CHAPTER XII
Church parade at Pomfret Court was something of a function. The Squire assumed the silk hat and black coat of Mayfair, with shepherd’s plaid continuations and spats. Lady Pomfret affected soft grey silk. Lionel could remember the day, shortly after he had joined his regiment, when, greatly daring, he had appeared before his sire in blue serge, topped by a billy-cock! The Squire stared at him, but said nothing. Had he despatched his son to his bedroom, with orders to appear in regulation kit Lionel would have obeyed. Visitors, need it be said, were expected to answer the roll call. In winter and rainy weather the house-party assembled in the hall; in summer they foregathered on the lawn. At the right moment the Squire would glance at his massive watch. Then Lady Pomfret and he would walk majestically down the path which led to the church, at a pace sanctified by immemorial custom. The visitors followed, chastened, let us trust, by such an example.
It has been mentioned that the family pew was in the chancel, at the back of the choir. It held a curious collection of prayer-books with Pomfret names upon the fly-leaves, and as often as not suitable inscriptions. Margot, discarding her own tiny manual, opened a much-battered specimen. In faded Italian handwriting were these lines—
“To my dear little son, from his loving mother, Selina Pomfret.”
The date, upon the title-page, told Margot that this prayer-book had belonged to Sir Geoffrey. As a boy, he must have used it habitually, have taken it to school with him, and brought it back. Now the Squire used the great calf-bound manual, emblazoned with the Pomfret arms, and never touched save by the head of the family. Margot turned over well-thumbed pages. The Morning Service, the Catechism, the Litany, and the Communion testified to much use and abuse. Obviously, the Squire had learnt by heart the Collects. Amongst the Psalms she found a dried poppy-leaf, and elsewhere a rose-petal. Obviously, too, the owner of the book had memorised his tasks with difficulty, possibly with exasperation, for some of the pages were torn. At the back of the book, upon a blank page, were penciled three entries in round hand—
Two ferrets.
Twelve nets.
Butter Scotch.
These, evidently, related to some rabbiting expedition, planned possibly during a dull sermon.
The little church was full of mural tablets and such memorials of the departed. In the windows were achievements. Here the Pomfrets had worshipped for centuries; here they were laid to rest.
Would she lie down amongst them?
The choir-boys sang lustily theVenite. In the nave, occupying two front seats, stood the girls, under the charge of Joyce. They sang better than the boys.
She saw Moxon further down the nave, standing by himself, gravely impassive. Did he want to sweep away this? It was hardly possible that he could be a Churchman. Margot herself accepted the Church of England as an institution which lent power and prestige to her order. It served admirably the purposes to which, designedly, it had been warped. It sustained authority and discipline. It stimulated loyalty. It enjoined those of low degree to rest content in the station assigned to them by an All-Wise and Loving Providence. Strictly speaking, it had become political—Church and State, an ideal partnership. Just so a Grandee of Spain accepts and reveres his Holy Mother Church, which, admittedly, is better organised and equipped.
Hamlin put to flight these thoughts when he read the Second Lesson.
His personality gripped her attention. He positively forced her to listen. Presently he would preach. Would the presence of Moxon, himself an instructor, a Dominie, and a man of advanced views, influence the Parson in his selection of a theme?
At the end of the Lesson, during the singing of the canticle, she noticed that the Squire was “ticking off” the congregation, making notes of absentees. Woe betide them if no reasonable excuse were proffered! He might well congratulate himself upon his people. The farmers and their families were conspicuous. Behind them sat the labourers, bovine, ruddy, with well-lined stomachs. The Pomfret servants filled two pews. Since the exposition of eugenics in Fishpingle’s room, Alfred had deemed it discreet not to sing out of the same hymn-book with Prudence. He sat with the under-servants, but wisely apart from the stillroom maid.
Everybody looked smugly pious and respectable.
The sermon surpassed Margot’s expectation. Hamlin spoke extempore, disdaining notes, talking to his flock simply, in words easily to be understood by a child. His thin, capable hands rested upon an ancient cushion of red brocade. This cushion was all that was left of the three-decker pulpit removed when Hamlin first came to Nether-Applewhite. Long ago, in the Squire’s boyhood, old Mr. Pomfret, in a moment of excitement, had pushed the cushion from him. It fell upon the sexton’s head. The sexton replaced it, interrupting the flow of the Parson’s discourse. Whereupon the Parson hurled the cushion into the aisle, saying loudly:
“Do you suppose, Abel Whitehorn, that I can’t preach without a cushion?”
Margot recalled this story, one of the Squire’s time-ripened anecdotes, as her eyes rested upon the nervous hands upon the same cushion. Hamlin’s hands betrayed his feelings.
His theme concerned itself with cleanliness. He took the text from Zechariah: “Behold, I have caused thine iniquity to pass from thee, and I will clothe thee with change of raiment.”
Hamlin was at his best when he dealt with matters of common interest to his parishioners. At his worst, like most parsons, when he expounded dogma and doctrine. Margot perceived that the Squire was composing himself to enjoy the sermon. Cleanliness was next to godliness in his opinion.
Hamlin began with soap and water. Members of the congregation, too racy of the soil, stirred uneasily in their seats. Those who were fresh from the Saturday night tub smirked complacently. From bodies, the Parson moved easily to houses, and thence to the soil, much to the interest and gratification of Bonsor and the Squire. Then he paused. When he spoke again, his tone had deepened. He leaned forward, sweeping the church with his keen glance.
“Are your minds clean?”
He went on temperately, delicately, but unmistakably. The children listened to every word.
