CHAPTER VI
Fishpingle had given Lionel sound advice. The Squire was generally at his best after dinner, provided, of course, that the cook had done her duty. Upon this occasion, in honour of the heir, she had surpassed herself. And a glass of vintage port, after champagne, has a mellowing effect. Throughout dinner, the Squire’s mercurial spirits rose steadily. Indeed, as he was sipping his port, he said, with a jolly laugh, that the Hamlins must be invited to dine—and the sooner the better, b’ Jove! Parson Pomfret had tucked stout legs under his mahogany once a week. A rare old bird—that! He related anecdotes about Hamlin’s predecessor. The family rat-catcher, Bob Nobs by name, sung lustily in the village choir. But he raised his stentorian voice high above Parson Pomfret’s endurance. One Sunday morning, after the first hymn, the Parson addressed him sharply: “Look ye here, Bob Nobs, the angels will like your singing just as well if you don’t sing so loud.”
“Did you laugh, father?” asked Lionel.
The Squire was scandalised.
“Laugh, sir? Laugh in God’s House! Certainly not, but I fairly split my sides in the churchyard.”
As soon as Lady Pomfret left the dining-room, the Squire said briskly:
“Another glass of wine, Lionel? It won’t hurt you, my boy,” and he pushed the decanter across the table.
“Thanks, no.” He hesitated, flushed, and plunged.
“The truth is, sir, I do need Dutch courage. But with your permission I’ll drink another glass of wine after I’ve told you something.”
The Squire whacked the table.
“Damn it all!” he roared. “Have you told me a lie? Are you in love?”
“No,” said Lionel.
The Squire’s face indicated immense relief.
“Pass the wine, sir. If you think you’ll need stiffening after your story, I shall do well to fortify myself before.”
He poured out a bumper, and said curtly:
“Forrard! Forrard!”
“I owe five hundred pounds.”
He waited for the outburst, but none came. Lionel went on hastily. He stated his case, the nature of the debt, and how it could be met by an advance from his agents, with a written guarantee from the Squire. He finished gallantly:
“I can pay up by instalments, out of my allowance. And when I join the regiment, I am reasonably sure of being made adjutant, if I work for it. The C.O. half promised that.”
The Squire said solemnly:
“Will you give me your word of honour that your debts do not exceed the sum you mention?”
“Yes.”
“Then fill your glass. I shall make arrangements that my bankers pay £500 into your account at Cox’s. This is a first offence, and if I know you it will be the last. Your allowance is about right. You can’t pay instalments out of it. Have you spoken to your dear mother of this debt?”
“Not yet.”
“Then—mum’s the word. I impose that condition. I can’t have my blessed woman worried. Well, well, you frightened me out of my wits. From your face I made cocksure of some cursed entanglement with a petticoat.”
“Father, this is most awfully generous. I—I don’t know what to say. And, believe me, if I had guessed that things were a bit tight with you, I should have gone slower. When you told me about the shooting I had a fit.”
“There, there, you’re a good boy, and perhaps I ought to have taken such a son into my confidence. The shooting was let for a specific purpose. I haven’t entertained decently since you left home. We must cut down our celebrations—what? And you must do without a clinking good horse which I know of. Why the devil doesn’t Ben bring the coffee?”
“He knows I’m tackling you. I told him.”
“Did you? What did the old dog say? He lifted his tongue, I’ll be bound.”
“He offered to give me the monkey.”
“What?”
“It’s a great and glorious fact. He told me he was rich.”
“Rich? Rich? The old pincher! I’ve often wondered what Ben did with his money. Saved every bob, I expect. Were you tempted to take that monkey?”
“No.”
“Good! Ben is a faithful and loyal soul.”
“Isn’t he more than that, father?”
“Hay? What d’ye mean, boy?”
“It seems to me that he must have the most astounding affection for us. I’m quite rattled about it. Why hasn’t he gone on his own?”
But, to this question, the Squire could offer no adequate answer. He mumbled out: “Dear old Ben, we rabbited together. We had rare larks as boys.” Evidently the Squire thought that this accounted for everything. Lionel thought otherwise. But he kept his reflections to himself. Alfred entered with the coffee. Fishpingle followed with the old brandy. The Squire motioned to his butler to remain in the room. It was cheery to hear his mellow tones, as he said superbly:
“A glass of wine with us, old friend. Master Lionel has told me of your offer. It was worthy of you, Ben. My hand on it.”
Master and man shook hands. Fishpingle drank his wine, was questioned and cross-questioned about his day on the river, and most graciously dismissed. Lionel thought: “This is the Old School, with a vengeance.” Once more, he wondered at the change in himself, which enabled him to see so plainly that others had not changed.
When they joined Lady Pomfret, the Squire sank cosily into an immense armchair and soondozed off. Lionel watched his mother playing “Patience.” She sat upright at a small satin-wood card-table, her delicate hand poised above the cards, her head very erect. All her movements were graceful and deliberate. One could not imagine her running to catch a train. As a small boy, Lionel believed that she went to bed fully dressed, although really, he had proof positive to the contrary. When he sat beside her, she smiled and caressed his hand. She was playing “Miss Milligan,” an old favourite. Lionel lifted her hand and kissed it, as he said chaffingly:
“Toujours Mademoiselle Milligan!”
