Crane Court

Chapter I. Ithout

possessing any renowned scenery, or any famous health resorts to attract strangers to it, the small county of Elm shire is perhaps as pretty as any, with one or two noted exceptions, in England. Almost every variety of scenery is to be found in it. Rock-bound coast, smiling bays, wide, rolling downs, breezy heaths, and green, fertile valleys can all be met with — in some parts in a morning's ride — in Elmshire. It possesses no large towns — few towns indeed at all — and its villages are mostly small hamlets. It is not much traversed by railroads, so many parts of it are far from a station ; the old-fashioned carriers and pedlers — higglers, as Elmshire people call the latter — go their ways unmolested. A good many people in Elmshire have never been to London at all, though from some parts of the county it is not more than a hundred miles away.

A So the inhabitants are mostly unsophisticated, not to say decidedly behind the times. The poorer classes are ignorant to a degree hardly credible to a Cockney, though of course nowadays the School Board is altering that to a great extent, and some of them are as wild and rough as the Irish peasants, whom they resemble in more ways than one. As for the upper classes, they have always had the character of being extremely hospitable and friendly among themselves, and exclusive to strangers, but of late years they have not altogether escaped the growing tendency of the age — that of seeking society in London principally. Also ' agricultural depression ' — and Elm shire is entirely an agricultural county — has here and there forced some of the old houses to change hands, and thus admitted new people into the once charmed circle of Elmshire society.

East Elmshire is about the wildest, least known, and, at the same time, prettiest part of the county, and in one of the prettiest corners of it — a tract of hilly, thickly - wooded, sparsely - inhabited country — lies the small village of Craneham, and the beautiful old manor called Crane Court, the property of the Mortimers. About five miles off is Eastanley Castle, the Earl of Eastanley's place, and half way between the two lies Daltons, belonging to the Digbys. Very few other gentlemen's houses are to be found in the neighbour hood. Craneham lies at the extreme edge of East Elmshire, which is now empowered to return a member to represent it at St Stephen's. It was a lovely evening in May, one of the very loveliest months in Elmshire, when every wood and coppice was bursting into leaf, and even the old gnarled and twisted oak trees were blushing ruddy with new life, and every meadow and hedgerow was starred with numberless flowers, and the orchards were powdered with blossom.

It was the very time to see Elmshire. and the very time, above all others, to see Crane Court, one of the oldest and most beautiful places in the whole county. Others were finer and larger — Eastanley Castle for one — but none more picturesque, or better situated. The setting sun shone with full splendour on its red walls, covered here and there with dark ivy, and stained with time, on its stone mullion windows, and on its many-gabled roof. It stood on a gentle incline, raised a little above the village, which clustered close to it on one side. In front and on the other side stretched the glades of the well-timbered park, and behind it rose a crest of dark woods — not dark, though, this May evening, for the sun had turned their young foliage into a mass of emerald and gold, among which an occasional fir or yew tree looked black by contrast.

A carriage drive approached the house, vvith many a leisurely sweep and curve across the park from the turnpike road which just touched one end of the village, but close to it was the little grey parish church — so close that the churchyard seemed a part of the grounds — and a shady lane, overhung by tall elm trees, led from this to the village. The Mortimers had always lived on kindly terms with the villagers, their tenants, and did not mind this close proximity. In front of the house ran a low, broad terrace, below which were the flower gardens, and long bowling-green, and shrubberies. The nucleus of the house must have been built in the reign of Queen Elizabeth or her successor, but it had been added to by Mortimers of following generations who had been afflicted with a building mania, and who had wished to enlarge their abode, so that it could show many different styles of architecture.

But for the last hundred years at least, it had not been touched. That, indeed, was the chief peculiarity of the house and grounds ; there was nothing that could be called modern about them. Inside, it was just what one would imagine such a house ought to be. On going in you entered a small oak-wainscoted, low hall, from which a broad, shallow flight of oak steps led to a fine centre hall, or 'saloon,' as it was called, hung round with horns and skins and decorated with weapons, for the Mortimers had gener ally been sportsmen. The principal living-rooms are entered from this central hall, but there are unexpected little passages and staircases leading to oddly-shaped little rooms and dim nooks, all about Crane Court, and it takes a stranger a little time before he finds his way about the house and learns not to fall up or down the treacherous single steps that abound, usually in the darkest corners.