“The Divine Spirit cannot dwell in an unclean mind.”
And then the last injunction.
“The clean mind must be kept clean.”
The congregation filed soberly out of church. Joyce marshalled the children. Moxon joined her. The Squire and his party lingered near the yew tree mentioned in Doomsday Book, exchanging greetings with all and sundry. Margot said to Moxon:
“A fine sermon, Mr. Moxon.”
He assented quietly.
“When I saw you in church, I wondered whether you belonged to us.”
“I am a Presbyterian.”
“Another Established Church. And yet, surely, you disapprove of establishments?”
He laughed.
“Of some. Powdered lacqueys arouse my worst feelings.”
“Do they? Over-dressed maidservants have that effect on me. Shall we see you this afternoon?”
“I think not.”
Lionel, with a Sunday luncheon slightly oppressing him, went for a long tramp by himself, seeking the high moorland, where he hoped that an ampler æther would clear his befogged wits. He was uncomfortably sensible of his limitations, as thinker and speaker, when he talked with Margot. She had characterised him as “absorbent.” He “took in” her talk, but found it indigestible and clogging. Her experience, so variegated, produced a kaleidoscopic effect upon his mental vision, dazzling judgment. He was quick enough to grasp the elemental fact that she belonged to the “loaves and fishes” school. She had fighting instincts. She could and would fight in defence of property, and all it included. And she would use, ruthlessly, her own weapons—the rapier of her wit, the heavy sceptre of sovereignty.
After luncheon, while he was smoking a cigar with his father, Sir Geoffrey had spoken a seasonable word.
“My boy,” he said, “the little lady likes you. Now—go for her! Go for her!”
“You have had her in your eye all along, father?”
The Squire winked, laughing jovially.
“Spotted her at once. A dasher.”
“I know. But why should she dash at me?”
“Tchah! If you come to that, why did your dear mother cotton to me? B’ Jove! that bowled me over, I can tell you. She was a dasher, too. Sharp as a needle in those ancient days.”
“Margot says she is just as sharp now.”
“Rubbish! The most guileless woman I know. You ask a direct question—why does Margot take to you? I’ll tell you. She knows a good thing when she sees it. I read her easily.”
“I’m hanged if I do.”
“She gave me a hint when we first met. She’s dashed at the wrong sort, run riot a bit with a pack of half-bred hounds, clever riff-raff. Old Challoner told me that nice boys like his son were frightened of her. Being independent, she chose to trot out of her own class. Girls of her quality soon trot back. I caught the little witch at the right moment. It’s time she settled down—and she knows it. She knew, also, what I was up to when I asked her here. She came, she saw—and you’ve conquered. When she accepted our invitation to stay on, the matter was nearly clinched. Now—go for her!”
Lionel sat silent.
“Dammy, boy, have you nothing to say?”
“I like her most awfully, father. I’ve never been so pally with any girl, except Joyce.”
“Why lug in Joyce?” growled the Squire. “She’s canoodlin’ with the Professor at this moment, I’ll be bound.”
Lionel experienced a pang. Jealousy ravaged him. The Squire went on less testily:
“No pressure! On you, I mean. These things must come about naturally. But—there it is.”
“I’ll think it over.”
Every word of this confidential talk stuck aggressively into a not unretentive memory as Lionel breasted the hills above Nether-Applewhite. And he knew that his father was right. If he “went” for Margot, he might capture her. Very slowly that conviction came home to him. And she had said that she loved Nether-Applewhite. A carefully directed shaft which made a bull’s eye.
When he reached the high ground, he sat down and filled his pipe. He began to think about Hamlin’s sermon. Was his mind clean? Judged by ordinary standards—yes. But he was no Sir Galahad. Certain moral lapses engrossed his attention. Margot would laugh at them and him, but they obtruded themselves.
How was a mind kept clean?
The Parson had dealt faithfully with this. But he was addressing an audience of farmers and villagers. Handling the same theme before a London congregation from a West End pulpit, Hamlin might have touched upon prosperity in its more tainting manifestations. The material side of life, its increasing luxury, its excitements, would have been presented inexorably. Lionel thought of Fordingbridge cleansed and rejuvenated by poverty and hard work. Fordingbridge must have been tempted to marry a nice little girl with a bit of money. Had he done so, what effect would it have had upon his mind? Lionel returned to his own moral lapses. They had come about when he happened to be on leave, with “money to burn”—at a “loose end.” What a descriptive expression! On duty with his regiment, working hard, temptation passed him by.
Not possessing a vivid imagination, he was unable to evoke a clear picture of a future passed with Margot. It lacked what photographers call “definition.” Outlines were blurred. He had, however, an uneasy feeling that this little Queen would reign over him, and rule his life in lines parallel with hers. The rôle of Prince Consort was not too enviable. More, he had no love of London, no belief in himself as an M.P. Her assurance that he could hold his own with the mandarins failed to convince him.
By this time he was about as unhappy and perplexed as a healthy young man can be. His desire to please and help his father, his acute sense of what Margot’s fortune could accomplish, his growing affection for the little lady, his belief that his mother shared the Squire’s wishes, stood out saliently against—what? A naked fact. He didn’t love Margot. If she consented to marry him, the marriage would be one of convenience. It may be maintained by sentimentalists that recognition of such a fact by an honourable man is in itself a ban. Moxon, for example, would have deemed it so. But Moxon was not the son of an ancient house, nor part of a system. Moxon was capable of immense sacrifice. Like Palissy, he would have burned his bed to keep alight a furnace, if some vital discovery depended upon a few extra sticks of firewood. He would have perished at the stake rather than recant his convictions. And yet, with all his cleverness and sympathy, he couldn’t understand the point of view of men like Sir Geoffrey. To marry to save an estate, he would have condemned as contemptible.