Lady Pomfret answered with perfect gravity:
“Millie is so jealous, when I forsake her.”
“But I am jealous that you don’t.”
She swept the cards into a heap.
“There! What a mother I am!”
They began to talk, lowering their voices. But she still sat erect. It was Lionel who relaxed. And gazing at her, the son observed an air of vigilance, something new and arresting. Was she watching him, on the alert for changes which she must discover? He whispered to her:
“Father is asleep, but you look so wide-awake.”
“Perhaps I am straining my eyes to see you.”
“Do I still seem small to you?”
“No, no,” she smiled at him; “a colossus, my dear; you bestride my tiny world.”
“Now you’re humbugging me, you wicked, satirical woman. I feel very small. Call me your Mighty Atom, if you like. I say, I wish I wasn’t quite such a mug where your elusive sex is concerned.”
“Oh! Who is eluding you, Lionel?”
He answered without embarrassment:
“Joyce Hamlin. We used to be such good pals. And I like to pick up palship where I leave it. She half promised to join us by the river to-day. Is it true that women always do what they like, what pleases ’em best?”
She was too kind and too clever to laugh at him. Her tone, as she replied, became as serious and sincere as his.
“Some women, Lionel, and nearly all men, do what pleases them, or what they think, at the time, pleases them. Joyce, I can assure you, is not one of those. But whether you can pick up palship, as you call it, with her just where you left off is another matter entirely and quite outside my knowledge.”
She paused a moment, and once more her soft fingers stroked his hand. Then she continued quietly:
“Palship, between Joyce and you, may seem simple and desirable to you. To her, probably, it presents difficulties and perplexities.”
“You are fond of Joyce, mother?”
“I am very fond of her. I should be most unhappy, if unhappiness came to her.”
Then she began to talk about India. Lionel told himself that his mother was, perhaps, more elusive than Joyce.
By the luck of things, during the days that followed Lionel and Joyce never met. Lionel had to go to London to replenish his wardrobe. He suggested a Salisbury tailor as good enough for an economising subaltern, but the Squire insisted upon a London snip. Lionel wondered whether Lady Margot Maltravers flitted into his father’s mind when he said, “Smarten yourself up, boy. You fellows from India come back looking confoundedly provincial.” Probably Lady Margot would not dash at a pair of trousers that bagged at the knee. He spent three days in town and “did” a play or two. After that the Pomfrets visited some neighbours—a many-acred squire and his wife—old friends who lived handsomely if not luxuriously. But their town house had been let, and the stables had fewer horses in them. Lionel listened to his host in the smoking-room, as he talked with Sir Geoffrey about the same eternal question of falling rents. It was pathetic to hear them, to know—as Lionel did—that such fine specimens of the race were passing—never to return. Could England spare this particular type? Could the old landed gentry be saved? If such a devout consummation depended upon their own unaided efforts the chance of salvage might be deemed negligible. Lionel met the son of the house, an old school-fellow, who was in the Blues. The young men talked together. They agreed solemnly that the deuce was to pay. Lionel confessed his inability to solve the problem. Tom Challoner said blandly:
“We’re up against it. I’m chasing a jolly little Yank with a barrel of dollars. If I pull it off, Lionel, the old place is safe for a generation or two. That’s how they’ve kept together the big properties in France.”
Lionel replied bluntly:
“It seems a rotten way of doing it.”
“Tell me some other dodge.”
Lionel remained silent.
Next day the four men of the party played golf—singles in the morning and a foursome in the afternoon. Age played with Age and Youth with Youth. In the foursome, Age triumphed. During the morning, Lionel said carelessly to his companion:
“I wonder if you know Lady Margot Maltravers?”
“Know her, my dear fellow? Everybody knows La Reine Margot.”
“You call her that, do you?”
“I don’t. Her Majesty doesn’t bother with the likes of me.”
Lionel tried to disguise his astonishment. At Eton his companion had cut “a wide swath.” He was in “Pop,” and a member of the School XI, a bright star, shining high above Lionel. And now, when they met again, Lionel was well aware that in Mrs. Grundy’s shrewd eyes, and in the eyes of marriageable young women, a handsome captain of the Household Cavalry loomed larger than a Green Jacket subaltern.
“What do you mean, Tom?”
“Just what I say. She’s a clever nut is Margot. She consorts with the highbrows. Know her? Why, your old governor met her in our house. She’s took an uncommon shine to him. He cut us all out.”
“She is coming to stay with us in a fortnight.”
“Is she?” He glanced sharply at Lionel. “Then look out! She’ll keep her hand in with you. Her weapons don’t get rusty from not usin’ ’em.”
“Flirtatious—eh?”
“The most abandoned coquette in London.” Then seeing Lionel’s eyebrows go up, he added quickly, “I’m not crabbin’ her. Personally, I believe she’s as cold as Greenland’s icy mountains. Her vitality is mental, not physical. She’s had a dozen affairs. Comes out of ’em cool as a cucumber. I predict that she’ll make a big marriage—take on a Serene Highness. Pots of money! Go easy with her, old lad. Hide your feelings.”