Crane Court had for centuries been the property of the Mortimers, one of the oldest, most honoured families int he county. There had been a title in the family once, which had died out, but at least every other owner of the place had married some Lady this or Honourable that, and when they had not married members of the aris tocracy they had allied themselves to county families whose blood was as blue as their own. Of course, in so long a chronicle, the Mortimer legends could show a black sheep here and there, but they had mostly been honest, God-fearing men. The younger sons had generally gone into either the Church or Army, with now and then a more adventurous spirit who had become a sailor. And the Mortimers of Crane Court had always been Tories. A Mortimer had not infrequently been the Tory representative of the county.

A Mortimer still owned Crane Court, and all the broad lands around it, but the bitter moment had come when he felt he must no longer live there. It was the old, common story, which, common though it be, has not lost its pathos. Geoffrey Mortimer was too poor any longer to inhabit the stately home of his fore fathers. He had been a poor man when he found himself at one-and-twenty owner of the property, and since then the terrible time of agricultural depression had set in. His rents had diminished year by year, and finally, his largest farm had been thrown on his own hands, with no alternative but to farm it himself — probably at a loss — or to let it go out of cultivation. So beautiful old Crane Court had been advertised, a desecration in itself, and tenants had been found for it, and the time had come when Geoffrey Mortimer, having set his house in order, and swept and garnished it, and nearly ruined himself in doing what his tenants demanded, was to leave it to strangers.

Not that he was going far away. He was only going to his untenanted farmhouse, where he meant to live and farm all the land that was in his own hands. This decision of his had amazed most of his friends and neighbours. But to such of them as had expressed their astonishment to him, he had said that economy was his sole motive in leaving Crane Court, and that if he had had to put a good bailiff into Ten Acre Farm, besides providing a home elsewhere for himself and his son he would not attain this object as much as he desired. Moreover, he added, he thought it was a good thing for his son to grow up among his own people. His son — there lay the cause of it all. Had Geoffrey Mortimer been a childless man, he would, in all proba bility, have chosen to struggle on somehow in the home of his forefathers while he lived.

But he had a son, and this fact made any sacrifice possible. On the beautiful May evening we have described the great front door of Crane Court stood wide open, as indeed it did most of the year round. Anyone could have entered it, and ascended the broad oak stairs, and passed from one room to another, all, as we have said, swept and garnished, some of them newly carpeted, and with their quaint, scanty, old-fashioned furniture stiffly disposed, all in readiness for the incoming tenants. The house was not quite empty, though, for its master, Geoffrey Mortimer, was taking a last survey of it, to see that all was in order. And close at his heels trotted his little seven-year-old son, who followed his father chiefly from habit, not because he took much interest in the arrangements. Mr Mortimer had another follower too, a huge, handsome mastiff, who walked after his master with slow and stately steps, keeping close to him, though, because he knew there was something unusual in the air.

He was still a fine, powerful beast, but his whitening muzzle showed he was at least a year senior to the little boy, with whom, however, he was not above playing now and then in a majestic and con descending way. Mortimer, having finished his inspection of the house, went out on to the terrace in front, and then, descend ing the stone steps, he crossed the lawn and flower garden, followed by the child and the dog. Here he paused, and turning, stood looking) back long and steadily, with a face pale with pain, at his home, which showed so fair and stately and peaceful in the warm evening sunshine. The boy ran off, hat in hand, in pursuit of a belated butterfly, the great dog lay down lazily on the turf at his master's feet, but still Geoffrey Mortimer gazed sadly at the house which was to shelter him and his no longer.

At length he turned and began to walk away rapidly. The mastiff rose to his feet and followed close at his heel. ' Fidge, come ! ' called Mortimer to the little boy, who was still in vain pursuit of the butterfly ; ' it is late, and we must hurry, or what will Margaret say to us ? ' Fidge came running across the grass, and tucking a small hand into his father's, trotted along by his side. ' I couldn't catch him,' he said, still thinking of the butterfly. Then, almost in the same breath, ' Dad, sha'n't we come back here any more ? ' ' Not for years and years, Fidge. Not till you are grown up — three times as old as you are now.' ' Three sevens is — bother, I can't do arithmetic now, but it must be a great lot. Not till then — well, I call it horrid! ' said Fidge, with emphasis. Mr Mortimer made no reply. Perhaps his son had too clearly given voice to his own feelings for any to be possible.