Lionel’s thoughts travelled downhill to Joyce, to the Vicarage garden, where Moxon and she were sitting together. The certainty that on the morrow he would hear of their engagement piled the last straw upon his burden. And yet, with jealousy tearing at him, he failed to realise that love, not friendship, gave the green monster a strangle hold.
He returned to Nether-Applewhite. Passing the Vicarage, he saw Moxon walking up and down the lawn with the Parson. He hurried on, now doubly assured that Joyce had “whistled.” Moxon, no doubt, was receiving the paternal blessing. The green monster gripped her victim tighter. With a gasp, with a quickening of every pulse, Lionel beheld the truth shining blindly upon him. He loved her; he had always loved her, since they were boy and girl together, and—wonder of wonders—Pelion upon Ossa—he had never known it till too late. Fool, idiot that he had been, in love and blinded by love, the plaything of the gods.
The animal instinct to hide turned his steps from the carriage drive, across the park, and into a small wood about two hundred yards from the Vicarage. He stumbled on, making for a summer-house, a tiny temple built by Lady Alicia Pomfret. It stood by the edge of a miniature lake, upon which water-lilies floated—gold and silver cups on round green plates. Lionel approached the temple from behind, silently, for his feet sank into softest moss. Suddenly he stood still, hearing a strangled sob, an attenuated wail of sorrow. Some woman in sore trouble was weeping. Irritated, yet loth to intrude, he swung on his heel. Who could it be? The villagers had free access to the park on Sunday. The Squire liked to see couples wandering, hand in hand, beneath his lordly trees. But this wood was taboo, because wild fowl haunted the pool. A servant-maid—little Prudence, perhaps—crying for her lover? No. The wood was out of bounds for her.
Could it be Joyce?
And, if it were, why was she weeping?
He must satisfy himself that it was not Joyce.
Cautiously he peered round the corner of the temple, glimpsing a pretty hat with no pretty head in it. He craned forward. Upon a stone seat, encircling a round table, sat Joyce. Her face was bowed upon her hands, which lay palm-down wards on the table. Her attitude—the relaxed body, the slender, rounded shoulders, the trembling fingers, were eloquent of overpowering distress. Lionel stood staring at her, petrified by pity and surprise. What had happened to make a dear creature, normally so calm, so serenely mistress of herself, this piteous spectacle?
He whispered her name.
She raised her head swiftly. Through a mist of tears she beheld the man she loved gazing eagerly at her with the shining eyes of a lover.
For a breathless eternity of seconds the spell remained unbroken. Then Lionel sprang at her—ardent, avid, aflame to hear from her lips the silent message of her melting glance. He held her in his arms; he pressed her yielding body to his; he kissed her hair, her brow, her cheeks. She remained passive, almost swooning under this revelation of his feelings and hers. Presently she heard his voice—broken, quavering, almost inarticulate:
“Joyce darling, I l-love you. I w-want you more than all the world. And—and you love me, don’t you? Say it—say it quickly, my own sweet Joyce.”
Whirled away upon the rapid current of his emotion and her own, twin streams racing together, she whispered the words tremblingly.
He took her head between his hands, kissing away a tear, a dew-drop upon dark lashes.
“If you love me, Joyce, give me your lips. I want the very breath of your spirit. I didn’t know it, dear, till to-day, but always, always my soul has been yours.”
She hesitated. The colour stole back into her pale cheeks. She sought his eyes, delving deep into their honest, clear depths. He met the challenge of that searching glance, holding his head erect.
She smiled and kissed him.
Presently, holding her hand, he asked tenderly:
“Why were you crying? What has happened?”
She answered simply:
“Mr. Moxon asked me to marry him. I like him so much, Lionel. I felt so sorry for him. Then he went away. I knew that he would come back, because, being the man he is, so strong and clever, he couldn’t believe what I said to him. It was my fault. My ‘no’ sounded, I dare say, weak and unconvincing. This afternoon he asked me again. I knew that father wanted it. I—I thought—I—I was so sure that you were utterly beyond me, somebody else’s——”
“Heavens! You accepted him!”
“Very nearly, not quite. If I had——! It was a dreadful ordeal for both of us. I told him that I didn’t love him. He said he would make me. He pleaded desperately. At last I escaped. I ran here—here where we played as children, where we have talked together so often, where I read your letters. And then, I gave way. I cried—for you. And God had pity on me, and sent you.”
Lionel said solemnly:
“May God deal with me, Joyce, as I deal with you.”
Soon they wandered from the rosy present into a future dark with clouds. Lionel made sure that he could tackle the Parson. He spoke with entire frankness of his father.
“He will be disappointed, dearest; we must face that. He may withhold his consent, growl and bark, but he will come round.”
“And Lady Margot? She wants you, Lionel. She couldn’t hide that from me.”
Lionel blushed.
“If she wants me, and I won’t admit it, either to myself or you, it is because she loves excitement and change. She maythinkshe wants me. She ought to marry a swell—a personage. I shall tell her about you to-morrow. We are hunting together.”
“When will you tell the Squire and Lady Pomfret?”
His face grew distressed.