Lionel laughed.
“I shall have to, Tom.”
“Eh?”
“I mean that I particularly dislike that sort of girl. But father cracks her up no end. For his sake, not mine, Ishallhide my feelings.”
“If she whistles, you’ll come to heel.”
Lionel returned from this visit slightly depressed, and unable to analyse his own incohate emotions and sensibilities. His father had treated him so generously that he was positively tingling with impatience to make some return. He was in the mood, in fine, to lead a nice girl, with a bit o’ money, to the altar, but not such a “dasher” as Lady Margot. Being a modest youth, he jumped to the conclusion that she would not dash at him. If she did——! Well, in that unlikely contingency he could retreat, tactically.
The sight of Joyce, whom he met by accident in the village, heartened him up. He reproached her for faithlessness in not coming to the river upon his first day at home; but she replied simply that her father had despatched her on some errand to a house at the farther end of the parish. He murmured a faint protest—
“Parson’s unpaid curate, are you?”
“Father pays me, as—as your mother pays you.”
“Jolly little I do for her.”
Joyce laughed.
“Really? If you’ve grasped that Lionel, it’s well with you.”
“It isn’t altogether well with me. I’m a bit moithered. It would do me good to have a heart-to-heart talk with you.”
“Thanks.” She smiled demurely. “But why especially with me?”
“Because you’re such a practical little dear.”
“Am I? I wonder. Perhaps I am only practical where others are concerned.”
They were walking along the high-road which follows the river for a few hundred yards. And this bit of road happened to be almost the centre of the Pomfret property. So far as eye could see every acre—good, bad and indifferent—belonged to the Squire. Lionel said eagerly:
“Just so. And as this matter concerns me, you could give sound advice, couldn’t you?”
Obviously he firmly believed her to be wholly unconcerned in his affairs. And she wasn’t. Her quickening pulses told her that. But she said lightly:
“I could try. What bothers you?”
He burst into fluent speech. Ought he to chuck the army? His father had made a jest of it, but—facing disagreeable facts—was it not his duty to begin some sort of preparatory work to fit himself for a job he knew nothing about. Fellows like Bonsor were simply hopelessly out of date. Take the Home Farm—the Squire’s joy and pride. It was run at a loss. And all the tenant farmers needed “binging up.” The old order was doomed if it persisted in running things on old, worn-out lines. All this, and much more, he poured into Joyce’s attentive and sympathetic ears. When he paused for a second, she said quietly:
“What does Sir Geoffrey say?”
He laughed derisively.
“Father? I can’t talk with him about this. And, between ourselves, how can he talk with me, being the man he is? Every word I’ve said to you is an indictment of his policy and management. And I can’t talk with mother, either, because any criticism of his methods would hurt her horribly. I did talk to Tom Challoner. We’ve been stayin’ with ’em. Tom is in the same tight place, but he’s found a way out.”
“Captain Challoner must be cleverer than I gave him credit for. What is his way?”
“Dishonourable marriage.”
“Oh-h-h!”
“All the same, his way doesn’t seem dishonourable to him. And from his point of view, mind you, if he marries money to save the old place it is a sacrifice. But he doesn’t think of the girl at all.”
“Do men think of a girl, as a rule?”
Something in her soft voice arrested his attention. He looked at her. Her cheeks were pinker than usual. That, however, might be due to a warm day and exercise.
“Are you cynical about men?” he asked abruptly.
“Oh, no. But I suppose—I think——”
“Come on! Heart-to-heart, Joyce. No skrimshanking!”
“I don’t know many men. I’ve met Captain Challoner. I’ve read about men like him. He’s a type, isn’t he? He might want a girl, either for herself or her money, but he wouldn’t ask himself if he could make her happy and contented, would he?”
Lionel was too busy with his own affairs to throw pebbles at a pal. He professed ignorance. Tom Challoner was a good sort. Any girl would have an easy time with him.
“Some of us want more than that.”
She stopped, smiling pleasantly. Her destination, a small cottage, was reached. Lionel offered to wait for her.
“I shall be busy for an hour at least.”
He grumbled, unwilling to go.
“What are you doing in there?”
“The mother of five children is in bed with a sixth. I play housemaid and nurse. We shall meet to-night. Father and I dine with you.”
“Yes, I know. Joyce, you must wear your prettiest frock. Have you a very pretty frock?”
“I think so. I made it myself.”
She nodded and vanished.
Walking on, Lionel remembered that he had asked for her advice, but somehow he had not got it.
That afternoon he rode with the Squire. Father and son were very friendly together, although each shrank from discussion of subjects next his heart. This intercourse, so intimate—up to a point—revealed the Squire in a new light. Really the Squire revealed himself, accepting his boy, at long last, as man and comrade. To his dismay, however, Lionel did not share his feelings about the family heirlooms. Sir Geoffrey approached them warily, sincerely anxious to know where an up-to-date young soldier stood.
