CHAPTER VIII
Leaving Fishpingle, the Squire walked down the passage which led past the pantry into the housekeeper’s room, where he knew he would find his wife. During the hour when he did accounts with his butler, Lady Pomfret passed the same time with housekeeper and cook. The Squire was so ruffled, as he stumped down the passage, that he broke one of his own inviolate rules, and called out “Mary, Mary,” as if he were shouting for a housemaid. Lady Pomfret’s clear tones came back. “I am here, Geoffrey.” Her smile, as she answered him, delighted the cook, an old and privileged retainer. It said so unmistakably: “Poor dear man! He can’t help it. When he gets excited he wants—me.” The cook’s answering smile was broader but as easily read as Lady Pomfret, who interpreted it thus: “Yes, my lady, the men are all alike, we have to drop our jobs, when they need—us.”
Sir Geoffrey appeared, red of face, and congested of eye, but he minded his manners.
“Good morning, Mrs. Mowland. How are you? As well and hearty as ever, I hope?”
The cook curtsied. She was one of his own people. The Squire’s civilities were greatly appreciated in the “room” and in the servant’s hall. He knew the names of everybody, high and low, in his establishment, and could talk familiarly with a scullery-maid, asking politely after her brothers and sisters, and sure to pay her a compliment if her cheeks were sufficiently rosy. In his own dining-room, were the potatoes not to his liking, he might instruct Fishpingle to throw them at Mrs. Mowland’s head, but such extravagance of behaviour endeared him to his household. The autocrat was so very human. He spoke, not quite so pleasantly, to his wife:
“Mary, my dear, I want a word with you.”
“Certainly, Geoffrey. In your own room, I suppose?”
“In my own room.”
He led the way to the library, which contained a vast number of calf-bound volumes which nobody disturbed. Here, above the book-cases, hung portraits of favourite hunters and hounds. Between them grinned the masks of half a dozen foxes, and on the mantel-shelf might be seen two hunting-horns brilliantly polished by Alfred, although much dented. The Squire found a chair for Lady Pomfret, but remained standing.
“Mary, I am upset.”
“Dear Geoffrey, I am so sorry. What has upset you?”
“Ben.”
“Dear me! Not wilfully, I am sure.”
“Don’t be too sure,” he snapped out. “Ben presumes upon my friendship and forbearance. I was fool enough to take him into my confidence this morning.”
“In my humble opinion that is not a foolish thing to do.”
“Isn’t it, b’ Jove! You wait. I spoke to him of our little plan, our little match-making plan.”
Lady Pomfret smiled ironically. The use of the possessive pronoun tickled her humour. He made so sure that his little plan was hers. And, really, that was very sweet of him. The Squire saw no derision in her smile; he was too much perturbed.
“Ah! What did Ben say?”
The Squire repeated what Ben had said, with pardonable accretions. Lady Pomfret remained perfectly calm. He continued vehemently:
“Ben has the impudence to disapprove. He would like to see Lionel marrying a milkmaid.”
“Surely he never said that?”
“I think he said it, or I said it. No matter! He flung at my head that ignominious marriage of young Fordingbridge.”
“Was it ignominious? The end—twins—seems to have justified the means.”
“Tchah! Well, Mary, you think as I do, bless you! so I shan’t ask for your opinion. Ben has great influence with Lionel.”
“Has he?”
“Of course he has. Ben—damn him!—I beg your pardon, Mary!—might conceivably queer our pitch.”
“Oh dear, no!”
“You reassure me. But you know, Mary, I have always had an odd presentiment that Lionel might stick a knife into me.”
Lady Pomfret lost her composure for an instant. She said emphatically:
“That presentiment is preposterous.”
The Squire continued at an easier pace, ambling forward to his objective.
“I mean this, my dear. We know our dear Lionel. He is a good boy, a nice affectionate son:——”
“That and much more,” murmured the mother.
“I quite agree, but I am not blind to his—a—limitations. He talks with Tom, Dick, and Harry. I have his word for it. He talks with that pestilent parson.”
Lady Pomfret protested. Protest, she was well aware, might be wasted, but, being the woman she was, she had to make it.
“Mr. Hamlin is not pestilent. He is like you—”
“What?”
“He has the courage to speak his opinions regardless of the effect produced on his listeners.”
“Um! You accuse me of that? I am astonished. I flatter myself that I don’t impose my opinions upon others. However, let that pass. Where was I? Yes, yes, pray don’t interrupt me for a minute! Lionel is too absorbent, a bit of a chameleon, what? He likes to hear both sides. I don’t blame him, but there it is. Having heard both sides, poor boy! he gets rather dazed. Conditions in our rural districts daze him—and no wonder. He asks where he is?”
“Surely you can tell him.” She smiled again.
“I’m dashed if I can. That’s the trouble. He’s a weathercock out of order. And he can’t, as yet, get at the root of things. He failed with those Mucklows. It is humiliating to reflect that Ben found out the trouble at once, and put it right. I gave the boy a free hand. Why didn’t he dig out the truth? Now, I’ve lost my point. I was heading for what?”
“You said something absurd about Lionel sticking a knife into you.”
“So I did. Lionel, with his too loose ideas——You know, Mary, the army is not what it was in my time. Even in good regiments you’ll find a taint of demagogy, the trail of the serpent. Have I lost my point again? No. Lionel wrote regularly to little Joyce Hamlin. She wrote to him. She’s a deuced pretty girl.”
“So Mr. Moxon thought.”
“I hope Moxon will get her. But—this is my point—I want to hammer it well home—Lionel might fall in love with just such a bread-and-butter miss as Joyce.”
“That doesn’t describe the child quite fairly, Geoffrey.”
“Well, well, you know what I’m driving at. It is his duty not to marry for money, but to find a nice girl with money. There are plenty of ’em. God forbid that I should force Lady Margot down his throat! It is quite likely she won’t cotton to him——”
“Or he to her?”
“As to that, I am not alarmed. You charmers,” he smiled genially at her, “lead us poor fellows where you will. Practically, Mary, you proposed to me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You lured me on and on, you witch! If this little lady wants Lionel, she’ll lure him on. I don’t worry about that. He gave me his word that he was heart-whole.”
“Then he is, or was, when he said so.”
“Was—was? You don’t think——?”
