The Squire's Daughter: Being the First Book in the Chronicles of the ClintonsMarshall, Archibald
General
The Squire's Daughter: Being the First Book in the Chronicles of the Clintons
Marshall, Archibald
England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Mate selection -- Fiction; Upper class -- England -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
Herbert Birket was Mrs. Clinton's only brother. Their father had been a
Colonel in the Indian Army, and had retired to end his days in a little
house on the outskirts of Bathgate, desiring nothing more than to read
the _Times_ through every morning and find something in it to disagree
with, walk so many miles a day, see his son well started in the
profession he had chosen, and his daughter well, but not splendidly,
married. He had gained his desires in all but the last item. The young
Squire of Kencote, in all the glory of his wide inheritance and his
lieutenancy in the Household Cavalry, had ridden past the little house
on his way to Bathgate and seen a quiet, unassuming, fair-haired girl
watering her flowers in the garden, had fallen in love with her, met her
at a county ball, fallen still more deeply in love, and finally carried
her off impetuously from the double-fronted villa in the Bathgate Road
to rule over his great house at Kencote.
South Meadshire had rung with the romance, and old Colonel Birket had
not been altogether delighted with his daughter's good fortune, wishing
to spend his last days in peace and not in glory. The wedding had taken
place in London, with a respectable show of relations on the bride's
side and all the accompaniments of semi-military parade on the
bridegroom's. There was no talk of a misalliance on the part of his
friends, nor was there a misalliance, for the Birkets were good enough
people; but the young Squire's six maiden aunts had returned to the
dower-house at Kencote after the wedding and shaken their respective
heads. No good would come of it, they said, and had, perhaps, been a
little disappointed ever afterwards that no harm had come of it, at any
rate to their nephew.
The old Colonel had long since been laid in his grave, and the little
house in the Bathgate Road, now in the respectable occupancy of a
retired druggist, would have seemed as strange a dwelling-place to the
daughters of Herbert Birket, who had prospered exceedingly, as to the
children of Mrs. Clinton of Kencote.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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