“We have some valuable stuff in the old house,” he said.
“Have we?” Lionel asked.
“The Sir Joshua, for instance. With your consent, my boy, it might be sold.”
“Would it fetch much?”
“Possibly twenty thousand, if the right people were bidding.”
Lionel whistled. Then he said, tentatively:
“I love the picture, but I’d let it go gladly if the mortgage could be diminished by that big sum, or——”
“Or?”
“If the money could be laid out on the estate. Fishpingle says——”
“Don’t quote old Ben to me, boy. He transmits my ideas. Well, well, you surprise me. I have regarded our heirlooms as sacred.”
“But the mortgage, father?”
“Tchah! You find that nice little girl. Snug dowries have cancelled many a mortgage.”
“Yes; that is what Tom Chanoller says.”
The dinner was pleasant enough. Squire and Parson tacitly avoided subjects upon which they might differ. Joyce looked charming in the simple frock of her own making. Some tennis was arranged. Hamlin mentioned that his eldest son was coming home and bringing with him a friend. Of this friend, Joyce, somewhat to Lionel’s chagrin, spoke with enthusiasm. He had distinguished himself at Cambridge, was now a Fellow of his college, and regarded as a rising chemist.
“A chemist?” exclaimed Lionel.
“Not a druggist. His line is coal-tar products. He says the Germans have that field almost to themselves, but he is digging deep into it. Mr. Moxon has imagination. That is what is wanted in an inventor.”
“Moxon?” said the Squire. “Let me see. One of the Moxons of Wooton?”
Hamlin answered drily:
“I don’t think so. Moxon’s father, I believe, made a fortune in jute.”
“What is jute?” asked Lady Pomfret.
Hamlin explained. Moxonpèrehad begun life sweeping out an office in Dundee. Moxonfilsmight end—anywhere. Already he was quite independent of a rich father.
“Very creditable,” said the Squire majestically. Everybody present knew that Sir Geoffrey would have shown much greater interest in a Moxon and Wooton. Nevertheless, he continued in the same tone, with a sweeping gesture:
“I am told that our tennis courts are in order. We shall be delighted to see your young people using them. Possibly Mr. Moxon has studied artificial fertilisers. If so, I shall be happy to have a word with him.”
Hamlin’s face stiffened. Lionel could read his thoughts. The Squire was not above accepting a tip from the son of a jute-manufacturer. Otherwise he might be regarded as an outsider. And, struggle as he did against inherited prejudices, Lionel, in his heart, was unable to regard this distinguished chemist as a social equal. Joyce, he reflected, could be reckoned as a jolly little sister. Joyce, evidently, had been swept off her feet by young Moxon. Suppose, too, that Moxon, a clever chap, had been captivated by her? Could he attend their wedding with satisfaction? Most emphatically—no! He did not ask himself what his feelings would be if Tom Challoner were leading Joyce to the altar.
After dinner a round game was played, so Lionel had no chance of getting Joyce alone. The guests left early, and the Squire said, with a sigh of relief:
“That’s well over. Hamlin drank lemonade. Depend upon it, lemonade irrigates his perversity. Beastly sour stuff! Joyce seems to like this jute-manufacture’s son. We may have a wedding in the village. Very suitable match.”
Lady Pomfret nodded. She observed, out of the corner of her eye, that her son was pulling savagely at a small moustache.
Lionel played one game of billiards with his father, and was handsomely beaten. Then he went to bed, but not to sleep. He tossed uneasily between his lavender-scented sheets, growing more and more irritable. Had Joyce gone out of his life? In India, upon a night much warmer than this, he had lain awake thinking of jolly hours spent alone with Joyce. They would fish and ride together, with lashin’s of tennis. Did she avoid him purposely? In the old days, she popped in and out of the Hall like a kitten. Was she waiting now to be asked formally to come to luncheon or tea? Could it be possible that she was engaged to this chemist? No, no, Hamlin was the last man to countenance a secret engagement; and Joyce was incapable of keeping a fact of such importance from her father. Moxon—confound him!—and Joyce were not engaged, but they might be in a few days or so.
He got out of bed, lit a pipe, and cooled himself by the open window. A nightingale trilled a few notes, the broken song of late June. Lionel was in no sentimental mood. The nightingale singing to his mate provoked an absurd image of Moxon talking to Joyce about coal-tar products.
He cursed Moxon; and ordered the nightingale to “shut up.”
Then he laughed himself into a happier humour. Why should he care? Ten to one, he had found a mare’s nest. Girls were not enthusiastic about fellows they were fond of. Rather the contrary! Six to four Moxon was engaged to some freckle-faced lassie in Dundee. He felt remorse when the nightingale stopped singing. He leaned far out of the window and said clearly:
“I’m sorry, old chap; you go on singing to your missus.”
But the nightingale was huffed—and didn’t.
Owls hooted and hunted through the darkness. Male and female hunted together; for the first brood, now feathering nicely, were hatching out the second lot of eggs with their soft, warm little bodies. From the shrubberies came the hoarse cry of the nightjar, who moves the babies each night to a different nursery. Lionel felt more at ease in mind and body. The night was so still that he could just hear the rumble of a distant train speeding towards Salisbury. He thought of the people in the train, rushing on to adventures and misadventures, to new joys and old sorrows. Pace—progress—change! What a trinity!
