F I S H P I N G L E
_A ROMANCE OF THE_
_COUNTRYSIDE_
BY
HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL
AUTHOR OF
“QUINNEYS’.” “JELF’S,” “THE TRIUMPH OF TIM,”
ETC., ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
* * * * *
COPYRIGHT, 1917
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
* * * * *
To The
COUNTRY GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
* * * * *
FISHPINGLE
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
PREFACE
A Romance of the Countryside needs no preface. But underlying the
adventures and misadventures of the story is an obvious purpose, and the
importunities of any purpose, if denied expression in the main
narrative, do press forward, with a justifiable relevance, when that
narrative is completed. I could wish that it had been possible to deal
with my theme as it will present itself after the war, when the position
of the country gentlemen of this kingdom is likely to be even more
poignant than in pre-war days. It seems to me almost certain that the
type of man whom I have endeavoured to portray faithfully in these pages
will become extinct unless he and his justify their claim to existence
by dealing drastically with the problem that confronts them, a problem
far more difficult of solution than it was four years ago. If the men
who own land, and little else, wish to keep that land, they must make it
pay by the sacrifice of much they hold dear; they must abandon their
deep ruts and take the high-road of progress. What is needed jumps to
any observant eye—intimate knowledge of a difficult subject. The old
dogs won’t learn the new tricks. But their sons must learn them, if they
wish to inherit the family acres. I am of the opinion that it will be a
bad day for England when the Squires are scrapped. If they are scrapped,
it will be their own fault. Heirs to many acres cannot, in the future,
pass the most valuable and fructifying years of their lives in crack
regiments, or anywhere else. They must stick to the land, and
concentrate undivided energies upon it. No man who has studied
agricultural conditions at first hand in France, for example, will deny
the fact that even thin, sterile soil can be made productive. To achieve
triumphantly such a task postulates the exercise of qualities which
insure success in any other business—economy, patience, fortitude, and
common sense. The big industrial concerns are owned and managed by
experts. Agriculture—the backbone of England—is in the hands, for the
most part, of amateurs. Some large farmers may be cited as exceptions,
but the landowners, the smaller farmers and the labourers who till their
allotments simply don’t know their business, and accordingly make a
muddle of it. I do not believe that the allotment schemes, which sound
so plausible, will prosper under the protection of Government, until the
landowners and farmers first set an example of “how to do it.” The
wastage everywhere is appalling. Why is it that Scotch farmers,
confronted with greater difficulties as regards soil and climate, are
able to pay so much higher wages than English farmers? Because they are
thriftier and more intelligent. But you can’t raise man’s intelligence
by giving him land of his own, and then telling him to go ahead and
prosper. Much more is wanted.
I have spoken of the necessity of sacrifice. The Squires will have to
give up certain luxuries, such as a season in London, foreign travel,
and crippling allowances to idle sons. But sport should remain their
inalienable possession if they pursue it as a pastime and not as the
principal business of their lives. Hunting, shooting, and fishing are
national assets within reasonable limitations. Long may they flourish!
It is not the Squires who have imposed the tyranny of sport upon their
people, but the plutocrats. Much undiluted nonsense has been written
against hunting and shooting mainly by men who are grossly ignorant of
their subject, bent upon citing extreme instances, which, when
investigated, turn out to be absolutely exceptional. Editors of
influential papers still encourage these gentlemen of the pen to attack
dukes because deers forests in the Highlands are not planted to
potatoes! Why not try oranges or bananas? Triumphant democracy still
believes that it is more sportsmanlike to walk up birds and “tailor”
them, instead of killing them as they are driven to the guns, flying
fast and high overhead.
When this theme of the countryside first presented itself to me, I was
tempted to take, as a type, what is called a “bad” landowner, one who
neglects wilfully his responsibilities and duties. Unhappily, there are
many such. But these petty tyrants are irreclaimable. Unquestionably
they _will_ be scrapped. And the sooner the better! Hope of salvation
lies with men like Sir Geoffrey Pomfret, true lovers of the soil, but
helplessly ignorant of its potentialities. In this category are not
included the very few magnates who can and do employ experts to manage
their estates. These few must make it their business to spread the
knowledge for which, by costly experiments, they have paid a tremendous
price. They, and they alone, are really qualified and able to put men
upon allotments and demonstrate what intelligence and ingenuity can
accomplish.