“Joyce, darling, I hate to ask this of you. I—I hope I’m not a coward. But I must seize the right moment. I shall talk with dear old Fishpingle, who knows father better than he knows himself. And because it would be such folly not to use ordinary discretion will you, too, keep this wonderful news from your father till I have spoken to mine?”
She remained silent, troubled as he was, trembling a little. He continued urgently:
“For both our sakes, Joyce—please! Your father is a proud man, quick-tempered. He couldn’t endure the thought of his daughter being unwelcome anywhere. I should feel as he does. And he would insist upon an immediate recognition of our engagement. There might be a scene, a rupture between Parson and Squire. Think of that!”
“I do—I do.”
“I dare not speak to mother first, but something tells me she will help us. She loves you. But she would think it her duty to tell father. Indeed, he would never forgive her if she kept such a secret from him.”
“Yes, yes, but Lionel, Imusttell father. I hate to refuse the first thing you have asked me, but father has been more than father to me. Ever since mother’s death he has tried to take her place. Often I have laughed at him, when he came fussing to my room about my wearing warmer clothes and all that, but I loved him the more for his fidgeting. I must tell him to-morrow morning, after Mr. Moxon has gone.”
“He may forbid you to see me.”
“You don’t know him. He is proud, yes, but he will sacrifice his pride for me. If I ask him, he will help us. We may have to wait. Do you think I cannot wait for—you?”
They parted, and returned to each other. The man exacted pledges from the maid. She would remain true if the winds whistled and the tempest roared? She swore it, as she clung to him, hearing the raging blast already, shrinking from it, revealing herself adorably as weak only in this: the gnawing fear that her love might bring trouble and suffering to her lover. Gallantly, he reassured her. Let the storm, if it came, rage itself out! They would glide afterwards into a snugger harbourage. He turned to leave her, but looked back. Tears filled her eyes. He kissed them away.
“I found you crying. Let me leave you smiling. Your smiles, Joyce, are your dowry. I shall work to win those dear little smiles.”
She told him that she was happy. Did he grudge her tears of joy?
“Smile, smile! Let me kiss your dimples. Where are they—those dimples?”
They revealed themselves and vanished. He tore himself away. Looking back again and again, he saw her erect and smiling bravely.
She smiled till he was out of sight.
Protest met him from three sets of lips, as he came back to his family. Where had he been? Why had he skipped tea? The Squire said jovially:
“Very sound! Tea, after a Sunday luncheon, is an insult to one’s dinner. The walk has done the boy good. Our air on the high ground is the best in England. Look at the rascal! His eyes are sparkling. But we missed you. Didn’t we?”
He appealed to Margot. She assented, with less sprightliness than usual, trying to account for the light in the absentee’s eyes. Lady Pomfret remained silent, lacking the Squire’s faith in Nether-Applewhite air. She divined that something had happened. What? Exercise might have quickened friendship for their visitor into love. Lionel radiated resolution. His laugh rang out crisply. He stood facing them, with his chin at a conqueror’s angle. He wanted to tell the truth then and there. He told it in his own way.
“I have had a wonderful afternoon.”
Margot said quickly, with a derisive inflection:
“There are moments when Lionel cannot bear the society of women.”
Lionel retorted emphatically:
“A clean miss!”
“Who is she?” asked Margot. “Name—name?”
He met her instantly. Never had she seen him so alert, so joyous.
“Ah! Our Forest has its nymphs. They show themselves to the Faithful. They dance with the pixies down our glades. Perhaps I met Euphrosyne.”
The Squire was delighted. He made sure that a seasonable word had fallen upon fruitful soil. And any allusion to poets whom he had read—Milton was one amongst few—provoked capping. He chuckled:
“Euphrosyne, b’ Jove! Heart-easing Mirth. I met the nymph,” he glanced at Lady Pomfret, “in a London ball-room, and grabbed her.”
“And tore her gown,” added Lady Pomfret.
“She forgave me sweetly, tearing my heart in two.”
Margot beckoned to Lionel, who sat down beside her. She said mockingly:
“If your Euphrosyne wore a gown, describe it to me. Obviously Sir Geoffrey has begun to make love to his own wife.”
“I’ve never stopped, my dear.”
Lionel knew that this was true. And the fact illumined his horizon. His father had married for love, and remained in love. Such a true lover would warm to all lovers. Just then he remembered Prudence and Alfred. Unconsciously he frowned.
“Why do you frown?” asked Margot.
The Squire was bantering his wife. Under cover of that jolly voice, Lionel said softly:
“I happened to think of two hapless lovers with a barbed wire fence between them and marriage.”
“Really? Can’t they cut it?”
“No—it must be cut for them.”
CHAPTER XIII
Lionel awoke gaily to the consciousness that he was in love, and beloved, and going hunting in Arcadia. What young man could expect more of the gods? True, Joyce remained at home. But absence, after the first intoxicating avowal, does indeed make the heart grow fonder. Nevertheless, he “funked” his confession to Margot. Had he been less ingenuous and modest that “funk” might have been greater. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Margot really wanted him, as he, for example, wanted Joyce. And it must be self-evident by this time that such non-belief was justified. Men and women have so much energy. Some have more than others, but the underlying principle is constant. Energy can be conserved or dissipated. Margot squandered vital force upon many people and many things. Let the sages decide whether she had received value or not. Assuredly she had eaten many cakes.
Alfred assisted at the drawing on of boots, polished till they shone like glass.
Lionel said to him: “Prudence and you must mark time, Alfred.”
“Ah-h-h! That be gospel truth. And ’tis true, too, that stolen kisses be sweet, but I fair ache for more of ’em. Mr. Fishpingle do say: ‘Enough, ’tis as good as a feast!’ but I be hungry for the feast, Master Lionel.”