“I think lots of things. I know very little. Till quite lately Lionel has been transparently friendly with Joyce and she with him. During the past few days I have noticed a slight change in him. I have hardly set eyes on her. He is a trifle absent-minded with me, and not quite so jolly. I am sure of this—he shares your anxieties. He would like to help you, but cannot find a way. He did just hint to me that he would leave the army, if he knew enough to take Bonsor’s place.”
“Rubbish! I have indicated the way for him, a broad and easy path. Well, I have a lot to do, but I had to have this chat with you. You are sure of Ben’s loyalty—hay?”
Her eyes did not meet his, but she answered quietly:
“I am sure that dear Ben has the true interests of all of us next his heart.”
He paused at the door, smiling at her.
“I am off to the Home Farm. I shall pass through the rose garden, and I shall pick the best rose for you. Where is Lionel?”
“I don’t know.”
Lionel happened to be at the Vicarage.
He had definitely made up his mind that he could say to Joyce what he kept from his own mother and father, and he knew, instinctively, that her advice, at such a moment, would help him enormously. He could, it is true, have laid his case before the Parson, a sound adviser, but he shrank from such an ordeal. Hamlin was too brutally outspoken. To place his perplexities before him meant listening to a one-sided indictment of landed gentry in general and the Squire in particular.
Chance, so often complaisant to lovers, ordained that Lionel should find Joyce alone. The Parson was attending a Diocesan Conference in Salisbury, and his eldest son had accompanied him. Also, it happened to be raining; so Joyce received Lionel in her own den, where she kept a lathe, a sewing-machine, rolls of flannel and long-cloth, many books, and her collections of eggs and butterflies. Lionel was invited to sit down and light his pipe.
“This is like old times,” he remarked.
“Isn’t it?”
While he was filling his pipe, she went on with her sewing. He looked at her small, capable hands and deft fingers, her workmanlike kit, and the shining coils of her brown hair, a shade lighter than her eyes.
Then he plunged into his troubles.
“We had a talk the other day, Joyce, but I never discovered till I was walking home that I had asked for your advice and never got it. I’m here to get it this morning.”
Unconsciously, thinking of the Parson’s injunctions, he laid stress upon this last sentence. It was plain to the girl that he had not come for anything else. He went on hurriedly.
“I owe my father five hundred pounds. This is strictly between ourselves. I got into debt to that tune, and he paid up like a trump. He never slated me at all. Mother doesn’t know. Now, I’ll say to you that I should have kept out of debt, if I had even suspected that he was really hard up. I swear that, Joyce.”
“You needn’t. I am sure of it.”
“And I’ll tell you something else. Generous and jolly as he’s been, I do feel sore and hurt because he couldn’t take me into his confidence. Once more, most strictly between ourselves,” she nodded, “there’s a big mortgage on the property, a plaster applied by my great-grandfather. Perhaps you knew it.”
She answered simply:
“I thought everybody knew it. I’m sure our parlourmaid does.”
“Just so. Well, I didn’t know. I’ve been treated like a child.”
She tried to console him.
“But, Lionel, the old school are like that. They never tell their nearest and dearest what most intimately concerns them. Look at those Ocknell girls.” (The Ocknell estate marched with the Pomfret property.) “They were given every advantage except those which teach women to earn a living. They hunted, they wore pretty frocks, and had a gorgeous time, till their father died. The son has the property, heavily mortgaged, and the girls have seventy-five pounds a year apiece.”
“Beastly for them!”
“I should think so. If misery loves company, you are not alone.”
The sympathy in her voice moved him to further confidence.
“Now, what bothers me is: how can I repay my father? If I’d known what I know to-day, when I left Eton, horses wouldn’t have dragged me into the army, although soldiering suits me down to the ground. As a soldier I’m an encumbrance on my people. They have to stint, by Jupiter! to keep me in clover. I ought to be earning money, not spending it.”
She assented with decision. He continued, not so fluently:
“With all the good will in the world, I can’t help father now. I made a mess of a small job the other day. If father died to-morrow, I should be hopelessly at sea on this big property. I should probably drop pots of money through sheer inexperience. You’ve listened to your father. You know what he thinks on these subjects. I want to ask you a straight question. What is to become of the landed gentry of this country, if they go on educating their children to spend money instead of making it?”
Joyce took her time, picking her phrases carefully:
“The landed gentry will go, Lionel, unless necessity forces them to face things as they are, instead of as they were. Father makes hay of the assertion that big properties can’t pay. They can pay, and pay well, if they are handled intelligently, scientifically. Mr. Moxon says just the same.”
Lionel laughed a little nervously.
“Moxon said that, did he? Probably about this very property? Ah! I thought so. Please go on.”
“What applies to our great manufacturing industries, so Mr. Moxon says, applies also to the land question. Manufacturers who refuse to scrap obsolete machinery are scrapped themselves. The inventive genius of this country is marvellous. What made the Germans rich?”
“I’m hanged if I know.”
“Mr. Moxon told me. A process for reducing refractory iron ores which was invented by an Englishman. This estate has been worked upon the same conservative lines for generations. These lines are worked out.”
Her voice died away. Lionel was tremendously impressed. What a clever little woman it was, to be sure! But a jealous pang pierced him. If he could talk, like Moxon——! And how closely she must have listened to the beggar to repeat, as she did, his very words; for he divined that they were not her words. And Moxon was coming back, confound him! He felt absurdly cheap and small, when he compared himself to Moxon. Unable to answer Moxon out of his own pitiful inexperience, he found himself repeating words often in the Squire’s mouth.
“Of course, Joyce, this scrapping process is costly. Intensive culture, on any large scale, means a large output of capital. Reconstruction isn’t quite as easy as Moxon thinks.”
“You had better talk to Mr. Moxon about that.”
“I will. Is—is he coming back soon?”
“I don’t know.”
As she answered him she blushed. Lionel drew false inferences from that blush. She continued hurriedly:
“Anyway, if something isn’t done, and soon, by the country gentlemen, we shall live to see a few immense properties owned by plutocrats, and all the other estates split up into small holdings.”
Lionel groaned.
“I can’t think of that, Joyce. It tears me horribly. Does your father hope for that?”
“No. Father detests slackness and inefficiency, because he knows how terribly they affect others. Labourers, for instance, at the mercy of farmers and landlords, men who can’t be sure of keeping the same roof over their heads. He may be biassed—I don’t know—because he does interest himself in the wrongs of the poor. Shocking cases come to his notice, grievances that cry to Heaven for redress. Not on this property, but even here so much more might be done.”