He found himself yawning. He was almost dozing. The sand from the suburbs of slumber tingled in his eyes. The nightingale, still silent, may have heard his last words just audible to the sensitive ear:
“Good night, you jolly old world.”
CHAPTER VII
Many persons, profoundly ignorant of lives other than their own, believe that country gentlemen have easy billets. They read of big “shoots” with no understanding of the anxieties involved. They may be surprised to learn that often the host carries a stick instead of a gun. Indeed a “battue” (a favourite word amongst journalists) exacts as careful generalship as a battle. The same people imagine fox-hunting to be plain sailing over a grass country and the successful training of hounds—a pastime. A glance at “Beckford” would enlighten them. But, apart from sport, which engrosses less time on the part of a big land-owner than is popularly supposed, there remain the Bench, the County Council, the District Council, the Parish Council, and innumerable petty claims upon the leisure of men like Sir Geoffrey Pomfret. He worked hard all the year round, and much of that work was done gratuitously for the welfare of others.
Lionel had always been aware of this. Many a “shoot,” many a hunt had the Squire cheerfully given up in the prosecution of county and parochial duties. What Lionel did not know, what he soon learnt on his return from India, was that his father actually neglected his own affairs in the public interest. Fishpingle, fortunately, had filled the breach. And the Squire remained, possibly, the only man upon his estates who was not cognisant of the fact.
But Lionel was quite unable to measure the extent of Fishpingle’s influence and power because the dear old chap effaced himself. Lionel smoked many pipes with him, and, day by day, he marvelled at Fishpingle’s ability and devotion. He might have made a mark anywhere. Why had he remained a butler?
During the fortnight which elapsed before the arrival of the “dasher,” Lionel saw Joyce nearly every afternoon, but rarely alone. She played tennis with him, for Lionel and she were a match for Hamlin’s eldest son and Moxon. Between the sets she would chatter unconcernedly. It jumped to the eye that Moxon was paying her attention. And Lionel couldn’t help liking Moxon, although he described the hounds, when they visited the kennels, as “a nice lot of dogs wagging their tails.” Moxon, however, talked admirably, and Joyce listened with exasperating deference. He had brought his motor to the Vicarage, and appeared to be a man of ample means. When Lionel said as much to the Squire, that hypercritic perpetrated a joke.
“If his means are as large as his ends, he must be very rich.”
This was in allusion to Moxon’s hands and feet, points about which the Squire was particular. But he, too, liked Moxon, who proved to be “knowledgable” about fertilisers and intensive culture, and amiably willing to impart information whenever he was asked for it. Moreover, the possibility of any wedding in Nether-Applewhite brought out all that was best in the Squire. He kept on repeating to Lionel:
“A very suitable match. I hope it will come about.”
“I don’t,” said Lionel, spurred to protest by this repetition. “Joyce might do better than Moxon. He’s clever as he can stick, and not a bad chap, but—well, he’s Moxon. And I should think his people in Dundee are as sticky as their own marmalade.”
“I dare say. I repeat again—a very suitable match for Joyce. Her father is sticky. Now don’t argue with me, Lionel! It is nothing to us whom Joyce marries.”
He glanced keenly at his son, watching the effect of this sly thrust. Lionel riposted imperturbably:
“That won’t do, father, coming from you. Everybody knows what a matchmaker you are. And, by the way, that reminds me. Alfred confided to me that he wanted to marry Prudence, and that you objected. Can’t you see your way to withdraw your objection.”
“Most certainly not. Bless my soul! What are we coming to? I settled that affair with Ben before you came home. I sent a message to the little baggage through Ben. No mutiny in my house.”
“But, father, if they really love each other, poor dears!”
“Love! Tchah! I tell you this, boy, any healthy young man can love a dozen young women.”
“All at once, father?”
“You know what I mean. This ‘sighing and yearning and clinging and burning’ for one person of the opposite sex is ridiculous—preposterous.”
“I see. If you hadn’t captured mother, any other young woman would have done just as well.”
This disarmed the Squire. He laughed heartily and clapped Lionel on the shoulder.
“That was a good ’un, my boy. Dammy! you stuck me through the heart. But I wasn’t speaking of the quality. It doesn’t do to say it in these democratic times, but, between you and me, our Wiltshire labourers are not far removed from animals. I speak of what I know.”
“And whose fault is that?”
The Squire frowned. It was confounding that his son should ask such questions. He said sharply:
“Have you been talking with Hamlin?”
“I talk with Tom, Dick, and Harry. I want to know what people really think. If it irritates you, father, to discuss the conditions in our own county, I’ll shut up.”
The Squire fumed a little, but he was not ill-pleased. The boy expressed himself well and modestly. And he had inherited from his dear mother an ironical humour which tickled him. Whether, also, he had inherited her tact remained to be seen.
“Whose fault is it?” he repeated slowly. “That’s a bit of a stumper, boy. One can’t answer a big question like that—off hand.”