A last word. I wrote a book and a comedy entitled “Quinneys’.” The book
appeared first and then the play. Some critics took for granted that the
play was a dramatization of the novel. They happened to be wrong. The
comedy was written before the book. In this case, my comedy “Fishpingle”
was produced at the Haymarket Theatre in 1916. The novel will appear in
1917. I leave it to the same critics to guess which was written first.
HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL.
BEECHWOOD,
_April, 1917_.
* * * * *
FISHPINGLE
CHAPTER I
Fishpingle’s room at Pomfret Court challenged the interest of visitors
to that ancient manor-house. It had been part of the original Pomfret
House destroyed by fire in the first decade of the seventeenth century.
Walls, floor, and ceiling were of stone quarried on the estate and laid
by a master-builder, who, obviously, had revelled in the eccentricities
of his craft. The general effect was that of a crypt, although a big
window, facing south, and looking into a charming courtyard, had been
cut out of the wall in 1830. This window, however, was Psuedo-Gothic in
character, and not too offensive to the critical eye. And the furniture,
also, waifs and strays from all parts of the house, stout time-mellowed
specimens, presented a happy homogeneity, as if they, at least, were
content with this last resting-place. A Cromwellian table upon which
Cavaliers had cut their initials, faced the wide open fireplace. In the
alcoves flanking the hearth stood two Queen Anne tallboys, much
battered. Opposite to them was a Sheraton bookcase and bureau roughly
restored by the village carpenter. The chairs were mostly eighteenth
century. But oak, walnut and mahogany twinkled at each other
harmoniously, polished by unlimited elbow-grease to a rich golden
sameness of tint, the one tint which the faker of old furniture is,
happily, unable to reproduce.
This room had been known as the Steward’s Room in the time of Sir
Geoffrey Pomfret’s predecessor and father. Fishpingle came into
possession when he was installed as butler long after Sir Geoffrey’s
accession to the family honours. Some forty years had passed since then
but the room retained its ancient uses, inasmuch as Fishpingle was
recognised and even acclaimed as steward rather than butler, whose
stewardship was the more real because it concerned itself loyally with
cause and disdained effect. Sir Geoffrey boasted with good reason that
he was the most approachable of squires. He may not have been aware that
Fishpingle soaped the ways upon which importunate tenants slid from
cottage to hall. Fishpingle served as an encyclopædia of information
concerning the more intimate details of estate management. He kept a big
diary. In the tallboys were filed papers and memoranda. Sir Geoffrey’s
only son, Lionel, and Lady Pomfret shared a saying which had mellowed
into a crusted family joke: “Fishpingle knows.”
Upon the stone walls were some fine heads of fallow deer, and half a
dozen cases of stuffed birds and fish. Fishpingle, it might be inferred,
was something of an angler and naturalist. A glance at his bookcase
revealed his interest in horse and hound. Beckford was there, and
Daniel’s “Rural Sports,” and Izaac Walton. In the place of honour shone
conspicuous a morocco-bound, richly-tooled, gilded volume—“Stemmata
Pomfretiana.” This genealogical work had been compiled, regardless of
expense, by Sir Geoffrey’s grandfather, who had wasted time and money in
pursuit of other and less harmless interests. It was he indeed, who
encumbered a fine estate with a large and crippling mortgage.
Into Fishpingle’s room came Alfred Rockley, the first footman, carrying
a handsome tankard in one hand and a “chammy” leather in the other.
Alfred was a good-looking young fellow, racy of the Wiltshire soil, born
and bred upon the Pomfret estates and quite willing to serve a master
who lived upon those estates and did not own (or lease) a house in town.
A reason for this contentment will appear immediately.
Alfred placed the tankard, bottom uppermost upon the Cromwellian table,
and stared at it intently with a slight frown upon his ordinarily
pleasant countenance. Then he picked it up, rubbed it softly, and began
to inspect himself in its shining surface. This agreeable task so
engrossed him that he failed to notice the sly approach of a
maid-servant, who followed a tip-tilted nose into the room. The nose
belonged to Prudence Rockley, a cousin of Alfred and the stillroom maid
of the establishment. She carried a feather duster and a smile which, so
Sir Geoffrey affirmed, was worth an extra five pounds a year in wages.
“Boo!” said she.
