Inasmuch as the scene of this story is that historic pile, Belpher

Castle, in the county of Hampshire, it would be an agreeable task

to open it with a leisurely description of the place, followed by

some notes on the history of the Earls of Marshmoreton, who have

owned it since the fifteenth century. Unfortunately, in these days

of rush and hurry, a novelist works at a disadvantage. He must

leap into the middle of his tale with as little delay as he would

employ in boarding a moving tramcar. He must get off the mark with

the smooth swiftness of a jack-rabbit surprised while lunching.

Otherwise, people throw him aside and go out to picture palaces.

I may briefly remark that the present Lord Marshmoreton is a

widower of some forty-eight years: that he has two children--a son,

Percy Wilbraham Marsh, Lord Belpher, who is on the brink of his

twenty-first birthday, and a daughter, Lady Patricia Maud Marsh,

who is just twenty: that the chatelaine of the castle is Lady

Caroline Byng, Lord Marshmoreton's sister, who married the very

wealthy colliery owner, Clifford Byng, a few years before his death

(which unkind people say she hastened): and that she has a

step-son, Reginald. Give me time to mention these few facts and I

am done. On the glorious past of the Marshmoretons I will not even

touch.

Luckily, the loss to literature is not irreparable. Lord

Marshmoreton himself is engaged upon a history of the family, which

will doubtless be on every bookshelf as soon as his lordship gets

it finished. And, as for the castle and its surroundings, including

the model dairy and the amber drawing-room, you may see them for

yourself any Thursday, when Belpher is thrown open to the public on

payment of a fee of one shilling a head. The money is collected by

Keggs the butler, and goes to a worthy local charity. At least,

that is the idea. But the voice of calumny is never silent, and

there exists a school of thought, headed by Albert, the page-boy,

which holds that Keggs sticks to these shillings like glue, and

adds them to his already considerable savings in the Farmers' and

Merchants' Bank, on the left side of the High Street in Belpher

village, next door to the Oddfellows' Hall.

With regard to this, one can only say that Keggs looks far too much

like a particularly saintly bishop to indulge in any such practices.

On the other hand, Albert knows Keggs. We must leave the matter

open.

Of course, appearances are deceptive. Anyone, for instance, who had

been standing outside the front entrance of the castle at eleven

o'clock on a certain June morning might easily have made a mistake.

Such a person would probably have jumped to the conclusion that the

middle-aged lady of a determined cast of countenance who was

standing near the rose-garden, talking to the gardener and watching

the young couple strolling on the terrace below, was the mother of

the pretty girl, and that she was smiling because the latter had

recently become engaged to the tall, pleasant-faced youth at her

side.




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