“Is it their fault? A lot of ’em herd together like animals.”
“Not on my property, Lionel.”
“I know. You’ve been awfully decent about that, but elsewhere. Within a radius of ten miles, we both know of conditions that beat the London slums. Is that their fault?”
“No.”
“Things are changing slowly for the better, but why can’t they be speeded up? If our labourers could be made more intelligent, we should profit as much as they. You’ve looked after their bodies jolly well. You believe in eugenics.”
“I do, b’ Jove! I don’t believe in clap-trap education, never did. Our old gaffers, who signed their names with their thumbs did a better day’s work than their half-educated sons.”
Lionel laughed.
“Father, I can roll you in the dust. I hate to do it.”
“Do it, if you can, you young rascal. I defy you!”
He laughed, more loudly than Lionel.
“How about Fishpingle?”
“Ben? What the doose has he got to do with it?”
“He has been a tower of strength to you, simply because he is educated. He shines brighter than Bonsor. Where would you be without him?”
“Um! You think you’ve downed me, boy. You quite forget that Ben is the exception that proves the rule. I’ve trained Ben. What he knows he’s got from me, b’ Jove! And I’ll admit that because his confounded memory happens to be better than mine he is able, once in a while, to get the upper hand by quoting me against myself. That’s a little trick of his which always exasperates me. Ben has understudied me, so to speak, to his own advantage and mine. He could take Bonsor’s place, and I sometimes think I shall let him have it. But, I repeat, Ben is exceptional. As to that, everybody knows that real ability always pushes itself out of the ruck. And—there it is! With the ruck, you can do so little practically nothing—nothing. If you have finished your cigar, we’ll join your mother.”
Lionel followed his sire into the Long Saloon. Lady Pomfret was playing “Patience” as usual. Lionel decided that he must do the same. His jolly old father couldn’t be pressed, as many a young man had discovered out hunting, when the Squire carried a Master’s horn. “Don’t ride in my pocket, sir,” he would roar out. “Am I hunting hounds or are you?”
But, happily, they could talk together without much heat—a significant sign. What encouraged the young man to persevere was the conviction that the Squire desired, heart and soul, the true welfare of his people. All of them were well housed, well fed, medically supervised—in a word, “protected” against their own ignorance. And Lionel’s ever-increasing conviction that such protection defeated its honest aims was instinctive rather than practical. He had no cut-and-dried scheme of reconstruction to offer to his father, or anybody else. His disabilities oppressed him. As a matter of fact, he did talk with Hamlin, and came away from such talks much discouraged. Hamlin was iconoclastic by temperament and training, a John Knox of a fellow! He advocated sweeping reforms, and after such a clear-up as he demanded Lionel wondered vaguely what would be left. The squires of England might be scrapped!
At the end of the week Moxon left. If he said anything to Joyce before his departure, the maid kept it to herself. Her friendly aloofness went on puzzling Lionel. She seemed the same jolly pal, but she wasn’t. Something, or somebody, stood between them. It might be Moxon; it might be the Parson, who certainly gave his unpaid curate plenty of work. The fact that she was at work, when he was fishing, riding, and playing golf or tennis, took some zest from these amusements. He said frankly to the Parson:
“Why can’t Joyce play about with me, as she used to?”
Hamlin answered rather grimly:
“Joyce hasn’t stood still.”
As he spoke he eyed Lionel sharply, so sharply that the young man felt uncomfortable. Hamlin went on in a very uncompromising tone:
“I give my daughter a free hand, Lionel. I trust her absolutely.”
“But, of course, sir.”
“There is no ‘of course’ about it. She happens to have earned that trust. ‘Playing about with you’ sounds harmless enough, and I trust you unreservedly, too; but tongues will wag in country villages, and I don’t want them wagging about my girl. That’s all.”
Lionel accepted this as satisfactory. The Parson had given a hint to Joyce. He smiled pleasantly, so pleasantly that the Parson took his arm and pressed it.
“You’re a good fellow, Lionel, but rather dense.”
“Thank you, sir. Have another shot.”
All the grimness went out of Hamlin’s voice, as he explained:
“You are only dense like so many worthy folk, where others are concerned. When I prepared you for confirmation, when we read together before you went up for Sandhurst, I discovered joyfully your modesty. Don’t squirm! We’ll have this out. You’re not the swaggering sort. I’ve never caught you preening yourself. It is quite likely that you are unaware of your attractiveness.”
Lionel did squirm, but the Parson held him tightly.
“Oh, I say, sir——!”
“More—you exercise the faculties that have been well exercised already. I didn’t get my ‘blue’ that way. At first I was a hopeless duffer at cricket. I believed that I wasn’t built for cricket. But something inside of me bit at my vitals, and I went to work with my brains—and after much tribulation I got there.”
“By Jove! you did!”
“Well, suppose you profit by my experience. Try harder to measure your own potentialities. Joyce has lost her mother. I try, very ineffectively, to take her place. In a word, Lionel, playing about with Joyce may be fun for you, regarding her as you do almost as a sister, but it might be disastrous for her. What it has cost me to say this you may realise when you have a daughter of your own.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lionel, in a different tone.