Chapter II

R MORTIMER'S silence did not disconcert Fidge the least. All day long both his father and Margaret, his old nurse, had been far too busy to attend to him, or listen to his chatter, and he had had to possess his soul in silence, which he did not at all approve of. Now he had his father all to himself, with, as he thought, no distracting elements, and he never stopped talking all the way. Mr Mortimer, however much pre occupied, had learnt by experience to ,pay enough attention to his chatter to put in the right word now and then at the right place, and Fidge was satisfied, and rippled on till Ten Acre Farm was reached. It was not a long walk from Crane Court — only a little over a mile. First you crossed the park, then went a little way along the road, and then up a narrow, deeply-rutted country lane.

A cart track across a field led from this lane to the farmhouse, a pretty, picturesque building, looking when you first saw it like a row of three cottages, until a nearer approach showed that it was all one house, low and thatched, with the dairy at one end. It was, as has been said, pretty and picturesque, but nothing more than the merest farmhouse — indeed a farmhouse that an ordinary modern farmer would probably have objected to live in. The farmyard and cowhouses and stables and barns were all close by, and the farm pond, where the ducks and geese paddled about, and the animals were watered, was in full view of the windows. The house was partially covered with creepers, and overshadowed by some tall elm-trees. A narrow strip of garden divided it from the field, but behind and on one side there was a good large garden and an orchard.

The sun had disappeared behind the low surround ing hills, and Ten Acre Farm lay in deep shadow when Geoffrey Mortimer and his little son reached it that evening. They were met as they entered the house by a grey-haired woman, with an odd, harsh-featured, kindly face, neatly dressed in black, with a white apron. 'Your supper is all ready, Mr Mortimer,' she said; ' and I have put Master Fidge's with yours to-night.' ' Thanks, Margaret. I'm afraid we are rather late — I meant to have brought Fidge down earlier.' ' Oh there ! it don't matter, sir. I've been so busy trying to get things a bit settled here, that I've hardly noticed how the time went. Everything's all at sixes and sevens, and I don't know however we shall get straight ! ' ' We've plenty of time to do that, Margaret,' Mortimer answered, with a feeling that he cared little just then whether things were straight or crooked.

In a few minutes he and Fidge were seated at their evening meal, with old Rollo, the mastiff, who still kept close to his master's side, not quite understanding his new quarters. 'Dad!' said Fidge, as he discussed his bread and butter and milk, ' what are the people called who are going to live in our house ? ' 'Delmar, Fidge. But for the next few years, remember, it is not our house, but theirs.' ' What was it Uncle Digby said Mr Delmar was ? A mill — mill — what was it, Dad ? ' ' A millionaire, I suppose you mean. That is only a very rich man.' ' Richer than you, or Uncle Digby? Mortimer nearly laughed. ' Much richer than both of us put together, I should think, Fidge.' ' Margaret says they're horrid people, and that it's a great shame of them to turn us out of Crane Court.' ' Margaret does not know them, so she can't tell whether they are horrid or not.

And they have not turned us out of Crane Court at all. I let them come and live there,' Mr Mortimer answered, with a touch of unwonted severity in his tone. It was so seldom anything Margaret said or did was questioned that Fidge was amazed, and for one brief moment, silenced. He was soon off at score again but on a different topic. Before long Fidge went to bed, and Mortimer, having finished his meal, threw himself into an armchair, and lighted his pipe. He took up the day's paper, at which he had hitherto had no time to look, but this evening its columns failed to rivet his attention. He glanced round the untidy room, where pictures and shelves lay about waiting to be put up, and boxes and desks to be unpacked, but he felt in no mood to busy himself over them to-night. He allowed his paper to fall unheeded to the ground, and gave himself up to his thoughts.

Geoffrey Mortimer's history was a very simple one, and any one of his tenants or his neigbours could have related it. He had come into his property at twenty-one, his father having died some months previously. He inherited a very impoverished exchequer, for the days when the Mortimers kept the hounds, and entertained the county right royally, had long been over ; but his income was not so hopelessly reduced then as it afterwards became. He had been brought up to the management of an estate, and luckily had no extravagant habits. People said he was the man to bring round his affairs if anyone could, and then with his old name and good looks, he ought to marry money. But before people had begun to think seriously of his marrying at all, Geoffrey Mortimer had disappointed this last expectation of his friends.