Lionel made no attempt to contradict her. He had heard enough.
“We come to grips now, Joyce. What can I do? What ought I to do? We are very old friends, and, listening to you, I realise with mortification that you are far ahead of me because my blinds have been down, and yours up during these last four years. Give me your advice, you dear old thing!”
He leaned towards her, and she saw that tears were in his eyes, that he was torn, as he said, by an emotion and sensibility for which she had not given him credit. Everything that was best and most womanly in her welled up in flood. At that moment she knew that she loved him because he had come to her in his hour of need. But her self-control was greater than his. She looked at him with undimmed eyes, although tears gushed into her heart. And the swift thought flashed through her brain that if this was a representative of country gentlemen they could ill be spared. Another thought as swiftly took its place. She had wondered more than once why such a woman as Lady Pomfret had devoted her life to such a man as the Squire. Not that she underestimated what was fine in him. But he seemed a coarser clay, too massive a personality, too autocratic, for a gentlewoman of superlative quality. Now she knew instinctively. The Squire, as a young man, had been like Lionel—sincere, impulsive, full of vitality, and with that same appeal radiating from him, the appeal for guidance, the stronger the more appealing, when the woman recognises her ability to supply what is lacking, a lack of which the man himself may be quite unconscious. Prosperity had changed Sir Geoffrey, not for the better. What effect would adversity have upon him and his son?
But he had asked for advice. What counsel could she give him?
She laid down her sewing, clasping her hands upon her lap.
“I am afraid,” she said. “You put upon me a responsibility. Father says people ought to be careful of giving advice because so often it is taken.”
“I shall at least try to follow your advice, Joyce.”
“What is my advice?” she asked with almost passion. “What is it worth—nothing. I am only an echo. You asked me the other day if you ought to leave the army. I have lain awake trying to answer that question.”
It was a dangerous admission, and he leapt eagerly upon it.
“Have you? Lain awake, eh?” His voice thrilled. “That was sweet of you.”
Her tone became normal—practical. She held herself well in hand, smiling faintly.
“I repeat I am an echo. I remember what others say, and what I have read. Work will save you and yours, Lionel, undivided energies concentrated upon problems which are far beyond me. There has been one steadfast worker upon the Pomfret property—Fishpingle.”
“I know. He’s amazing.”
“Your father,” she continued, treading delicately, “has kept the traditions of his order. He has not neglected county and parish duties. Father gives him unstinted credit for that. He has worked very faithfully for others, but——”
“But——”
“How can I criticise him to you? It seems such impertinence.”
“Joyce, if you are a true friend, you will say everything that is in your heart.”
“Everything? Hardly! I am skating over thin ice. Has your father’s work for others really helped them? Has it not taken the form of charity? Doesn’t it make his people more dependent upon him? Doesn’t it lead to helplessness in the end?”
“Joyce, dear, I believe it does. What would you have him do?”
“Him? If I could speak impersonally! Your father is not likely to alter much, unless he went through some great character-changing experience. The labourers in Wiltshire will remain much as they are so long as the squires remain as they are. What is needed is a shining example. The greatest thing that could happen, and which may happen, would be the object-lesson of science triumphant over our thin soil. The land owner who makes his land pay handsomely will do more for his people than all the District and Parish Councils put together.”
Lionel said humbly:
“I suppose that is undiluted Moxon?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. I like him, Joyce. He is a fine fellow. I—I hate to tell you, but I’ve been a snob about Moxon, and listening to you I wish, with all my heart, that I were Moxon.”
“Do you?” She hesitated. Then she said slowly, “I am glad that you are just—you.”
“Bless you!” he exclaimed fervently.
But she declined to answer his definite question about giving up the army.
“You might be wanted there, Lionel. You are a keen soldier. If there should be war?”
The talk drifted to India. Presently Lionel went back to the Hall.
He was a prey to conflicting emotions, chewing a bitter-sweet cud. Three conclusions were in his mind: Joyce’s friendship for him had not diminished; she had lain awake trying to solve his problems; in her kind eyes he had read sympathy and affection. That was the pleasant first conclusion. The others, as convincing to him, were not so palatable. She had repeated Moxon’s words. Hisipsissima verba. Joyce was not a phrase-maker, although she talked well and to the point. Does any woman listen attentively to any man unless she is interested in him? Obviously Lionel was too modest and too dense (as the Parson had divined) to consider the possibility of a girl listening, keenly alert, to talk that might profit another man. Lastly, when speaking of Moxon, she had blushed! She wanted him to come back, and he would come back, this clever, able fellow, to turn a doubtful “No” into a glad “Yes.”
With an effort he left Joyce and Moxon standing together at the altar.
He harked back to his own affairs doggedly. What could he do? A talk with Fishpingle might help.
He found that encyclopædia of rural knowledge in his room, still busy with Pomfret accounts, spectacles on nose. Fishpingle greeted him joyously. The rain had stopped, and the river would be in fine order. Master Lionel, of course, wanted his rod, a split-cane affair built by a famous maker, which the old man guarded jealously. But Lionel sat down and refilled his pipe, which had gone out during his conversation with Joyce. Being a “thruster,” like his father, he rode straight at the big fence—
“Ought I to chuck the service?”
Fishpingle looked astounded. Lionel, without pausing, set forth his difficulties. Unconsciously, he, too, quoted Moxon.
“Tell me, Fishpingle, do you think that science can triumph over our thin soil?”
“What a question, Master Lionel!”
“You jolly well answer it, if you can.”
“This is a grazing county. Science is teaching us every day better methods of getting more milk from our cows, and a finer quality of butter and cheese. Sheep and pigs pay well where there is no wastage of food.”
“Is there much wastage on our farms?”
He shot his questions at Fishpingle with a slight air of defiance. Would this old chap take him seriously?
“There is too much wastage.”
“How can it be checked?”
“The labourers are very careless. One can’t watch them all the time. And they love the old slipshod ways. What are you getting at, Master Lionel?”
He replied impatiently, with a toss of his head.
“You. I’m a fool, and luckily I know it. The Squire laughs at my idea of leaving the army. He likes to think that I’m treading in his steps. So I am. But where do they lead—backwards or forwards?”
Fishpingle polished the lenses of his spectacles. He couldn’t quite see this young man who enfiladed him right and left with questions which had baffled the wisest in England for five and twenty years. This sprig from a fine tree was shooting too fast for him. He evaded a direct reply.