Alfred dropped the tankard and caught it again deftly. The Squire
encouraged cricket. Prudence laughed. Alfred displayed some irritation.
“There you go again.”
He spoke with the Wilts accent, an accent dear to the Squire and his
lady, as being the unmistakable voice of “his” people. Prudence shrugged
a pretty pair of shoulders as she answered with the same rising
inflection:
“I’ll go, Alfred, if so be as I’m disturbing you at your—_work_.”
“I came nigh on droppin’ the bloomin’ mug.”
As he spoke, he rubbed it caressingly, but his eyes dwelt even more
caressingly upon the stillroom maid, who, noting his glance, began
dusting the articles upon the table. As she moved from the young man,
she murmured interrogatively:
“Why ever have ’ee brought it in here?”
“I’ll tell ’ee, if you’ll give us a kiss, Prue.”
“Don’t ’ee be silly!”
Alfred retorted with conviction.
“If it be silly to want to kiss ’ee, I be the biggest fule in the
parish. ’Ee didn’t want coaxin’ las’ night, Prue.”
To this Prudence replied with alluring directness and simplicity.
“Be good, Alfie. If you kiss me afore ‘elevenses’ my cheeks ’ll be red
as fire, and Uncle Ben ’ll ask questions.”
Alfred let this soak in, as he rubbed the shining tankard. Then he spoke
decisively.
“I want un to ask questions. Sooner the better. Our gettin’ wed depends,
seemin’ly, upon your Uncle Ben.”
The significance of his tone was not lost upon the maid. Her straight
brows puckered slightly as she asked:
“But—why? You said that las’ night, you did.”
Alfred laid down the tankard and held aloft a handsome silver inkstand.
“It is here, Prue.” Then he read aloud an inscription. “‘Presented to
Benoni Fishpingle, after fifty years’ service, by his affectionate
friends, Sir Geoffrey and Lady Pomfret.’ _Affectionate!_ Ah-h-h-h! They
do think the world o’ Benoni Fishpingle, they do. Now, Prue, you coax
your Uncle Ben, and then he’ll downscramble Squire. Tell un that we be a
fine up-standin’ couple, a credit to Nether Applewhite.”
“That don’t need tellin’, Alfie.”
Alfred put down the inkstand and approached the maid, smiling at her. He
wagged his head knowingly.
“They got on to it at dinner las’ night. Yas, they did.”
He chuckled and took her hand in his.
“Got on to—what?”
“Eugannicks.”
He spoke so solemnly that Prudence was vastly impressed.
“Eugannicks,” she repeated, “what’s that?”
Alfred hesitated.
“Eugannicks be—eugannicks.”
“You’re a oner at explainin’ things to a pore young maid, you be.”
Alfred stiffened, but he pressed her hand softly.
“It’s like this, Prue. I can’t explain eugannicks to a young maid, rich
or pore—see?”
“No, I don’t. S’pose,” she dimpled with mischief, “s’pose you try.”
Alfred’s face brightened. Inspiration illumined it.
“You ask your Uncle Ben. Never so happy he be as when enlightenin’
ignorance.”
She withdrew her hand.
“Ignorance? Thank you. I will ask un.”
Alfred sighed with relief.
“Do. All the same, if you think red bain’t so becomin’ early in the
marning, do ’ee put off askin’ un till after tea.”
Prudence betrayed a livelier interest.
“Mercy! Why should eugannicks make me blush?”
Alfred chuckled again.
“You ask your Uncle Ben.”
Prudence nodded, satisfied that interrogation could not be pushed
further. Her eyes were caught by the gleaming tankard.
“That be a be—utiful mug, Alfie.”
“Don’t ’ee touch it. I’ll tell ’ee why I brought un in here, and take
payment after supper. The story be a kind o’ parryble.”
Prudence laughed.
“What big, brave words!”
Alfred pointed at the tankard. Unconsciously, he began to understudy the
tone and manner of the village parson. We shall meet this gentleman
presently. For the moment it is enough to say that he was a man of
character and influence. He had taught Alfred in Sunday school and
prepared him for Confirmation.
“The parryble o’ that there tankard’ll learn ’ee——”
“Teach me, Alfie——”
Prudence had reason to believe herself better educated than her cousin.
She used the country dialect because it would have been “grand” to speak
otherwise. But her uncle, Benoni Fishpingle, spoke English as free from
accent as Sir Geoffrey’s, and expressed himself with even greater
lucidity.