“You leave it to me.”
“But can you downscramble Squire, Master Lionel?”
“‘Downscramble’ is good. Keep a stiff upper lip. She’s worth waiting for and fighting for.”
“That she be, the dinky dear.”
“I say, Alfred, scent ought to be good to-day.”
That, also, was the Squire’s opinion, expressed thrice at breakfast. Hounds met at twelve about six miles from Nether-Applewhite. The horses were to be sent on, a motor would convey Margot, Sir Geoffrey and Lionel to the meet. A second horse was generously provided, for Margot in case the tufting were prolonged. The Squire said to her:
“I want you to see the real thing from start to finish, a wild buck scientifically hunted and killed.”
“I don’t want it killed, Sir Geoffrey.”
The Squire was shocked. Such a remark from Moxon would have amused him. He thought this lady of quality knew better.
“Hounds must have blood, or they won’t hunt. These deer wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for the huntin’. They do a lot of mischief, the artful dodgers. And they lead a glorious life for many years, with a sporting finish. For myself, I ask nothing better.”
“Have you been hunted?”
“Oh—ho! You ask my lady that? She ran me down in the open, broke me up, b’ Jove!”
He made a hunting breakfast—fish, grilled kidneys, ham of his own curing—solemnly commended to visitors—and a top dressing of marmalade. “Tell me what a man eats for breakfast,” he would say, “and I’ll tell you what he is.”
After breakfast, the Squire was busy with Bonsor in his own room. Lionel burned to tell his tale to Fishpingle, to read his face, to set about planning a sly campaign against the Squire. Joyce stood high in the old fellow’s esteem. After a night’s rest and half an hour’s snug thinking in bed, Lionel came to the conclusion that his lady-love was irresistible. Fishpingle would share and fortify this opinion. Together they would leap to the assault. If a true lover does not entertain such high faith in the beloved, is he worth a pinch of salt? And when she is his, when that tender assurance has percolated to his marrow, with what enhanced value he regards the priceless possession. We have heard a collector “crab” a Kang He blue-and-white bottle as he bartered with a dealer, and, next day, rave about it when it stood in his cabinet. Lionel had never “crabbed” Joyce, but he had described her to friends as a “ripper,” a “real good sort,” and “bang out of the top drawer.” Now, in a jiffey, she became Euphrosyne. He intended to ransack the poets for satisfying epithets. With any encouragement, he might have essayed a—sonnet. The metrical difficulties would not have daunted him.
In this exalted mood, he sped, hot-foot, to Fishpingle’s room. Finding him alone, he held out both hands:
“Congratulate me, you dear old chap, I’ve got her.”
To his amazement Fishpingle remained luke-warm. He said almost awkwardly:
“I wish you and her ladyship all happiness, Master Lionel.”
“Her ladyship!”
Lionel laughed as loudly and jovially as the Squire. Then he slapped Fishpingle hard on the shoulder.
“Her ladyship be—blowed for a shining bubble! I’ve hooked and landed Miss Joyce.”
Fishpingle beamed speechless with emotion. It was a tremendous moment, a soul-satisfying pause as if the whole world stood still. Then he said fervently:
“God bless you both! I have prayed for this day. Here, in this very room, just before you came back, the Squire and I drank a toast: ‘Master Lionel’s future wife.’”
Lionel stared at him.
“What? Father was thinking of—her?”
“No,” said Fishpingle grimly; “but I was.”
Lionel sat upon the edge of the Cromwellian table.
“Sit down, old chap. What d’ye think father will say to this?”
“Sir Geoffrey will say a great deal. I hardly dare think what he will say.”
Lionel betrayed distress. Fishpingle’s expression brought back the qualms which kindly sleep had banished.
“She’s so sweet,” he murmured.
Fishpingle nodded.
“She is, Master Lionel. You’ve chosen a wife, sweet as a field the Lord has blessed. She’ll make your life and the lives of others as fragrant as her own.”
“If you feel that, why can’t father feel the same, after—after the first disappointment? Of course, you guessed his little plan. Everybody did. When I passed round the field with that little plan on Saturday, I heard snickers—and so did she.”
“That clean bowled me, Master Lionel. I saw you together. It was too much for me. I missed an easy ball, because one eye was on you.”
“How shall we break this to father?”
“We?”
“You old humbug. I measure your power with the Squire.”
Fishpingle answered with dignity:
“I have never measured that power or abused it, such as it is. And I owe everything, everything, to your family.”
“And what do we owe you?” Lionel spoke warmly. “You have devoted yourself to us.”
“Most gladly.”
“And my father doesn’t quite see it. He takes what you have done for granted—as I did. It hurts me.”
“Your father is dear to me as a brother, Master Lionel. I venture to hope that I am more than a faithful servant to him.”
“Of course you are. Am I a coward because I ask your help?”
“I am the coward.”
“You?”
Fishpingle spread out his hands. When he spoke his voice was low and troubled.
“I am quaking with fear.”
He held out a trembling hand. Lionel seized it and pressed it. Then he went on, confidently:
“Joyce, the blessed honey-pot, has everything except money.”
“Which is so badly needed here.”
“I’m hanged if you’re not depressing me.”
Fishpingle made another gesture before he replied, selecting carefully each word:
“If you ask for my help, it’s yours. But the Squire may resent interference on the part of his butler. It might lead to a breach, to—to my dismissal from his service. That possibility, Master Lionel, makes a coward of me. And if such a dreadful thing happened, it would make matters ten times as hard for you. You aredependent on him.”