This talk with a man who detested mere chatter opened Lionel’s eyes. Was it possible that little Joyce could care for him in another way?
It is humorous to reflect that Hamlin—acting according to his lights—had brought about the one consummation he wished to avoid. He had underrated Lionel’s modesty, and indicated possibilities which hitherto had been beyond the young fellow’s horizon. Probably, Mrs. Hamlin—had she been alive—would have handled the same subject differently. The mere idea that Joyce might regard him other than as a pal made Lionel think of her, tenderly and chivalrously, as a woman abundantly equipped to inspire a warmer sentiment than friendship. But when he put the straight question to his inner consciousness: “Am I in love?” he couldn’t answer it.
But he obeyed the letter of the Parson’s injunction. He made no further effort to secure those pleasant heart-to-heart talks which he had missed so confoundedly. And here again—as the judicious will agree—he was playing Cupid’s game. Joyce felt piqued by the subtle change in him. She wondered if she had offended him.
We are at liberty to divulge one secret. Moxon had proposed. And she had refused him. Possibly, the Parson divined the reason. As a rule, penniless daughters of poor clergymen do not say “No” to eligible young men, unless their affections are otherwisely engaged. It is certain that Joyce—with her old-fashioned upbringing—was incapable of frankly admitting to herself that she loved a man whose feelings were agreeably fraternal. If, in maiden meditation, she dared to envisage Lionel as a lover, it is equally certain that she shrank, tremblingly, from the issues involved. Love passages with Sir Geoffrey Pomfret’s son and heir meant—ructions.
Moxon behaved with discretion and cleverness. He went away with the Parson’s permission to return after a decent interval. He perceived that he had “rushed” Joyce, and apologised so handsomely that she felt absurdly sorry for him, and inclined to blame herself. Indeed, having said “No” with unmistakable emphasis, she spent a sleepless but not altogether disagreeable night in speculating what her future might have been had she said “Yes.”
We have observed that Lionel obeyed the letter of the Parson’s injunction. It was not so easy to obey the spirit, unless he kept away from the young lady altogether. When they did meet, he was consumed by curiosity and excitement. He tried to read the virgin page, so immaculate to his eye. And then, through Fishpingle—a confirmed gossip about such affairs,—he learnt of poor Moxon’s rejection. Prudence pumped the facts out of the bouncing parlourmaid at the Vicarage.
“He means to try again,” said Fishpingle.
“Does he? I wonder why she refused him.”
Fishpingle remained exasperatingly silent.
It is significant that Lionel did not pass on this bit of gossip either to the Squire or his mother. When he next met Joyce, he decided that she looked a thought pale. Did this lack of colour indicate vigils? Why on earth couldn’t she confide in him? What would account adequately for her silence? A nice regard for poor Moxon, or——! He blushed as he confronted the more obvious hypothesis.
Under such circumstances, conversation, between an ingenuous pair, is likely to become artificial and constrained. They met and parted acutely ill at ease. The curare poison into which Cupid dips his darts paralyses action and stimulates sensation. They began to suffer abominably. Of the two, Lionel may have endured sharper pangs, because Joyce had her work, whereas time hung heavily upon his hands. Neither, as yet, had squarely faced the fact that they were in love.
Cupid laughed, as he fashioned more darts.
Meanwhile the Squire’s bankers had paid £500 into Lionel’s account at Cox’s. The actual payment of the money, promptly despatched to settle his debts, sent a fresh tidal wave of gratitude through Lionel’s mind. And he felt mighty uncomfortable when the importunate Bonsor clamoured, in his presence, for grants in aid of the Home Farm. On top of this came disconcerting news. Three young men in Nether-Applewhite announced their intention of emigrating. Upon many neighbouring estates depopulation was causing anxiety to farmers and landowners. The Squire was very hot about it, and sent his son with powers plenipotentiary to deal with the deserters. Lionel knew them well. They played cricket and were sober, respectable fellows, in the prescient eyes of the Squire potential fathers of large families. To lose them would be a disaster.
Lionel interviewed the Mucklows upon the Sunday preceding Lady Margot’s arrival.
He tried chaff first, and then serious remonstrance. The youngest of the three, so Lionel remembered, had announced his wish of becoming a gamekeeper, a calling for which he had special aptitudes. Lionel said to him:
“I thought, George, you wanted to be a keeper?”
George, somewhat to the consternation of his elder brethren, replied with a grin:
“Lard love ’ee, Master Lionel, it looks, seemin’ly, as if keepers an’ game-preservin’ won’t last another ten years. Where would I be then?”
“Rubbish!” exclaimed Lionel.
George accepted this deferentially, adding, as if in excuse:
“I’d a mind to be a policeman, I had, bein’—so to speak —so fine a figger of a man, but policemen bain’t wanted in Nether-Applewhite.”
“You say that as if you regretted it.”
“’Tis tarnation dull here, Master Lionel.”