When barely three-and twenty, he met the pretty, penniless niece of his neighbour, Mr Digby of Daltons, and then it was all up with him. In six months' time the bells of the little Craneham parish church were ringing joyously to welcome home the master of Crane Court and his young bride, and the tenants met them in a body at the park entrance, to draw them in state up to the house. It was, in a worldly point of view, an extremely foolish marriage, but Mortimer never regretted it. He and his young wife were as happy as it is possible for two people to be, living in a corner of their beautiful old home, driving about with their one horse, and, though never entertaining in the ordinary sense of the word, always glad to see their neighbours and friends in a quiet way Nellie loved the old house and place as much as Geoffrey did himself, and having never known what it was to have money, did not feel the want of it.

About a year after their marriage, the bells were again ringing noisily to celebrate the birth of a son and heir, and then the young couple seemed indeed to have reached the height of human happiness. But before the little son was a year old, instead of a merry peal the mournful passing bell was sounding slowly from the little grey church, and Geoffrey Mor timer sat in his lonely home, listening to its knell with a breaking heart, a widower at five-and-twenty. That had been more than six years before my story begins. Since then Mortimer had lived quietly at home, managing his estate, attending to county business, and seeing his money affairs, in spite of all his care and economy, going from bad to worse. For his own sake he might not have minded so much, but for his son's ! That small son, christened Geoffrey after himself, but nicknamed Fidge, was everything to him.

He had kept the child always with him, under the care of Margaret, who had nursed not only him, but his mother, from their earliest babyhood. Father and son were all in all to each other, and little Fidge, not missing what he had never known, did not feel the want of a mother's love and care. ' Dad ' was his companion, his playmate, his everything, in short. And if there were any needs Mortimer could not satisfy, there was good, faithful old Margaret, who could hardly have loved the boy better had he been her own son. She was one of those old-fashioned servants, growing rarer day by day, who are rather friends than servants, so completely do they identify themselves with the family to which they belong. Margaret was ready to do anything for her master and his son — no thing was beneath her, or ' not her place,' in their service ; but for their sakes, and with a good sound prejudice, she hated this move into the farmhouse, and the arrival of strangers at Crane Court.

Geoffrey Mortimer had tried to reason with her once or twice on the subject, but she was impenetrable to reason, and he gave up in despair. The day after that on which Mr Mortimer had quitted Crane Court, the Delmars' servants and carriages arrived there, ancl the following day the Delmars themselves came. Great excitement prevailed in the small village of Craneham. The natives were so unaccustomed to see strangers. Crane Court had never been let before. About once in a generation a new parson arrived at the little Rectory, but even this event was not equal in importance to the appearance of a whole fresh family and establishment at the Court, where nobody but Mortimers had ever lived in the memory of man. Fidge shared the village excitement and curiosity. He knew all his father's tenants, and had always gone familiarly about among them, to an extent a mother might not have allowed, but which had done him no perceptible harm.

Perhaps the Mortimer blue blood ran too purely in his veins for him not intuitively to know, from earliest childhood, the difference between himself and them. But he heard all this gossip about the new people up at the Court, and faithfully transmitted it to the ' Squire,' in a way they perhaps hardly anticipated ; but Fidge always told his father everything. So, in spite of himself, Mortimer came to know exactly how many servants and how many horses the new occupiers of his ancestral home kept, what members of the family had arrived, and many other small items. If all this information failed to interest Mr Mortimer, it was not so with Margaret, who listened to all Fidge imparted on the subject with eager interest, and bitter indignation. ' Twenty servants, indeed ! ' she exclaimed, with a toss of her head. ' What do they want with twenty servants when we never kept but five?

And a whole lot of furniture and things — -as if Crane Court was not furnished good enough for anyone ! ' Obtaining his information in all sorts of mysterious ways, Fidge Mortimer was ere long able to announce that the family consisted of Mr and Mrs Delmar, and a grown-up son and daughter. Fidge was rather disappointed to find there were no children in the case. There was another married son, who lived in London, but about his existence Fidge was not so clear, occular demonstration being wanting.

Chapter III He

great beauty of living in the country, as everybody knows, is that you can do what you like, and go about by yourself. So one lovely, fine afternoon Miss Madeline Delmar started out for a long ride alone. Her usual companion, her brother Owen, had gone up to town, and she declined to take a groom, just to prove that she was in the heart of the country, and that the proprieties need not be observed. The horse she was riding was a perfectly quiet, gentle animal, that had carried her some time, so on the score of safety there was no objection to be made, though Mrs Delmar felt and expressed some horror at her daughter venturing out in so solitary a manner. Madeline Delmar was passionately fond of the country, but hitherto her experience of it had been limited to a few months in every year. It was only recently her father had given up his business in town sufficiently to his eldest son Vernon to enable him to live away from London altogether.