“Not absolutely. I could exchange into another regiment. I——” he broke off suddenly. “I won’t admit that father’s heart is flint. But, rain or shine, my Joyce will stick to me, and I to her.”
“Amen, to that.”
“Now, what do you advise? When I was in debt, you said: ‘Tackle him at once!’ What do you say now?”
Fishpingle got up, and began to pace the floor, a trick of the Squire’s when much perturbed. Lionel appraised that perturbation too lightly. He said gaily:
“You and I must downscramble Squire.”
Fishpingle stood still.
“And her little ladyship?”
“I deal with her to-day, out hunting. We are good friends. So far as she is concerned, my hands are clean. She has stayed on for this hunt. She leaves on Wednesday.”
“We must wait till then, Master Lionel.”
“Agreed! Between now and then we’ll collogue.”
A small field assembled at Bramshaw Telegraph, small but select, true lovers of the game, such as you meet on noble Exmoor. Hounds and hunt-servants were awaiting the Master. Presently he dashed up in a motor car, one of the finest horsemen in the kingdom, a lover of hounds and beloved by them. As he walked towards the pack, the veterans, the fourth and fifth season hounds, rushed at him. He greeted them by name: “Ravager, old boy!—Down Hemlock, down!—Sportsman, you sinner, you’re rolin’ in fat!” Then he approached a group of men standing back from the hounds. They touched their hats. These, for the most part, were forest keepers acting as “harbourers.” One, riding a pony,—the head keeper of Ashley Walk—reported three In the New Forest a “stag” means a red deer, bigger, speedier, with more endurance than his fallow kinsmen. The Master, who hunted his own hounds, shook his head. Margot heard him say: “Ah, they must wait for a day or too, I’ve too many young ’uns out.” Lionel told Margot that a red deer might make a fifteen mile point. The Master talked with the under-keepers. One, not a servant of the Crown, had seen very early in the morning, a herd of four bucks in Pound Bottom, including a “great buck” (over seven years old).
“I allows he’s that buck, zir, you had that tarr’ble run wi’ las’ year, when he fair diddled ’ee in Oakley.”
The master laughed. “We’ll diddle him to-day.”
He returned to the pack, and instructed three men to couple-up and hold them, selecting three couple of “tufters,” hounds that will hunt a herd of deer, throw their tongues, and if they get a buck warmed up “stick” to him. Tufters must draw well, and be fine tryers on a cold scent.
Whilst the hounds were being coupled-up the keeper walked on to where he had harboured the deer. The Master mounted his first horse, a sage beast, handy in thick timber, a gentleman with manners and experience. Then he jogged on with the tufters. The pack bayed, loath to be left behind. The whips followed the tufters. Lionel impressed upon Margot the necessity of trotting about quietly, and not “riding in the Master’s pocket.” He must be left alone, so that he can hear as well as see. Those of the field who go tufting can best help by watching the rides to see if any deer slip across.
The Squire, on such occasions, generally joined the Master till they reached the cover. He knew every yard of the New Forest, having hunted in it since he was a boy of six. Before riding on, he said an emphatic word to Margot:
“This is not Leicestershire, my dear. You stick to Lionel. He’ll pilot you. Go slow at doubtful places. You mustn’t let that horse out in woodlands. If you try to take your own line, you’ll be bogged to a certainty.”
He touched his mare with the spur and joined the master.
“Sir Geoffrey looks his best outside a horse,” said Margot, “and so do you.”
“Do you like to see hounds work?” asked Lionel.
Margot preferred a “quick thing,” a rousing gallop. Lionel hoped that this would be forthcoming. Meanwhile, he dwelt affectionately upon the superlative merits of certain tufters who knew their job. Really, to enjoy hunting in the Forest, it was necessary to watch individual hounds, whether good or bad. The duffers of the pack running a fresh deer told the tale of a false scent as unerringly as the body of the pack lagging behind, with heads up, mutely protesting. His enthusiasm infected Margot as he talked on about the arts and crafts of deer. She didn’t know that buckhounds were big foxhounds, with inherited instincts to hunt foxes instead of deer, instincts which had to be whipped and rated out of them.
Some of the field remained with the pack. Lionel explained this. A “tuft” might be better fun than the hunt afterwards, andvice versâ. With one horse out, unless he happened to be a clinker, it was sound policy to keep him fresh for the hunt proper.
Meanwhile, they had reached the spot where the herd of bucks had been harboured that morning—the “great” buck, a smaller five-year-old, and two prickets. Lionel pointed out their slots to Margot. The Master, leaving the green ride, waved his tufters into the woodland. Lionel trotted on to a corner which commanded two rides.
“We may see the deer cross,” he said. “There is no prettier sight, except when we rouse them in the open.”
A hound spoke in cover.
“That’s old Sportsman,” said the Squire, who had joined them. “I’ll nip on to the next ride.”
The rest of the field hung about with Lionel. The horses, very fresh, and full of corn, fidgeted and pulled at their bits.
“There they go.”
The herd crossed the ride some fifty yards away, Music arose behind them.
“Now comes the real job,” said Lionel to Margot. “That big buck must be separated from the herd, and driven, if possible, into the open. Then he will gallop away fast and far, making his point. Meanwhile, he’ll try every dodge known to his tribe.”
An excellent and typical tuft followed. The “great” buck, an old deer with finely palmated horns, left the others, but refused to break cover. He prodded up an outlying deer and lay down in its couch, he took to a “gutter” and travelled down it, he found some does and ran with them for a few minutes. Margot saw “the real right thing” and was properly impressed.