“Evidently, Master Lionel, you’ve made up your mind not to go backwards.”
“I have. But standing still won’t help much, and I don’t know how to get ‘forward.’”
“One lives and learns. It’s slow work. All over the country the land system, generally, is the nation’s weak spot. I believe in the land. I hate to see strong young men emigrating.”
Lionel laughed, but not too mirthfully.
“How did you get the truth out of those Mucklows? I did my little bit with ’em. By George, it was little.”
Fishpingle disclaimed any credit.
“I know ’em, Master Lionel. I knew that Ezekiel Mucklow has been walking out with Mr. Hamlin’s parlourmaid for five years. They just stand it so long. Then they want cottages in a hurry. To deal with ’em you must know ’em—all the ins and outs of their queer minds. Half the young men from Ocknell Manor have gone. That estate is a disgrace. And many others. It’ll be in the market soon. And the Ocknells have been there for five hundred years.”
“But you believe in the land.”
Fishpingle might have been repeating the Apostles’ Creed, as he answered solemnly:
“’Tis the backbone of England, Master Lionel. I’ve always thought that. And it ought to supply the nation with all the food it needs, and more too. We’ve ceased to be an island. Everybody admits it. Yes, I believe in the land.”
“Do you believe in the landowners?”
“In some of them.”
He sighed; lines puckered his face. He held out his hands, palms upward, as if he were weighing landowners, and finding the weight short.
Lionel said reflectively:
“You’ve answered my question. I ought to leave the army and put myself under Mr. Moxon.”
“Mr.—Moxon?”
“Didn’t you know? He’s an expert, grappling with this very problem. He gave the Squire some priceless tips, but will he take ’em?”
Fishpingle shook his head. Lionel assumed a more cheerful manner and deportment.
“This talk has cleared the air. I haven’t wasted my time this morning. I shall tackle my father next.”
“Not to-day, Master Lionel.”
“Why not?” the young man asked impatiently. “Does he think I’m going to waste all my leave playing tennis and fishing?”
“Go slow!” counselled the sage. “You can’t rush the Squire. Mr. Moxon, if he is an expert, would tell you to read up the subject, to—to see the thing as a whole, to find out what is ahead of you, Master Lionel.”
Lionel’s face darkened again. He said moodily:
“I’m such a mug that I don’t even know the title of one book dealing with land in an up-to-date way.”
“I could lend you some books and pamphlets.”
“You?”
Fishpingle rose and went to his bureau. Out of a drawer he selected two books and half a dozen pamphlets.
“This bangs Banagher!” exclaimed Lionel, as he glanced at the titles. “Upon my soul, you’re a wonder! But, you sly old fox, you don’t keep these in the bookcase. And I promise you that I shan’t leave ’em lying about in father’s room.”
“Thank you, Master Lionel. Some of the pamphlets are one-sided. You must salt ’em. But the stuff you want is there.”
“Hot stuff, too!” He glanced at one of the pamphlets. “Sport isn’t spared, I see.” He read aloud a title—
“‘Tyranny of Sport.’ Is sport a tyranny?”
“Sometimes. You know more about it than the man who wrote that pamphlet. But he gives his views. Lots of people think as he does. When you’ve read all that, Master Lionel, it will be time enough to talk to Sir Geoffrey.”
Lionel tucked the books under his arm and stuffed the thin pamphlets into his coat pocket.
“You’re right, as usual, old chap.” He held out his hand, with a delightful smile. “You know, I look upon you as a sort of second father. Many thanks.”
Fishpingle listened to his firm step, as he strode down the stone-flagged passage, whistling “Garryowen.” Then he crossed to the hearth, staring long and frowningly, not at the photographs of Squire and son, but at the gracious, tender face of Lady Pomfret.
CHAPTER IX
The little lady, as the Squire affectionately termed her, arrived at Pomfret Court a few days later. She brought with her many wonderful frocks, a habit (if the breeches and apron of the modern Amazon may be so called), and the shoes fashioned by the “One and Only” in Paris. Thus armed, cap-à-pie, she sparkled into view. Urban she was, and urbane. Her delight in the quiet countryside had no taint of insincerity. She was tired of Mayfair and said so unaffectedly. And she met Lionel, for the first time, as he came across the lawn after a ride through the Forest. Instantly she decided that he surpassed expectation. His tall, slender figure lent itself admirably to riding kit; his cheeks were flushed by exercise; he looked, every inch of him, what he was—the son of an ancient house, and a gallant soldier. Nor was it possible to suspect from his manner any prejudice, instinctive or otherwise. Lady Margot was his guest. Indeed, the mere fact that he did feel a certain prejudice against “dashers” who had “affairs” made him the more courteous and pleasant outwardly.
At tea Lionel said little. He listened attentively to Lady Margot’s London gossip, nicely spiced to the Squire’s taste. She chattered to Sir Geoffrey, but at his son. Lionel expected some “swanking” from a young lady whose portrait appeared constantly in the illustrated papers. But Lady Margot didn’t “swank.” Her methods of attracting attention were more subtle. She imposed herself as a personage indirectly. Lady Pomfret may have divined this, because her methods were not dissimilar. Lionel admitted frankly to himself that the visitor had charm. The word “chic” had been used so often by reporters that Lionel tried to find a better label, and failed with “mondaine.” He knew that she drove her own motor and could ride hard to hounds. Beaumanoir Chase, where she had been brought up, was in the Belvoir country. The Squire, you may be sure, wanted first-hand information about that stately pile. Lady Margot was outspoken about her kinsman, now in possession of her former home.
“Poor Beau ought to have married me. He wished it, and so did I, till I noticed that he was prematurely bald, a long three-storied head, full of Victorian furniture. He is very hard up, and several thousands ought to be spent upon the house alone. Unhappily, father and he hated each other.”
From her soft voice and candid glances you might infer that here was the most guileless creature in the world. She continued gently, as she nibbled at a sandwich:
“It is heart-breaking to go there and see things falling to pieces.”
“Horrible!” the Squire agreed.
“Your fences and gates are in apple-pie order.” She smiled at the Squire, who beamed back at her.
“You notice these trifles, my dear?”
His tone was almost paternal.
“At once,” she answered crisply. Then she turned to Lady Pomfret. That shrewd observer detected a subtle change in her manner, a caressing deference slightly feline.
“Don’t you think, Lady Pomfret, that we are sharper than men in noticing significant trifles?”
“You are, I am sure.”