“Will learn ’ee what sort of an old fusspot your Uncle Ben be. When I
first comes here, ten years ago, ’twas well rubbed into me that this
yere tankard,” he held it up again, “was worth its weight in gold.
William an’ Mary.”
“William and Mary?”
“King William and Queen Mary. Bloody Mary he called her.”
“My! What ever did she call him?”
Alfred was unable to answer this question. Gazing solemnly at the
tankard, he continued in the same impressive tone:
“I dunno. In them ancient days I warn’t allowed to touch the damn thing.
Not worthy accordin’ to your Uncle Fusspots. But when I becomes first
footman it was my duty—an’ privilege—to clean un once a week. Now,
Prue, you mark well what follers. I cleaned un yes’dy afternoon, an’ put
un back in pantry safe. Fusspots was there, a-watchin’ me out o’ the
corner of his eye. Then I had to answer the library bell. When I comes
back to pantry this yere tankard was sittin’ bottom-up on floor!”
Prudence gave an astonished gasp as she repeated his words:
“Bottom-up on floor?”
Alfred nodded, almost pontifically. He had caught and held the pretty
maid’s interest in his narrative. His tone dropped mysteriously.
“Knowin’ my man, so to speak, and his lil’ endearin’ ways I says never a
word, but I picks up the mug and cleans un all over again. I puts it
back in safe an’ presently Fusspots sends me in here to fetch his specs.
When I gets back, I’m a liar if that there tankard warn’t wrong side up
on floor again.”
He paused dramatically. Prudence’s blue eyes were sparkling; a brace of
dimples played hide and seek upon her rosy cheeks.
“Well, I never!”
Alfred just touched the shining silver with his “chammy.”
“I looks at tankard, an’ Fusspots he looks at me with that queer grin o’
his. I’d half a mind to kick the mug into next parish, but I remains
most handsomely calm—yas, I did. Then I goes to work on a teapot.
Presently the old un says blandly, ‘Alferd, where’s my specs?’ I give
him his specs and he shoves him on. Then he just looks at me over the
top of ’em, and he says, ‘My lad,’ he says, ‘whatever is that settin’ on
floor?’ I answers up, just as innocent as you be, Prue——”
Prudence pouted, looking prettier than ever.
“I bain’t innocent, Alfie.”
Alfred glanced through the window and kissed her.
“I answers then, just so full o’ sauce as you be, ‘Why, Mr. Fishpingle,’
I says, ‘’tis the tankard what I cleaned so be—utiful five minutes
ago.’ ‘Hold hard,’ he says, ‘are you sure, my lad, that it is clean?’
That fair madded me, Prue, an’ I lets go my left——”
Prudence gasped again.
“Alferd Rockley, you never hit Uncle Ben surely?”
“Figure o’ speech, my maid. I says: ‘I be just so sure ’tis clean, as
you be o’ salvation.’”
“What a nerve!” murmured Prudence.
“I thought I’d fair landed un. Not a bit! He answers up, very
quiet-like: ‘Alferd,’ he says, ‘I bain’t sure o’ my salvation. Pick up
that tankard, my lad, and put it in safe. You can clean it properly
to-morrow marnin’. At a quarter to eleven, you put un on the table in my
room—_bottom up_.’ Now I asks you, Prue, is that tankard cleaned a fair
treat, or is it not? Don’t ’ee touch un!”
As he ended his amazing narrative, Alfred solemnly placed the tankard,
bottom up, on the table, inviting Prudence to inspect its immaculate
surface. She bent down, staring at it. Alfred kissed the nape of her
neck. As he did so, he sprang sharply to attention, and so did the maid.
She moved swiftly and silently to the fireplace.
Sir Geoffrey Pomfret entered.
He belonged to a type of country gentleman now almost extinct. His
round, rosy, clean-shaven face suggested John Bull. To accentuate this
resemblance he wore breeches and gaiters, very well cut, a rough
shooting-coat, a canary waistcoat and a bright bird’s-eye blue cravat.
Every movement and word proclaimed the autocrat. He advanced a couple of
steps, glanced about him with a genial smile, and addressed the
obsequious Alfred.
“Where’s Mr. Fishpingle?”
“In stable-yard, I think, Sir Geoffrey.”