Madeline fell in love with Crane Court at first sight. It more than fulfilled her ideal of what a country house ought to be. She delighted in wandering about it, and looking at the old carved oak, the portraits of dead and gone Mortimers, and the trophies of both war and chase which abounded. And then she loved rambling about the quaint, old-fashioned gardens and grounds, and peopling them in fancy with stately squires and dames of old. And she wondered how the owner of such a place, — the descendant of all those innumerable Mortimers whose portraits hung on the walls of the house, and whose names were recorded on endless monuments and tablets in the church, could have brought himself to leave it. She indulged, too, in a few idle speculations what this owner could be like, — what sort of a man he was, who came of such a fine old family, and whether he resembled any of his ancestors, with whose portraits she was growing familiar.

She thoroughly enjoyed her lonely ride that June afternoon. She had never been in the country — regu larly in the country — at that time of year before, and she was entranced with the beauty of it, and the rich luxuriance of blossom and foliage all round her. But when she tried to return home, she found her self lost in a maze of deep, narrow lanes, overshadowed by high hedgerows. She rode on and on, feeling sure she could not be far from Crane Court, but never seeming to get any nearer to it. At last she made up her mind she must humble her pride, and ask her way. But in Elmshire it is quite one thing to make up your mind to ask your way, and another to find anyone to ask it of, and accordingly Miss Delmar rode at least a mile after coming to this determination, without meeting a soul, except one very small boy, apparently on his way home from school, though Madeline wondered greatly where either his home or the school could be.

Him she accosted, but with no re sult. The small boy only stared helplessly, but made no attempt to answer her inquiry, so she went on, mentally setting him down as an idiot, in which she did him injustice. It is not the nature of an Elmshire native to answer in a hurry any question put to him ; besides, the small boy really did not quite understand her accent, which was not the Elmshire one. At last Miss Delmar descried a man, towards whom she at once made her way. She was a little appalled to see, as she approached him, that he was a gentleman — a neighbouring squire, she at once settled. But ex perience had taught her she must not be too particular, or she might never find her way home again. ' Would you be kind enough to tell me the way to Crane Court?' she asked accordingly, reining up when she reached him. ' You are going right, but it is some way round by the lane,' the stranger replied. 'There is a very much shorter way across the fields.

You go through here, and then — Can you open gates ? ' ' Oh, yes, I suppose so,' Madeline answered. But secretly she felt extremely doubtful as to her prowess in this respect, never having had any practice in the art. Perhaps the stranger guessed this, for he said, — ' I am going in that direction, and, if you like, I can put you in the way ? ' ' Oh ! thanks very much, if it really does not incon venience you,' she replied, feeling rather relieved that B she was not going to be left to wrestle with unknown difficulties in the gate line, or to get lost again. He swung open the gate close to which he had been standing for her to pass through, and then walked along by her side, keeping pace to her horse with easy, even strides over the rough ground. ' Is it far ?' she asked. ' No, not this way.

I suppose you find this country rather confusing, Miss Delmar ? ' ' Oh ! you know who I am ! ' she exclaimed, surprised, for she came from London, where everybody certainly does not know everybody else by sight, and she was not aware she had ever seen this man before. He smiled a little, and a smile wonderfully lighted up his rather grave face. ' You see, we so seldom see strangers in these parts,' he said, ' that when they do come we natives are all curiosity, and soon know all about them. Besides, I have seen you in church.' ' Then you are a native ? ' ' Yes, I am one of the aborigines.' ' And are strangers so rare ? Has Crane Court never been let before ? ' ' No, never I ' 'It is a lovely old place. I never saw one I liked so much, and I am so glad papa has taken it,' said Miss Delmar ; but her companion made no reply, and they went on a little way in silence.

Presently they crossed a sort of footpath. He paused. ' This is my way,' he said. ' You must go straight on, across those two fields, and then you will find yourself in — your own park.' ' Oh, thank you, I am — ' ' But, now I come to think of it, there are two rather heavy gates. I think I had better come and open them for you.' ' No, indeed ! You must not think of it ! I am sure I shall be able to manage them.' ' But I am sure you will not. Having brought you so far, I had better see you to the end of your journey.' ' It is extremely kind of you.' ' Not at all, it is no distance.' And he proceeded to lead the way. Madeline was beginning to wonder who he was. He seemed to know every inch of the country, and as they were standing in the footpath, a couple of farm-labourers came along it, touching their hats to him, and he wished them a cheery good evening by name.