Of Becket, as it now was, they would not have approved at all. By what chance Edmund Moreton (Stanley’s mother’s grandfather), in the middle of the eighteenth century, had suddenly diverged from family feeling and ideals, and taken that ‘not quite nice’ resolution to make ploughs and money, would never now be known. The fact remained, together with the plough works. A man apparently of curious energy and character, considering his origin, he had dropped the E from his name, and – though he continued the family tradition so far as to marry a Fleeming of Worcestershire, to be paternal to his workmen, to be known as Squire, and to bring his children up in the older Moreton ‘niceness’ – he had yet managed to make his ploughs quite celebrated, to found a little town, and die still handsome and clean-shaved at the age of sixty-six. Of his four sons, only two could be found sufficiently without the E to go on making ploughs. Stanley’s grandfather, Stuart Morton, indeed, had tried hard, but in the end had reverted to the congenital instinct for being just a Moreton. An extremely amiable man, he took to wandering with his family, and died in France, leaving one daughter – Frances, Stanley’s mother – and three sons, one of whom, absorbed in horses, wandered to Australia and was killed by falling from them; one of whom, a soldier, wandered to India, and the embraces of a snake; and one of whom wandered into the embraces of the Holy Roman Church.
The Morton Plough Works were dry and dwindling when Stanley’s father, seeking an opening for his son, put him and money into them. From that moment they had never looked back, and now brought Stanley, the sole proprietor, an income of full fifteen thousand pounds a year. He wanted it. For Clara, his wife, had that energy of aspiration which before now has raised women to positions of importance in the counties which are not their own, and caused, incidentally, many acres to go out of cultivation. Not one plough was used on the whole of Becket, not even a Morton plough – these indeed were unsuitable to English soil and were all sent abroad. It was the corner-stone of his success that Stanley had completely seen through the talked-of revival of English agriculture, and sedulously cultivated the foreign market. This was why the Becket dining-room could contain without straining itself large quantities of local magnates and celebrities from London, all deploring the condition of ‘the Land,’ and discussing without end the regrettable position of the agricultural laborer. Except for literary men and painters, present in small quantities to leaven the lump, Becket was, in fact, a rallying point for the advanced spirits of Land Reform – one of those places where they were sure of being well done at week-ends, and of congenial and even stimulating talk about the undoubted need for doing something, and the designs which were being entertained upon ‘the Land’ by either party. This very heart of English country that the old Moretons in their paternal way had so religiously farmed, making out of its lush grass and waving corn a simple and by no means selfish or ungenerous subsistence, was now entirely lawns, park, coverts, and private golf course, together with enough grass to support the kine which yielded that continual stream of milk necessary to Clara’s entertainments and children, all female, save little Francis, and still of tender years. Of gardeners, keepers, cow-men, chauffeurs, footmen, stablemen – full twenty were supported on those fifteen hundred acres that formed the little Becket demesne. Of agricultural laborers proper – that vexed individual so much in the air, so reluctant to stay on ‘the Land,’ and so difficult to house when he was there, there were fortunately none, so that it was possible for Stanley, whose wife meant him to ‘put up’ for the Division, and his guests, who were frequently in Parliament, to hold entirely unbiassed and impersonal views upon the whole question so long as they were at Becket.
It was beautiful there, too, with the bright open fields hedged with great elms, and that ever-rich serenity of its grass and trees. The white house, timbered with dark beams in true Worcestershire fashion, and added-to from time to time, had preserved, thanks to a fine architect, an old-fashioned air of spacious presidency above its gardens and lawns. On the long artificial lake, with innumerable rushy nooks and water-lilies and coverture of leaves floating flat and bright in the sun, the half-tame wild duck and shy water-hens had remote little worlds, and flew and splashed when all Becket was abed, quite as if the human spirit, with its monkey-tricks and its little divine flame, had not yet been born.
Under the shade of a copper-beech, just where the drive cut through into its circle before the house, an old lady was sitting that afternoon on a campstool. She was dressed in gray alpaca, light and cool, and had on her iron-gray hair a piece of black lace. A number of Hearth and Home and a little pair of scissors, suspended by an inexpensive chain from her waist, rested on her knee, for she had been meaning to cut out for dear Felix a certain recipe for keeping the head cool; but, as a fact, she sat without doing so, very still, save that, now and then, she compressed her pale fine lips, and continually moved her pale fine hands. She was evidently waiting for something that promised excitement, even pleasure, for a little rose-leaf flush had quavered up into a face that was colored like parchment; and her gray eyes under regular and still-dark brows, very far apart, between which there was no semblance of a wrinkle, seemed noting little definite things about her, almost unwillingly, as an Arab’s or a Red Indian’s eyes will continue to note things in the present, however their minds may be set on the future. So sat Frances Fleeming Freeland (nee Morton) waiting for the arrival of her son Felix and her grandchildren Alan and Nedda.
She marked presently an old man limping slowly on a stick toward where the drive debouched, and thought at once: “He oughtn’t to be coming this way. I expect he doesn’t know the way round to the back. Poor man, he’s very lame. He looks respectable, too.” She got up and went toward him, remarking that his face with nice gray moustaches was wonderfully regular, almost like a gentleman’s, and that he touched his dusty hat with quite old-fashioned courtesy. And smiling – her smile was sweet but critical – she said: “You’ll find the best way is to go back to that little path, and past the greenhouses. Have you hurt your leg?”
“My leg’s been like that, m’m, fifteen year come Michaelmas.”
“How did it happen?”
“Ploughin’. The bone was injured; an’ now they say the muscle’s dried up in a manner of speakin’.”
“What do you do for it? The very best thing is this.”
From the recesses of a deep pocket, placed where no one else wore such a thing, she brought out a little pot.
“You must let me give it you. Put it on when you go to bed, and rub it well in; you’ll find it act splendidly.”
The old man took the little pot with dubious reverence.
“Yes, m’m,” he said; “thank you, m’m.”
“What is your name?”
“Gaunt.”
“And where do you live?”
“Over to Joyfields, m’m.”
“Joyfields – another of my sons lives there – Mr. Morton Freeland. But it’s seven miles.”
“I got a lift half-way.”
“And have you business at the house?” The old man was silent; the downcast, rather cynical look of his lined face deepened. And Frances Freeland thought: ‘He’s overtired. They must give him some tea and an egg. What can he want, coming all this way? He’s evidently not a beggar.’
The old man who was not a beggar spoke suddenly:
“I know the Mr. Freeland at Joyfields. He’s a good gentleman, too.”
“Yes, he is. I wonder I don’t know you.”
“I’m not