The Squire crossed to the chimney-piece, eyeing Prudence with much
approval. He said pleasantly:
“Don’t let me disturb you, my dear. Bless me! Your skirts have come down
and your hair’s gone up.”
Prudence curtsied.
“If you please, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Well, well, the flight of Time does not please me. How’s your good
mother, Prudence?”
“Very nicely, Sir Geoffrey.”
The Squire nodded his massive head.
“Healthy family, you Rockleys. Most of my people, thank the Lord! are
healthy.” Alfred grinned acquiescence. “What the doose are you grinnin’
at?”
“I beg pardon, Sir Geoffrey.”
“I like grins. A good grin is worth money to any young man. Speak up,
sir! Always share a joke with a friend. I hope, b’ Jove! you regard me
as a friend?”
Man and maid answered simultaneously:
“Oh, yes, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Certainly, Sir Geoffrey.”
The Squire squared his broad shoulders and laughed.
“Then out with it, Alfred.”
Alfred, thus encouraged, and sensible that he was appearing to advantage
in the eyes of Prudence, said boldly:
“I was remembering, Sir Geoffrey, what you was sayin’ las’ night about
they eugannicks.”
The Squire laughed again.
“Took it all in, did you?” Alfred bobbed. “Capital! If I had my way,
eugenics should be taught in every school in the kingdom.” He spoke to
Alfred, but he looked kindly at Prudence.
“If you please, sir——”
“Yes, my pretty maid?”
“What are—eugannicks?”
Sir Geoffrey hesitated and coughed, but he was not the man to crane long
at an awkward fence.
“Well, well, how can I put it plainly to an intelligent child?”
“I be nineteen, Sir Geoffrey, come Michael-mas.”
“And my god-daughter, b’ Jove!”
“Yes, Sir Geoffrey.”
She curtsied again. The question had been asked and answered many times.
The Squire was now at his best—“in touch,” as he put it, with his own
people. He stroked an ample chin.
“I have sixteen god-daughters in Nether Applewhite, and the welfare of
all of ’em is near and dear to my heart. Nineteen, are yer?” He surveyed
her critically. “And one of ten, too?” She smiled. “All alive and doin’
well?” Prudence nodded; the Squire rubbed his hands together. “Capital!
The crop that never fails. How many in your family, Alfred?”
“Seven, Sir Geoffrey. No—eight.”
Alfred grinned deprecatingly.
Instantly the Squire’s voice grew testy.
“What d’ye mean, sir, by your ‘seven, no eight’?”
“I forgot my twin brother, Sir Geoffrey, him as died afore I was
christened. I was only a lil’ baby at the time.”
“Yes, yes, I remember. Sad affair. Diphtheria. Cost me a pretty penny.
Drains—damn ’em.”
For a moment silence imposed itself, broken by the soft, coaxing voice
of Prudence.
“And—eugannicks, Sir Geoffrey?”
The Squire pulled himself together, inflating his chest, astride a
favourite hobby. He began glibly enough:
“Drains, my girl, are a vital part of eugenics, but it begins—it
begins——Um! It’s not easy to make myself perfectly plain to a young
girl.”
Alfred grinned again, Prudence said reflectively:
“That’s what Alferd said, Sir Geoffrey.”
Alfred’s grin vanished as the Squire’s keen eyes rested upon him.
“Bless my soul? Have you been discussing eugenics with my god-daughter?”
Alfred moved uneasily.
“She did ask for information, Sir Geoffrey; and I made so bold as to
refer her to Mr. Fishpingle.”
The Squire’s face indicated relief.
“Yes, yes, Mr. Fishpingle will explain. Dear me! Is that the William and
Mary tankard?”
“Yes, Sir Geoffrey.”
“What the doose is it doin’ there—upside down?”
“Mr. Fishpingle’ll explain that, Sir Geoffrey. His very particular
orders. I—I think I hear him coming, Sir Geoffrey.”
Prudence began dusting again as Fishpingle came into the room. He was a
slightly older man than the squire and bore his years less lightly. He
was something of the Squire’s build, a fine figure of a man—so the
women said—and he bore upon a thinner, more refined face, the same look
of authority. As soon as he saw his master he smiled delightfully. Sir
Geoffrey growled out:
“You ought to be a policeman, Ben.”
“A policeman, Sir Geoffrey?”