A whistle came from the whip on ahead.
“He’s away,” said Lionel, galloping on.
They reached the edge of the cover just in time to see the buck trotting over the Salisbury Road, heading for the finest galloping ground in the Forest. The tufters followed.
“Hold hard, old boys!” roared the whip.
The Master, very hot and red in the face, emerged from the woodlands. He collected his tufters and jogged back with them to the pack, about half a mile distant. The Squire joined Lionel.
“We lay the pack on here,” he said to Margot. “We shall have a gallop, and I shan’t see the end of it unless I nick in somewhere. You stick to Lionel like wax. If he doesn’t ride at the top of the hunt, I’ll disown him.”
Lionel dismounted and loosened his horse’s girths. Margot nibbled at a sandwich, as she waited for her second horse and the pack. Soon the Master appeared with hounds trotting at his heels. The buck had a start of about fifteen minutes.
“He’ll need it,” predicted Lionel, as he tossed the little lady on to her fresh mount. “The going is good at first, but if we get to Hasleys’ look out for ruts. Sit well back and go at ’em slow and at right angles. If your gee pecks he may save himself.”
“Sounds thrilling!”
“A gallop over heather is thrilling. And you’ll be with hounds as long as we’re in the open. I’ve seen thrusters from your country go very pawky over our moors. But your horse can be trusted.”
“I trust him and you.”
Instantly his thoughts flew to Joyce, who was not a horsewoman. She could not share this tremendous pleasure with him. Nevertheless, his soul sang within him, as he vowed not to be too selfish about sport. Riding home, after this jolly day, he would square things with Margot.
The Master waved his hand. Hounds swung upon the line of the deer.
“Give ’em time, gentlemen!”
With a crash of music they were racing away. A good holding scent in purple heather! The big dog-hounds settled down to their work in rare style.
Lionel thrust his feet home into the stirrups, with a last injunction to Margot:
“Keep a fair twenty-five yards behind me. We’re in for a fast thing.”
Men threw away their cigars; women tossed theirsandwiches into the heather. The Master tooted his horn.
“Forrard! Forrard!”
The Squire, and others of the heavy brigade, fetched a compass, hoping to save distance and horses. Lionel rode a little to the left of hounds.
Leaving Island Thorns on his left and Pitt’s woods on his right, the buck headed straight for Letchmore Stream. Here hounds threw up. The Master cast them a quarter of a mile down water, hitting the line again at the spot where the buck took to dry land.
“Look how the leading hounds drive,” said Lionel to Margot. “He’s not far ahead. He tarried as long as possible.”
The pace was now terrific. An August sun blazed down. The pace was hotter than the sun.
“If this lasts,” thought Lionel, “he’ll beat us.”
They sped past Hasleys’ over holes and ruts. To the right of Margot one young fellow took an appalling toss, hurled from the saddle like a stone from a catapult, as his horse rolled end over end. He jumped up, shouting cheerily: “I’m all right. Go on!” Another thruster, a stranger, was bogged near Broomy Water. Lionel steered a little to the left, which brought him to the ford. Here the Master had expected the buck to soil. But the leading hounds flung themselves across the stream, picked up the line without a check and raced into Broomy.
“Ware rabbit-holes!” yelled Lionel, looking over his shoulder.
Margot’s horse jumped half a dozen cleverly.
“Forrard! Forrard!”
Out of Broomy on to the heather again, through Milkham, where the buck had passed a half-dried-up stream, and into Roe. Here the quarry soiled. On and on to Buckherd Bottom. Coming through this, Lionel caught a glimpse of ten bucks cantering away across the open, but too far off to determine whether the hunter deer was amongst them or not. The Master divined, happily, that he wasn’t. He picked up his hounds, jogged on steadily, hounds casting themselves well in front of him, and before he had gone three hundred yards, four or five couple began throwing their tongues.
“They’ve hit the line again,” said Margot.
“Have they?” wondered Lionel, watching the Master. “Some of the old ’uns don’t think so.”
Margot heard the Master talking confidentially to Ravager:
“That won’t do, old boy, will it?” He roared out to his Whip: “Stop ’em!” So well-broken were the hounds that as soon as the Whip called “Hold hard!” they streamed back to the Master, looking rather ashamed of themselves. He rated them kindly: “Silly beggars! Think you can catch a fresh deer, do you? Let’s see what you can do with a half-cooked ’un.”
“Have we lost him?” Margot asked Lionel.
“We shall hit him off all right.”
The Master held hounds on till they spoke to the true line a hundred yards beyond the false.
“They’re away,” said Lionel. “Look at the three- and four-season hounds racing to the front. Oh, you beauties!”
The Master touched his horn—one melodious note.
“Forrard!”
But the buck was too spent to go very far. He soiled again in Handy Cross Pond. Just beyond the Ringwood Road a forest-keeper was seen carrying his gun.
“Don’t shoot the deer!”
“Ah-h-h! I seed ’un—a gert buck with his jaw out, an’ not gone six minutes, seemin’ly. Turnin’ left-handed, zur, to Ridley. There’s a herd o’ bucks afore ’un, too.”
“Forrard on!”
Ravager and Whistler, who had been leading, now gave pride of place to Welladay and Armlet. Old hounds know full well when their quarry is sinking. The gallant buck turned again, right-handed, and swung between Picket Post and Burley upon an open plain where hounds got a view of him. They coursed him, running mute, for nearly a mile, and at last rolled him over in the open. A ten-mile point from where the pack was laid on and eleven from the couch where he was roused. Time—one hour and forty minutes!