“A lone orphan has to be. Perhaps you disregard things and focus your attention upon persons?”
“Yes; I think I do.”
Lady Margot turned to Lionel, addressing him quite easily, as if she had known him for years.
“Have you a cigarette? My case is in the motor.”
“If you like Turkish.”
She lay back, puffing contentedly, surveying the Pomfrets through half-closed eyes. They were sitting under a big walnut tree, said to be a sanctuary from gnats and midges. The great lawn, bordered by beeches, stretched far away into the distance till it melted into the park. Beyond the undulating park and below it lay the Avon valley now embellished by a soft haze—the finest view in Wiltshire, according to the Squire. Visitors praised this view. Lady Margot, guessing as much, said nothing. However, her attitude, her air of being contentedly at home, might be considered better than any compliment. She murmured lazily:
“How delicious it is here!”
She blew a tiny circle of smoke, and watched it melt away, smiling like a child. The Squire said heartily:
“We shall measure your approval by the length of your visit. A fortnight, at least.”
Presently Fishpingle and Alfred approached to take away the tea. Lady Margot greeted the butler by name.
“How do you do, Mr. Fishpingle?”
“I am quite well, my lady, thank you.”
She smiled pleasantly at Alfred, who knew his place and remained impassive. Her cleverness in speaking to an old retainer delighted Sir Geoffrey. He glanced at his son, as if saying, “She’s the right sort, you see—a pleasant word for everybody.”
As the men-servants moved away, she said to Lionel:
“Your butler is a dear.”
“You remembered his name,” chuckled the Squire. “That pleased him. I could hear the old boy purring.”
“But who could forget his name? Where did he get it? Is it a local name?”
The Squire stiffened. Lady Margot perceived that she had been indiscreet. He answered formally:
“It is not a local name. How he came by it I can’t tell you.”
She wondered vaguely if her host could tell, but wouldn’t. Swiftly she changed the conversation, with a glance at Lionel’s trim gaiters and breeches.
“I have brought a habit.”
“We canmountyou,” said Lionel. “If you were staying on till August, we could give you a day with our buckhounds.”
“Oh, why, why didn’t I come to you in August? I have never been out with buckhounds. Tell me all about it.”
Lionel obeyed. The Squire slipped away, followed by Lady Pomfret. As soon as they were out of hearing, he whispered to his wife:
“A good start, my dear. And, mark me, she’ll make the running.”
“I think she will, Geoffrey.”
“Just as clever as they make ’em, Mary. Was it mere luck her pickin’ out a subject which the boy can talk really well about?”
“Oh, no.”
“Do you think she likes him?”
“Ask me that the day after to-morrow.”
Alone with Lionel, Lady Margot kept him talking, upon the sound principle that young men, as a rule, do not use speech to disguise thought and action. Also, she was interested in his theme. The chase, in its many phases, excited her. Half an hour passed swiftly. At the end of an hour she thought that she had his measure. She summed him up, temporarily, as “the nicest boy I’ve ever met.” Of her many instincts the maternal was probably the least developed, and yet, at this first meeting, she did feel motherly towards Lionel Pomfret. She owned as much to herself, and was much amused and indeed tickled by a new sensation. Lionel, she made sure, was plastic clay to the hand of a potter. His modesty and sincerity made a deep impression upon a young lady who, for some years, had carefully picked her cavaliers from men who were neither modest nor quite sincere. More unerringly she judged him to be no fool. He exhibited alertness and vitality—an excellent combination. He might, under discreet guidance, go far—as far as the Upper Chamber, for example. To be the wife of a peer may be a paltry ambition, but it must be remembered that Lady Margot was the only child of a great country magnate. Much that pertains to such a position had passed to her kinsman. Secretly she resented this. Her solicitors told her that a barony in abeyance might be terminated in her favour. No steps had been taken in such a direction. She made up her mind to wait till she was married.
It is not so easy to describe Lionel’s judgment of her. Humbled after his experience with Moxon, he was willing to admit that his prejudice against an unknown girl had been absurd. Tom Challoner was big enough and stupid enough to shoulder the blame of that. The little lady, whose notoriety frightened him, was delightfully approachable. Already, he had slid into an easy intimacy. But did he like her? Would he get to like her? That question remained unanswered.
They were alone together for a few minutes before dinner. He had noted the perfection of her motoring kit; he was not quite prepared for the fresh frock which she wore that first evening. When she sailed into the Long Saloon, he blinked. She came towards him laughing.
“Tell me! Am I too smart?”
Her quickness of wit disarmed him. She had seen him blink. And she knew that the frock was a thought too smart for a family party.
He lied like a gentleman.
“Too smart? Of course not.”
She displayed it, making a pirouette. She might have been an ingénue gowned for her first ball, an artless nymph of seventeen. No nymph, however, of tender years could have thought out her next sentence—
“I wanted my frock to be worthy of this lovely room.”
“By George! it is.”
“Very many thanks. Is that a Reisener cabinet?”
“I don’t know. It’s French, I believe.”
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! And you don’t know?”
Her sprightliness infected him.
“Perhaps, like my mother, I prefer persons to things.”
“Thanks again. But, frankly, I’m amazed. This room is full of beautiful furniture—all of different periods, too. But that doesn’t matter. Really good bits, if they have age to them, never bark at each other. Those pastels are adorable.”
Lionel flushed a little.
“I know nothing of them, either.”
She shrugged her shoulders. In her hand was a fan, for the night was hot. She tapped his arm with the fan, and then opened it deftly, glancing at him over the edge of it.
“But, positively, I must teach you. It will be great fun. We’ll play ‘swaps.’ I could write an article on ‘tufting’ and ‘slots’ and ‘laying on the pack.’ But I don’t know growing wheat from barley.” (She did.) “I’ll go to school with you, if you’ll go to school with me?”
“Done,” said Lionel. “My hand on it.”
They were shaking hands, as Sir Geoffrey came in. Lady Pomfret followed with a murmured apology:
“My dear, forgive me! The Squire and I are seldom late for dinner.”
The Squire added a few words.
“You see we don’t treat you too ceremoniously.”
Fishpingle’s sonorous tones were heard.
“Dinner is served, Sir Geoffrey.”