“You’re never about when you’re most particularly wanted. Have you
looked at the mare?”
Fishpingle answered easily with the respectful assurance of an old
servant who had gone rabbiting with his master when they were boys
together.
“You won’t ride her again this season, Sir Geoffrey. She never was quite
up to your weight, and this spring hunting on hard ground is cruel work
on the hocks. She’ll have to be fired, the pretty dear.”
“Turn her out into the water-meadows.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And now, pray tell me, what is the meaning of—that?”
He indicated the tankard. Fishpingle smiled.
“A small matter of discipline, Sir Geoffrey, which concerns Alfred and
myself.”
“But why, man, is it placed upside down?”
“Merely as an object lesson, to test a young man’s powers of
observation.”
As he spoke, with a certain quaint deliberation, he glanced
affectionately at the fine piece of silver. Then, in a sharper tone, he
spoke to Alfred:
“Take it away, my lad, and clean it properly.”
Alfred picked up the tankard, somewhat sullenly. His face brightened as
the Squire exclaimed irritably:
“But, damn it, Ben, the tankard is clean. Here—give it me.”
Alfred handed over the tankard, which the Squire examined carefully.
“Nothing wrong that I can see.”
Alfred betrayed a momentary triumph. Fishpingle said quietly:
“Please inspect the bottom of it, Sir Geoffrey.”
The Squire did so, and chuckled.
“Yes, yes, I take you, Ben. Inculcate your object lesson, my friend.”
Fishpingle obeyed this injunction in his own deliberate fashion. Perhaps
this was the essential difference between two men who had so much else
in common. The Squire, obviously, acted upon impulse. Inheriting a large
estate early in life, and with it those _droits de seigneur_ which, to
do him credit, he had exercised both leniently and with an honest regard
for the feelings of others, he had learned to control everybody upon his
domain except himself. Fishpingle, on the other hand, with a much
stronger will and an intelligence far above the average, habitually
looked before he leaped. Having done so he was quite likely to leap
farther than his master. He took the tankard from Sir Geoffrey’s hand,
and slowly tapped the bottom of it.
“Hall marks full of plate powder. A guest sees this fine tankard on Sir
Geoffrey’s dining-table. If he is a connoisseur he asks leave to look it
over. And the one thing which gives him the information he’s
after—_pedigree_—has been hidden by your carelessness. Off with you!”
Alfred, much crestfallen, took the tankard and left the room. Sir
Geoffrey sat down in Fishpingle’s big armchair. He smiled pleasantly at
Prudence.
“Run along, my little maid,” he said, in his most genial voice.
Prudence hesitated, fiddling with her apron.
“What is it, my dear?”
She blushed a little.
“Eugannicks, Sir Geoffrey.”
The Squire threw back his head and laughed.
“Ha—ha! What a nose for a hunted fox!”
Prudence, thus compared to a hound, had wit enough to “speak” to a good
scent.
“If it ought to be taught in the schools——”
The Squire was delighted. As a rule, the stupidity of some of his people
exasperated him.
“You sly little puss! I say, Ben——”
“Sir Geoffrey?”
“Your little niece wants to know the meaning of eugenics.”
“Please, uncle.”
Fishpingle glanced from the beaming face of the Squire to the demure
Prudence standing at attention between them. The light from the big
window fell full upon her trim, graciously rounded figure. Here, indeed,
was the concrete presentment of what eugenics might achieve. A faint
smile flickered about his lips; his eyes softened. As a matter of fact,
Prudence was not his niece, but a cousin, a first cousin once removed.
But he gazed at her with the proud and affectionate glance of a father.
Then he said slowly:
“Eugenics, Prudence, is the new science which deals with conditions
which make for the improvement of the human race.”
The Squire nodded complacently.
“Couldn’t have put it better myself b’ Jove!”
Fishpingle bowed.
“That is exactly what you said last night, Sir Geoffrey, to her
ladyship.”
“So I did—so I did. But my lady failed to understand me.”
“I don’t understand neither,” murmured Prudence.
“Have another go, Ben,” the Squire enjoined.
Fishpingle took his time, choosing his words carefully.
“You are a strong healthy girl, Prudence.”
“Aye—that I be, thank the Lard!”