“A clinker,” said Lionel to Margot.
After the last rites had been swiftly performed, the Master took Lionel aside.
“Who is the little lady? She went like a bird.”
When he heard her name he laughed and winked knowingly. Evidently the Squire had been talking indiscreetly. The Master chuckled and winked again as he said:
“This deer’s head, set up by Rowland Ward, would make a corkin’ wedding present—what?”
Hounds went back to kennels.
The Squire had jogged home by himself. His horse was out of condition, and, probably, he wished to give Lionel a chance. Marriages may or may not be made in heaven, but many are comfortably arranged in the hunting-field, and most of these, we fancy, bud and blossom when a man and a maid ride home together after a good run.
Long before Lionel began his tale, Margot’s intuition warned her that the expected would not come to pass. His too cheery manner, revealing rather than concealing nervousness, betrayed him. She remembered the round of golf, and her premonition that Joyce would win the greater game.
Joyce was Euphrosyne.
It is difficult to analyse her feelings at this moment, because she failed to analyse them herself. Nor was this a first experience. She had seen men she liked, men whom she had deliberately considered as possible Prince Consorts, men who had pursued her, grow cold in the chase and drop out. And always she had accepted this philosophically, with a disdainful shrug of the shoulders. Unlike most women, she could shift her point of view with disconcerting swiftness and adroitness. Disconcerting to herself and to others! Boredom inevitably followed fresh excitements. Lionel’s word “mirage” had kept her awake on the night after the cricket match. Was life, for her, a succession of mirages? Would the charm of Pomfret Court fade and vanish if she married Lionel?
She had not answered such questions. Perhaps the kindly sprites whom old-fashioned folk still speak of as “guardian angels” were soaping the ways by which Lionel’s tale might slide into her mind. Nevertheless it would be fatuous to deny that her pride escaped humiliation, although pride saved an unhappy situation for Lionel.
He began hesitatingly:
“You and I are good pals, Margot.”
At this opening doubt vanished. Instantly, with a ripple of laughter, she said quickly:
“You have something to tell me.”
“Yes.”
“A secret to share with a pal.”
“How amazingly quick you are!”
“I can guess your secret, my dear young friend.”
He flushed at a faintly derisive inflection. She continued in the same tone:
“The nice little girls whom I had picked out for your inspection and selection may be left in peace, so far as you are concerned.”
“How did you guess?”
“You have a delightfully ingenuous face, Lionel. It is at once an asset and a liability. Let me do some more guessing. Put me right, if I am wrong. Poor Mr. Moxon might be a happy man to-day if you had stayed in India. Well, my dear,” her tone became maternal, “you have chosen a pretty, good, amiable girl, but can I—can I congratulate you with all my heart?”
The adjectives rankled, but he remained silent. Margot was reflecting that revenge, so dear to slighted women, was a weapon that would be wielded quite adequately by Sir Geoffrey Pomfret. She continued sweetly:
“I want to congratulate you, but I see so plainly all the obstacles. You rode straight to-day. I am wondering how you will negotiate the fences between your father and his parson’s daughter.”
“They look big enough to me, I can assure you.”
The paramount desire to please herself by pleasing others rose strong within her. Why be “cattish” with a jolly boy? Let him think of her for ever and ever as a pal. All trace of claws vanished as she said softly:
“If I can help you I will.”
He responded affectionately:
“You are a good sort. Help me? Of course you can. I—I think mother will side with me.”
Almost she betrayed herself. The words flew to her lips, “Lady Pomfret didn’t side with me.” Fortunately they remained unspoken. She said instead:
“Probably. Joyce Hamlin is dear to her. Frankly, I feel most sorry for your mother. What a poignant position! If she sides with you she declares war against her husband, who boasts that he is still her lover.”
Lionel grew more and more depressed. His next remark had humour in it, not intended by him.
“You aren’t helping me much, Margot.”
She saw the humour and laughed.
“Cheer up! You are an only child. Your father loves you. In the end he will climb down, but the fences are there, and you are still on the wrong side of them.”
“I dare say you would dash at ’em.”
“I am I. I’ve ridden for a fall before now, and had it. You are you. A fall over these particular fences might be disastrous. Go canny! Creep! Crane! That is my advice.”
“I feel that way myself, although I hate creeping and craning. Did father say anything to you about Johnnie Fordingbridge?”
“You mean the man who tootled the tandem horn?”
“Yes. He married his agent’s daughter. He was going fast to the bowwows before I went to India. I never saw such a change in a fellow—never.”
“Sir Geoffrey did say something. What was it? Oh, yes. He pointed him out as a man who had paid a preposterous price for twins.”
“I wonder what father would be willing to pay for another son?”
“Or a grandson,” murmured Margot.
She was very nice and sympathetic after this, the more so, perhaps, as unconsciously he made plain his position—that of dependence on his father. Margot smiled when he prattled of living on his pay in another regiment. And yet the boy’s unworldliness, his faith in true love and hard work (which he knew so little about), caught oddly in her heart. She knew that she had been right in one thing, her “flair” had not failed her—he sat upright in his saddle, a gallant gentleman, a credit to his Order.
We must admit that she dealt kindly with him under considerable provocation to be unkind. Sensible of this, he showed his gratitude, almost too effusively. But he had wit enough not to praise his ladylove. The adjectives still rankled—pretty—good—amiable.
They rode into the stable-yard.