During dinner, and afterwards, Lady Margot made herself vastly agreeable to the three Pomfrets. If effort underlay her sprightly civilities, it was not visible. Her enemies—and she had some—affirmed that her consistent good temper and wish to please were indications of selfishness. Any deviation from the broad and easy path which she trod so gaily meant personal discomfort. But if her tact in avoiding conversational brambles provoked gibes from cynics, herjoie de vivredisarmed them. And coming, as she did, to Pomfret Court at a moment when Lionel was feeling exasperatingly hipped and bored with himself she served alike as tonic and narcotic. She lulled to sleep nervous introspections; she stimulated energies which found expression in sport and games. He had wanted some one to “play about with.” Lady Margot presented herself.
He soon decided that she was not flirtatious, as that word is interpreted in India. Physically, she kept men at a respectful distance, disdaining furtive pressures of the hand, languishing glances—all the cheap wiles of the provincial beauty. Mentally, so to speak, she “nestled up.” Lionel felt more and more at his ease with her. She laughed derisively when he touched hesitatingly upon his perplexties. Such worries, she assured him lightly, were the common heritage of eldest sons of magnates. She propounded her own easy philosophy, so practical in its way, so alluring. Position had its responsibilities. It existed, if you like, on sufferance. But authorty—for which by birth and training she was a stickler—would be disastrously weakened and in the end wrecked, if it indulged too freely in sentimental vagabondage. Their caste repudiated sentiment, scrapped it ruthlessly.
For the masses—“panem et Circenses.”
She touched airily upon marriage, citing the “affair” with the present head of her family, setting forth her case and his with incisive finality.
“We realised that we couldn’t pull together. I think it was a real grief to both of us. Physically, he repelled me; intellectually, I repelled him. A sad pity! Of course he will find somebody else, because Beaumanoir must be saved. Poor dear Beau knows that he is not attractive, and a title, nowadays, fetches much less in the open market.”
Lionel felt sorry for poor Beau. He said slowly: “You can pick and choose, if he can’t.”
She accepted the challenge calmly and candidly.
“My choice is limited, I can assure you. When I came into my tiny kingdom I thought otherwise. And some odd spirit of contrariety to which all women fall victims whirled me into misadventures with the wrong men. Most young girls set an inordinate value on brains, especially their own, if they have any. I tried to establish a sort of ‘salon’ in Grosvenor Square. The cheek of it! I used to admire Madame Recamier. All that isvieux jeu. My brains are not of the most solid order, but, such as they are, they will constrain me to marry a man of my own class. So you see I am fairly up against it.”
But he didn’t see.
“Up against what?” he asked.
She laughed joyously.
“Up against the stupidity of our class. I bar stupid gentlemen and clever bounders. Some of the cleverest bound like kangaroos. Now you see, Mr. Lionel Pomfret, that my choice is very much limited. Probably I shall die an old maid, and leave my money to found an Institution for brightening Aristocratic Wits.”
They were riding together when this talk took place. They rode out each day, making for the moors of the New Forest, where a horseman can gallop for miles and not leave heather or grass. Upon this occasion they had strayed further afield than usual, and were likely to be late for luncheon. Lionel glanced at his watch, and said so, adding “I can show you a short cut through the woods.”
They turned their horses’ heads homewards and passed through a Forest Enclosure, where Lionel pointed out some fallow-bucks. Crossing a “gutter,” where the clayey soil was soft, he found deer-tracks, and taught her the difference between the slot of a buck and a doe. Information of any sort, she assimilated quickly and gratefully. But a little more time was wasted over this object lesson. Beyond the enclosure was some open ground and another enclosure. After that the forest was left behind, and the riders were on private property. A line of gates led to the high-road to Nether-Applewhite. Unfortunately the last gate was padlocked. Lionel glanced at the fence, a stiff but not very formidable obstacle.
“Can my horse jump?” asked Lady Margot.
“I don’t know,” he replied, doubtfully.
“We’ll soon find out.”
Before he could stop her, she put her mare at the fence, and popped over. Lionel joined her, delighted with her pluck. Without a lead, in cold blood, on a strange mount, she had negotiated triumphantly a rather nasty place. When he complimented her, she said carelessly:
“I love excitements.”
For the first time he beheld her as the “dasher.”
A meeting between Joyce and the little lady duly took place. Joyce, of course, was at a slight disadvantage. In Lady Margot she beheld Lionel’s probable wife. In Joyce Lady Margot beheld a pretty, intelligent girl, the parson’s daughter, more or less cut to approved pattern. She was perfectly charming to Joyce, and came to the instant conclusion that she must be reckoned with seriously. Joyce’s first talk alone with her confirmed this. Lady Margot said chaffingly:
“I hear you are the ministering angel, carrying soup and tea and sympathy to the villagers. Do tell me all about it. I have never been able to do that. At Beaumanoir, when I was seventeen, I made the effort. I remember reading the Bible to an old woman. She went to sleep, poor old dear. I discovered later that she was very deaf. She listened to the Bible when she was awake in the hope of getting something more material.”
Joyce laughed and nodded; she knew the type. But she said quietly:
“I don’t carry soup and tea to them. Father is dead against that, except in emergency cases.”
“Please tell me what you do.”
“I have been through a simple course of village cookery. I try to teach the mothers how to make their own soup, apot-au-feu, how to cook vegetables, and grow them. All the little dodges which save time and fuel and money. Very poor people are astoundingly extravagant and thriftless. It’s uphill work. I move about as fast as the hour hand of a clock.”
“What else?”
“Oh, other little dodges to secure ventilation and hygiene. Anything which makes them learn to help themselves, to rely upon themselves rather than upon charity. Father has worked steadily along those lines. We have started one or two tiny industries, basket-weaving, mat-making.”
“You like all that?”
“I love it, when one gets a glimpse of—results.”
“Will you take me round with you?”
“With pleasure.”
That evening, Lady Margot wrote to a friend, describing Joyce:
“The parson’s daughter here is a striking combination of the useful and ornamental, as clear as her skin. She has an abundance of brown wavy hair with golden threads in it, and eyes to match, features good enough— everything about her well-proportioned, including, so far as I can judge, the mind. She is healthy, but not aggressively bouncing. I am told that a Cambridge Don is much enamoured. Everybody likes her, and so do I, perhaps because she is my antithesis in every way. Happy blood ebbs and flows in her cheeks. I envied a brace of dimples. . . .”