An interminable discussion followed. The young men pursued many avocations, harvesting, cutting poles, bark-stripping, hurdling, and thatching. Month in and month out each could earn about eighteen shillings a week, a good wage in Wiltshire. They lived with their parents, but helped with the rent and paid board and lodging. So far as Lionel could gather, they were seeking change and amusement—livelier times.
“You fellows won’t get that in Canada.”
Western Canada had been mentioned as their future home.
“Ah-h-h! Have ’ee bin back there, Master Lionel?”
“No, but I know something about it. When the winter sets in, fifty degrees of frost, and you find yourselves frostbitten and forty miles from a doctor, you’ll be thinking of this snug cottage.”
But none of them budged from his determination to leave England. George, who might be reckoned the fool of the family, said finally:
“Us do hear tell there be no quality over there. Every tub a-stanin’ on its own bottom.”
“You’ll be standing on your head, George.”
Lionel returned to his father, rather discomfited. The Squire frowned, as he listened to his son’s report.
“I’ll see ’em,” he declared. “Hounds that run riot must be rated.”
“You told me to use tact.”
Eventually, Fishpingle saw the brethren and persuaded them to remain in Nether-Applewhite. He elicited the truth. Two of the brothers were engaged to be married and wanted cottages. Bonsor had told them to remain single, because no cottages were vacant. Fishpingle promised them new cottages, whereat the Squire grumbled and growled. He said to Lionel:
“Where is the money to come from?”
Lionel winced, thinking of the draft on its way to India. The Squire tapped him on the shoulder—
“Lionel, my boy, that nice little girl with something in her stocking is house-warming in my heart.”
Lionel nodded, not too enthusiastically.
The Squire was so full of his plan for cancelling the family mortgage and rebuying the land sold by his grandfather that he could not keep it from Fishpingle. As a rule, they spent an hour together each morning, going over estate accounts which, properly considered, were Bonsor’s business. Fishpingle, however, had kept such accounts for fifteen years, burning much midnight oil over them.
“Ben,” said the Squire, “that little lady is coming to us next week.”
“You mean Lady Margot, Sir Geoffrey.”
“I do. What d’ye think of her—hay?”
“Very urban Sir Geoffrey.”
“What d’ye call her? Urban? God bless my soul! What words you use! Where d’ye get your vocabulary from?”
Fishpingle answered deprecatingly:
“From you, Sir Geoffrey, from my lady, and from the dictionary.”
“Urban—eh? Well, why not? When you and I were her age, we liked London—what? I know I did. And I should like to see Master Lionel in Parliament. Between ourselves, Ben, I am hoping and praying that Master Lionel and Lady Margot will take a shine to each other. She liked his photograph, b’ Jove? And if I do say it, there isn’t a nicer young fellow in England. You’re starin’ at me like an owl. Can’t you say something?”
“I took the liberty of looking Lady Margot up in the Peerage.”
“Did you? Well, you found a thumpin’ good pedigree. No better stock anywhere.”
“What there is of it, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Hay.”
Fishpingle rose slowly, crossed the room to the bookcase and took down his “Burke.” The Squire watched him with impatience.
“Your slow ways irritate me. Where did ye get that Peerage?”
“I bought it, Sir Geoffrey.”
Fishpingle opened the big book, and put on his spectacles. Having found the page, entitled “Beaumanoir,” he pushed the volume across to the Squire, who adjusted his pince-nez.
“Not much stock left,” said Fishpingle.
The Squire frowned, running his forefinger up the page.
“You’ve been talking to my lady,” he snapped out.
“No, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Then she’s been talking to you.”
“Not about the Maltravers family.”
“Um! The stock has worn thin, but what of it—what of it? An infusion of fresh, healthy blood is needed.” He closed the Peerage with a bang. “Take the damned book away!” Fishpingle replaced it, and came back. “Sit you down man,” Fishpingle obeyed. “I take you unreservedly into my confidence.” Fishpingle bowed solemnly. “I want to bring about this match. As I told my lady—no pressure. It must come about naturally. I haven’t asked anybody to meet Lady Margot here. The young people will be thrown together, and there you are!”
Fishpingle remained obstinately silent. The Squire glared at him.
“You don’t share my wish, you crusty old dog? What’s in your mind. Speak out freely!”
“I was thinking, Sir Geoffrey, of young Lord Fordingbridge.”
“Then your wits are wool-gathering. He married a year ago, and what a marriage, b’ Jove! His agent’s daughter.”
“A fortnight ago,” said Fishpingle, with a faint smile, “her ladyship was safely delivered of twin sons. His lordship and his lordship’s father were only sons. That stock had worn thin.”
Light came to the Squire and blazed in his blue eyes.
“I take you, Ben, I take you. I suppose, if you had your way, you’d arrange a marriage between my son and a prolific milkmaid.”
“It would be sound eugenics.”
“Damn eugenics! I’d sooner see my boy dead in his coffin than marrying out of his own class. What d’ye say to that?”
“Nothing, Sir Geoffrey. What wine will you drink to-night?”
“Champagne,” roared the Squire, getting up. “I shall need a bottle to myself after this.”
“Certainly, Sir Geoffrey.”