Sir Geoffrey was not the man to let pass such an opportunity. It may be
mentioned here that he had made sacrifices for his people, amongst which
may be counted the giving up of a town house, foreign travel, and the
riding of less expensive hunters not quite up to his weight. He said
gravely:
“You can thank me, too, Prudence. The sanitary condition of Nether
Applewhite put that fine colour into your cheeks, my girl.” Prudence
curtsied. “Go on, Ben. Forrard away!”
If the Squire was swift to grasp his opportunities, as much and more
could be said of Fishpingle. He had reason to believe that love passages
had taken place between Alfred and Prudence, and a marriage between
these young people would be, in his opinion, the real right thing. Would
the Squire encourage such a match?
“Alfred,” he said, looking at the Squire as he spoke, “is also a fine
specimen of what a young man ought to be. And a marriage between you two
young persons would be, from the point of view of eugenics——”
“Disastrous!”
Sir Geoffrey, sitting bolt upright, snapped out the adjective.
“Oh-h-h!” exclaimed Prudence. Fishpingle was surprised also.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Geoffrey.”
“They are first cousins, man. Had you forgotten that?”
Prudence interrupted hastily.
“Father an’ mother was second cousins.”
“Were they, b’ Jove! That makes the matter ten times worse.”
“But—why?” Prudence insisted.
Sir Geoffrey, fairly cornered, growled out:
“You explain, Ben.”
“Not now, Sir Geoffrey, if you please. Later.”
“Yes, yes; you can leave us, Prudence.”
The maid went out quickly. As the door closed behind her a gulp was
heard. The Squire frowned.
“Ben?”
“Sir Geoffrey.”
“That little dear was upset.”
“Young females are subject to frustrations.”
“Shush-h! She wouldn’t listen at the door, would she?”
“My niece—eavesdropping?”
“She ain’t your niece, if it comes to that. And the best of ’em do it.
Why was the child upset?”
Fishpingle answered directly.
“Because Alfred and she hope to get married.”
The Squire exploded, shaking a minatory forefinger at his butler.
“You knew this? And not a word to me? Tchah!”
The resentful sparkle in the Squire’s eyes might have been detected also
in the eyes of Fishpingle, but there was no irritability in his tone as
he said respectfully:
“I haven’t had a word from them yet, Sir Geoffrey, but I guessed what
was up.”
“Well, well, I count on you to nip this. It must be nipped—nipped.”
He stood up. Fishpingle remained silent. In a louder voice, with a
peremptory gesture, Sir Geoffrey continued:
“Did you hear me, Ben? I said—_nipped_. No in-and-in breeding on my
property.”
Fishpingle observed blandly:
“It worked well enough with the Suffolk punches and the hounds you had
from the Duke of Badminton.”
“Damn you, Ben, it is just like your impudence to argue with me. Now—I
leave this little matter in your hands. Have you seen that fool Bonsor
this morning?”
Bonsor was the bailiff and a source of chronic irritation to his
employer. Fishpingle had seen him and spoken to him about some ailing
sheep. The Squire listened, frowning and nodding his head. When
Fishpingle had finished, he burst out irrelevantly:
“Don’t forget what I said just now. You share my views about breedin’.
All you know you’ve got from me, you ungrateful old dog!”
“I owe much to your family, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Pay your debts. There are moments, Ben, when you disappoint me. When
you try to—a—_down_ me with my own carefully digested arguments.
You’re a match-makin’ old woman, you are. You’ve encouraged Prudence to
become engaged to her double first cousin.”
Fishpingle smiled disarmingly.
“Double first cousins, Sir Geoffrey, if you’ll pardon me, are the
children, let us say, of two brothers who happen to have married two
sisters.”
The Squire fumed, tapping his gaiters with the riding switch which he
carried.
“There you go again! Trying to crow over me with knowledge gleaned, b’
Jove! from me. You tell Prudence to find another young man.” He stumped
to the door and opened it. “You make that perfectly plain to the little
baggage. I’m counting on her for half a dozen healthy kids at the least.
You hear me? That’s the irreducible minimum.”
“I’ll make a mental note of it, Sir Geoffrey.”
Sir Geoffrey relaxed a little.
“I’m sorry if I’ve made you lose your temper, Ben.”
“Pray don’t mention it, Sir Geoffrey.”
“And if Bonsor comes bobbing round again about those damned sheep, tell
him what you think—I mean what I think.”
He went out, slamming the door. Fishpingle whistled softly to himself.
* * * * *