The two girls met at tennis and golf. Apart from the discussion of games. Lionel was amused to notice that their visitor pursued Joyce with eagerness, “pumping” her dry about work in the parish, insatiable in her thirst for information. Joyce slaked this thirst, wondering what lay behind such questionings: merely curiosity, or a desire upon the part of a future châtelaine of Pomfret Court to acquaint herself with the internal condition of the small kingdom over which, some day, she might reign. Lady Pomfret, listening placidly, inclined to the latter hypothesis. Several days had passed, nearly a week, and she had duly informed her lord that Lady Margot did “like” Lionel. She was not of the generation that uses lightly the word “love.” And she guessed that “liking” might be enough for their visitor, who openly disdained intense emotions. She dashed at experiences and from them when they threatened to disturb her peace of mind. But she told Lady Pomfret, perhaps designedly, that she got on “swimmingly” with her son. And, apparently, Lionel got on swimmingly with her. The Squire, summing up the situation to his wife, said, with a jolly laugh:
“No complaints, my dear Mary, no complaints.”
He took for granted that she shared his complacency and prayed night and morning that his desires should be accomplished.
Let us admit candidly that Lionel was drifting down-stream. The current of circumstances swirled too strongly for him. He told himself, with futile reiteration, that he must “do his bit.” And the easiest way to do that “bit” was to marry Margot,if she would have him, which he thought was most unlikely. He had been asked to call her Margot, and did so. But she remained singularly aloof from the point of view of a prospective lover. This aloofness might be reckoned her “Excalibur,” a naked blade which she deliberately interposed between herself and her cavaliers. Even the clever bounders, with rare exceptions, had not bounded over that. Being human, Lionel felt piqued, recalling Tom Challoner’s words. Was she really cold as Greenland’s icy mountains? But—what a companion!
At the end of the first week, Lady Margot learnt through her maid that Mr. Moxon had been refused by Joyce Hamlin. She had heard much of Moxon from Lionel, rather too much, for she had no sympathy with his views, and dismissed them contemptuously as academic and Utopian. Finally, she had silenced Lionel by saying:
“I dislike schoolmasters. I regard them as necessary evils, like inspectors of nuisances. They ought never to be seen in society. I always behold them cane in hand, hectoring and lecturing. Enough of your Professor Moxon.”
Nevertheless, she knew that he was well-to-do and clever, clever enough to have turned Lionel, neck and crop, out of a snug groove, leaving him hung up to dry amongst windy theories and problems yet unsolved. She had no notion that Moxon’s doctrines had been filtered through Joyce.
Why had Joyce refused Moxon?
She dashed at the only conclusion possible to an enlightened student of life.
Joyce was in love with Lionel.
Poor Joyce!
She surveyed her tranquilly with sincere pity. Why were girls such hopeless, helpless fools? According to Mrs. Poyser, God Almighty had made the women fools to match the men. Was Lionel a fool, too? Obviously, as yet he could not read Joyce, but such transparent documents might be read at any moment. What then? Love bred love. She reflected, quite dispassionately, that Joyce and Lionel were a pretty pair, romantically considered. Passion slumbered in each. A word, a glance, a touch, and it would burst into flame.
Her maid had left the room. Lady Margot was alone in the virginal, chintz-calendered blue and white bower which had been assigned to her. She lay in bed, with an electric light above her. A book, not a novel, was beside her. Memoirs were her favourite reading, not faked memoirs written by ingenious compilers, but the genuine article.
She laid the book upon a table, turned out the electric light, and engaged in her particular form of prayer—rigorous self-examination and analysis.
If she wanted Lionel, she must act.
Did she want him?
He had most engaging qualities. His manner with his mother was illuminating; such a devoted son might be reckoned sure to make a loyal and attentive husband. He had a sweet, sunny temper. He was intelligent, enthusiastic, and pleasant to look at. Greatest of assets, he was an agreeable companion.
And she wished to marry. She regarded marriage as an adventure, a tremendous experience. No unmarried woman could boast that she had lived fully. Again and again, lying wide-awake in the darkness, she had visualised herself as the wife of a successful barrister, or painter, or novelist. Such men, she knew, made indifferent husbands if they were at the top of their several trees. Success imposed intolerable burdens. Goethe had been wise in marrying a simple hausfrau. And brilliant men were so subject to moods, such slaves to temperament. Life with Lionel would be a delightful pilgrimage through sunny places. . . .
She thrilled.
An enchanting languor crept upon her. Perhaps at that moment she was almost in love. Her busy little brain stopped working. She beheld herself, as in a dream, alone with her lover. His lips were on hers. His arms were about her. She yielded joyously to his embrace. As if in a trance, she murmured his name—Lionel. And she hardly recognised her own voice. She moved, and the spell was broken. But her heart throbbed; every pulse had quickened; her cheeks burned. . . .
Then her brain began to calm and control the senses. She felt half-ashamed, half-proud of her emotions. Often she had wondered if she were quite normal. Many women, and some men, had told her that she wasn’t. Never in her twenty-five years of life had she been so physically thrilled and excited.
Yes—she wanted him.
It will be noted that different causes had brought about the same effect in two young women. Joyce realised her love for Lionel at the moment when she knew that he had need of her; Lady Margot was thrilled into what she believed to be love because she felt the need of him. Let psychologists determine whether or not this differentiates true love from its counterfeit presentment.
She awoke, next day, quite herself, and capable of smiling mockingly at the momentary triumph of body over mind. But her resolution to marry Lionel remained fixed—a positive determination. Cool, matutinal reflection made her reconsider the over-night conviction that Joyce must necessarily be in love with Lionel merely because she had refused another man. The first thing to do was to put this conclusion to the test. Sooner or later an unsophisticated parson’s daughter would “give herself away.” To her credit, let it be recorded, she resisted the temptation to “pump” her maid. Gossip with servants was a violation of her code. And, invariably, it led to familiarity, which she abhorred. Moxon’s love story was told to her incidentally and inadvertently. Happy Chance had given her a clue.
At breakfast Lady Pomfret became sensible of a subtle change in her guest. She sparkled as usual, but with a more vital scintillation. That might be the effect of country air upon a Mayfair maiden. Allowing for this, Lady Pomfret decided that Margot was “tuned up”—fully charged with electricity, ready to take the road to a definite destination. She proposed golf, a foursome—Sir Geoffrey, Lionel, Joyce and herself. With all her cleverness she was unable to speak Joyce’s name without an inflection of pity. Lady Pomfret caught that inflection and drew certain inferences. She said tentatively:
“Yes, yes, dear Joyce has rather a dull time of it. Pray ask her, and bring her back to luncheon.”
