Then the first step, an important one in county neighbourhoods at home or abroad, was taken—the Bannerets went to church en famille. The Vicar, the Rev. and Honourable Cyril Courtenay, had called, as soon after their arrival as was consistent with etiquette, in advance of his lady parishioners. This proceeding he justified on the ground of his wish to make himself acquainted with the religious tendencies of the new Squire and the rest of the family, with whom, by virtue of his position, he would be brought into closer than ordinary contact.
He was agreeably surprised to find at the first interview with the new potentate and his wife that harmonious relations were likely to exist. Mr. Banneret, as an Anglican churchman, was quite prepared to join cordially with Mr. Courtenay in promoting the welfare of the parish; promising at once liberal donations to the funds of [333] ]the charitable societies, nursing clubs, and all such benevolent arrangements for the welfare of the poor. Mrs. Banneret had acted in similar positions before, and was quite willing to take a leading part in Dorcas societies, and other institutions for the benefit of widows, and labourers’ families, such as are always in a state of chronic or accidental distress in the most happily situated parishes.
The Vicar, speaking for the laymen of his diocese, was thankful, he might say, most grateful to Providence, that had so ‘shaped our ends,’ in a manner so unforeseen, while so beneficial to the church and to the needs of this long-neglected parish. Mrs. Courtenay, he needed not to say, would be only too happy to work in concert with Mrs. Banneret in all parish and church matters. She would pay her respects on an early date to the new Lady of the Manor. So the Vicar took his departure, leaving the Hall, as he told his wife, in a much more cheerful state of mind than had formerly been his experience after interviews with the ruling powers of Hexham.
Rarely, indeed, had he been able to extract subscriptions for urgent needs of the church, however strongly he might paint the discreditable state of the venerable edifice and the poverty of the village poor. Lord Hexham was uniformly polite—he could not be otherwise to the Vicar, a contemporary of his own at Cambridge, and a personal friend. But his logic was unanswerable: he had no money to spare—hadn’t had for years—never should have again, as far as he could [334] ]make out. Lady Hexham was refined and courteous, but the parable was unaltered. She could hardly pay for the girls’ frocks, for the boys’ uniforms; next year they might not have bread to eat. Rents were falling; certainly the agent received them, and disposed of them mysteriously to a bank, she heard. Only a fraction seemed to come their way. Once upon a time the tenants paid cheerfully; even admitted—wonderful to relate—that they had sold their crops well, had had a good year. But even so, when butter, beef and mutton, cheese and fruit, came in from the colonies and America in overwhelming quantities, what was the use of a good season if the prices went down to depths unheard of—and stayed there? As for the agent, it was needless to think of asking him to reduce a rent on cottage or holding, however small.
‘It’s asking me to rob his Lordship of his dues, simply, or else the mortgagee, which comes to the same thing. I’m powerless—otherwise should have been happy—most happy to contribute. As a private individual you are welcome to my guinea annually, as usual.’
With civil speeches and scant coin the Rev. Cyril had perforce to be content. He recognised the justice of the argument. The family would have subscribed reasonably, if not liberally, to all the customary calls upon the Lord of the Manor, if the head of the house could have afforded it. But he could not afford it, and there was an end of the matter. The parish, the tenantry, and the neighbours—a few staunch friends of the family [335] ]perhaps excepted—would be not sorry to exchange an impecunious proprietor, too poor and hampered by debts and mortgages to do anything for sport or charity, unable to entertain, or in almost any way to keep up an appearance befitting the descendants of Raoul de ——, who had ‘come over with the Conqueror,’ and having more majorum married the heiress of ——, had entered into possession of the Hexham lands and feudal privileges, together with as much of the adjacent common land as a rapacious Norman baron, high in favour with an unscrupulous sovereign, could by force or fraud manage to appropriate. The descendants of such a man should have been able to not only freely disburse the customary manorial dues, but to keep up all state and dignity befitting the position. As he could not, the villagers concluded that it was the next best thing to welcome the new family, who, though they had come from a wild sort of country—as they’d heard tell on—called Horstrailier—seemed a decentish sort, and, anyhow, were well off, and did the thing respectable. So the village church bells were rung, and the new family was greeted by a crowd of some fifty odd souls, comprising a large proportion of women and children, who hurrahed, and made formal demonstrations of welcome, as the carriage and a string of railway cabs, with servants and luggage, passed through the Tudor gateway, and drew up inside the more ornately modern portico of the baronial hall.
The girls at once rushed up to their rooms, where, as their own maid and some other house [336] ]servants had been sent down the day before, they were able to appreciate the view and make ready for lunch. This meal they professed themselves ready to enjoy with a true country appetite—as the morning had been more or less exciting, even in a sense fatiguing. It was fortunately a fine day, so that the beauty of the grass, the foliage, the surrounding landscape, impressed them strongly.
‘Oh, what an Eden of a place!’ said Hermione. ‘How happy we shall be! How thankful we ought to consider ourselves in having come into such a delightful home, and, what is of more consequence, having the means to keep it up.’
‘Oh, yes!’ assented Vanda, ‘we ought to have a good time, but I’m not sure that we shall be really happier than we were in dear old Sydney, when we first went to live in Charlotte Bay Place. What a glorious view there was of the Heads and the harbour! What boating picnics we used to have! I should like to go back there some day. Here we shall have to live a quiet English country life, being good to the poor, and so on, like the girls in Jane Austen’s books. There’ll be no adventure about it. I suppose the Vicar will want us to teach in his Sunday school.’
‘You needn’t teach there if you don’t wish. Mother won’t compel you, I’m sure,’ replied Hermione. ‘I think I shall rather like it after all the racketing and gaiety we’ve had in London. I feel as if a reposeful life here would be a pleasing change. My conscience has been troubling me lately, for taking all the good things of life and making no return. It seems so selfish and ungrateful.’