, suitable to a tête-à-tête, were missing. Miss Audley also was, apparently, in no mood to sacrifice her solitude.