Sir Geoffrey seconded this. In his mind comparisons between Joyce and Margot (they all called her Margot) were inevitable, and much in favour of the little lady. Let Lionel see them together, the oftener the better!
Accordingly, the four motored to Bramshaw, a New Forest course, fascinatingly pretty, set in the heart of the deep woods, where William of Orange planted the oaks which he designed in the fulness of time to become ships of the line. Sir Geoffrey being the best player, Lady Margot chose him as her partner. She wanted to watch Joyce with Lionel!
The course was in excellent condition, and the fairway not too hard after July rains. The Squire remarked upon this, because it meant August hunting. Indeed, the first meet of the buckhounds had been fixed, and Lady Margot, without much pressure, had consented to prolong her visit. To Sir Geoffrey’s great satisfaction she cancelled a Scotch engagement, observing candidly:
“I should be bored to tears up there.”
The Squire asked jovially: “Does that mean, Margot, that you are not too bored with us?”
“Bored?” she echoed. “Do I look bored? I’m perfectly happy. It is dear of you to keep me on.”
Sir Geoffrey took the honour, and drove his ball well down the course. Lionel fluffed his shot. The Squire chuckled. At golf the mistakes of our nearest and dearest are not altogether displeasing to us.
“We shall down em,” he predicted.
They did at first. Lionel happened to be badly off his game. Joyce played well and steadily. The young man’s mortification deepened as he hit ball after ball into the rough, which, of course, made Joyce’s following stroke all the more difficult. A couple of balls were lost in the heather and whins. On each occasion Lady Margot left the Squire to help her opponents to find their ball. Lionel’s ever-increasing depression amused and pleased her. She liked men to be “keen”—up to a point. That point must not be a “vanishing point.” For instance, the keenness of clever novelists kept them locked up, inaccessible, invisible. She rallied Lionel gaily:
“What does it matter?”
He answered irritably:
“Nothing to you, Margot. But I’m wrecking Joyce’s game, spoiling her morning, confound it!”
Joyce looked at him. Lady Margot’s eyes twinkled. What she had confidently expected came to pass. The parson’s daughter “gave herself away.” Her fleeting glance at a worried and apologetic partner was unmistakable. It flashed its message upon the ambient air, and was gone! Her voice, however, remained under control.
“You are not wrecking my game, Lionel. I like difficult shots.”
“Do you?” murmured Margot. “And perhaps you regard golf as a sort of epitome of life?”
Joyce flashed another glance at her.
“I suppose I do.”
“If you found yourself ‘bunkered,’ you would not lose heart?”
At last Joyce had a glimpse of claws, but she answered quietly:
“I should take my niblick and try to get out.”
Lionel’s voice interrupted them.
“Here’s the beastly ball, and quite unplayable.”
“What will you do?” asked Margot of Joyce.
“Play it out.”
Her caddy presented a niblick. Joyce concentrated her attention upon the ball, deeply imbedded in heather. The ball wasalmostunplayable. The Squire sauntered up, slightly impatient of the delay, thinking of his luncheon.
“Chuck this hole,” he suggested. “We’ll walk to the next tee.”
“Shall we chuck the game?” said Lionel to his partner. “This is not my day out.”
“We’re four up and six to go,” added the Squire.
“Chuck the game?” repeated Joyce. “Never!”
Lionel pulled himself together. All trace of irritation vanished. He laughed, squaring his shoulders, sticking out his chin.
“Joyce is a stayer and so am I. Father, I’ll take four to one in half-crowns?”
“Done!” said the Squire.
“I’ll give the same odds,” remarked Margot.
“Right,” replied Lionel. “Go it, Joyce! Smite and spare not! Get on to the fairway, if you can.”
“Get on to the green,” exclaimed the Squire derisively.
Margot frowned. An absurd thought harassed her, clawing savagely at something she despised, a rigorously suppressed sense of the superstitious. Had a mocking speech been taken seriously? Was this game, so much in her favour already, to be regarded as an epitome of the greater game to be played to a finish between herself and Joyce? By something of a coincidence, the Squire, who shared her desires, was her partner——!
Joyce planted her feet firmly in the heather—and smote.
“Bravo!” exclaimed Lionel. “The luck has turned. This puts ginger into me.”
Sir Geoffrey and Margot applauded generously. The ball pitched in the fairway, and lay, nicely teed up, upon a tuft of grass. Lionel took his brassey.
“That ball,” he declared solemnly, “is going on to the green. I know it.”
He made a beautiful shot.
“Dead, b’ Jove!” growled the Squire.
“Not quite,” said Joyce.
Lionel and his partner had played “two more.” When they reached the thirteenth green, each side had played three strokes. Margot had to play her ball from the edge of the green. Joyce had a six foot putt. If Margot could lie “dead,” the hole would be halved. It was not very likely that Joyce would hole her putt over a roughish green. Margot took her time, playing with extraordinary care. Her ball trickled within a foot of the hole.
“Down ours,” enjoined Lionel to his partner. “You’ll do it, Joyce. It’s a sitter.”
Joyce played as carefully as Margot, scrutinising the lie of the ground. Lionel did the same, adding a last word:
“Bang for the back of the hole!”
“I think so,” said Joyce.
She holed out with a smile.
“Three up and five to go,” proclaimed the Squire.
“Want to double the bet?” asked Lionel.
“No, boy, no.”
“I will, Lionel,” said Margot.
“Right again. Your drive, Joyce.”
The fourteenth at Bramshaw is a short hole, an easy mashie shot, if properly played. A topped shot rolls into thick whins. Joyce, still smiling, pitched her ball on the green and overran it. Margot got too much under her ball, which fell short of the green into the bunker guarding it.
“Two and four,” said Lionel. “We’re getting on, Joyce. I love playing with you.”
The Squire stared at his ball, and then failed to get it out of the bunker. He picked it up, looking sadly at a deep cut in its surface.
“My drive,” he said gloomily, fishing a new ball out of his pocket.
The fifteenth was halved. The Squire smiled again. Joyce had the honour. She drove steadily, keeping well to the left. Margot felt disagreeably nervous, as she addressed the ball. Going back too quickly, she stabbed down, topping it badly. The Squire whistled.
“We’re in trouble, my dear.”
They were. The luck had changed. Margot had to play two more after the Squire’s shot. She achieved a fine stroke too late to save the hole. One up and two to play.
“Close finish,” said Lionel cheerily.