Fishpingle sat down to his desk and busied himself with some papers. He
thought it likely that Prudence might return, but she didn’t. The butler
lit a pipe, rose from his chair, and crossed to the fireplace. Upon the
mantel-shelf, framed alike in handsome leather frames, stood three
photographs—Sir Geoffrey, in hunting kit, which became him admirably,
Lady Pomfret, and Lionel Pomfret in the uniform of the Rifle Brigade.
Fishpingle gazed intently at the portrait of his mistress. It happened
to be an admirable likeness, recently taken. Fishpingle’s face softened,
as he murmured something to himself. Perhaps he was thinking that here
indeed was that rare bird—a lady of quality, the porcelain clay of
human kind. The gracious curves of face and person, the kind, thoughtful
eyes, heavily lidded, the sweet mouth, the delicately cut nose—all
these attributes indicated race. One glance at such a portrait would
inform any observer that Sir Geoffrey had been fortunate in his choice
of a wife. And the same observer might have hazarded the conjecture that
the lady was well content with her husband and life. Obviously, too,
that life had been sheltered, lavender-scented, fragrant with all odours
of woods and fields, untainted by what is offensive and cruel and urban.
“Bless her!” ejaculated Fishpingle.
He turned to the portrait of her son, a smiling stripling, who had
inherited the delicate features of his mother, and, apparently, none of
his father’s rugged health and massive physique. Fishpingle frowned a
little. But he smiled again when he glanced at the Squire’s bluff, jolly
face. Meanwhile his pipe had gone out. He relit it, walked to the door,
called for Alfred, at work in the pantry, and then sat down in the big
armchair.
Alfred’s voice was heard humming a tune. He stopped humming as he came
in.
“Sit down,” said Fishpingle.
Alfred, rather surprised, perched himself upon the edge of a chair.
Fishpingle puffed at his pipe. After a moment or two, he removed it from
his lips, saying abruptly:
“So you want to marry Prudence?”
Alfred betrayed astonishment.
“The lil’ besom told ’ee?”
Fishpingle shook his head.
“How did ’ee find out?”
“Never mind that! The powers of observation, my lad, so singularly
lacking in you, are sharpened to a finer edge in me.”
In dealing with his subordinates, Fishpingle’s copious vocabulary and
choice of English never failed to astonish and confound. It was known,
of course, that he had been educated above his station because his
mother had been the favourite maid of Sir Geoffrey’s grandmother, and
later he had served as valet to his present master. But even these
well-established facts were inadequate to the bucolic intelligence. A
spice of mystery remained. Fishpingle ended on a sharper note:
“You want her?”
Alfred leant forward, speaking very emphatically:
“Aye—that I do. She be the sweetest lil’ maid in Wiltsheer, she be.”
“Um! And Prudence wants you, hey?”
Alfred grinned. Beneath the crust of an upper-servant’s manner, he
caught a glimpse of that rare and refreshing fruit—sympathy. And he was
well aware of the butler’s affection for his kinswoman.
“Ah-h-h! When she were a settin’ on my knee las’ night, with her dinky
arms roun’ my neck, and her lil’ mouth——”
“That will do,” said Fishpingle, drily. “Obviously, the maid wants you.
Now, let me see—your grandfather lived to a ripe old age, didn’t he?”
Alfred nodded eagerly.
“Granfer, he lived to be a hundred an’ two. Yas, he did. An’ he could
carry more ale, an’ mead, an’ cider, wi’out showing it, than any man in
Nether Applewhite. An’ smokin’ like a chimbley all the time. A most
wonnerful man was granfer.”
Fishpingle pursed up his lips, judicially, and his tone became
magisterial.
“But your father is dead, Alfred. What killed him?”
Alfred laughed incredulously. Let it not be imputed to him for
heartlessness.
“You ain’t never forgotten how pore dear father died. Mother killed un.”
“Nonsense, my lad.”
“’Tis true as true. Mother, pore soul, she put carbolic acid in an ale
bottle. Father—you mind he was Sir Geoffrey’s shepherd?” Fishpingle
inclined his head. “Well, he come home-along tarr’ble thirsty, an’, dang
me! if he didn’t take a swig out o’ ale bottle. Doctor said ’twould have
killed any other man in two jiffs, but father he lived two hours in most
tarr’ble agony. ’Twas a very sad mishap.”
Alfred sniffed, overcome by his emotions. Fishpingle nodded.
“I’m sorry, my boy. My memory is not quite what it was. Well, it seems
that Prudence wants you and that you want her.”
Alfred smiled again. He began to plead his case excitedly.
“I’ve money in bank, I have. And strong arms to work and fend for her.
God A’mighty knows I be fair achin’ for her. I earns good wages, I do.
And when you retire, sir, I be countin’ on steppin’ into your shoes.”
“You’ll never quite fill them.”
“That be sober truth. I’ve a dinky lil’ foot I have.”
“You can go.”
Alfred jumped up.
“Then it be right and tight seemin’ly?”
Fishpingle looked at him.
“Suppose Sir Geoffrey objected?”
Alfred laughed gaily.
“You can get round un. We all knows that. ’Tis the common sayin’ that
you be lard o’ the monor of Nether Applewhite in all but name.”
“Off with you!”
Alfred burst into song.
“And now I’ll marry my own pretty maid,
So handsome, and so cle—ver!”
Fishpingle held up his hand.
“Don’t sing! And—not a word of this to Prudence till I’ve spoken to
her.”
Alfred nodded and withdrew.
Alone, once more, Fishpingle moved restlessly about the room. He was
sensible of some premonition of trouble, some lurking doubt of his power
to smooth the path of these simple lovers, some fear that interference
on his part might be obstinately resented. Work might have distracted
him, but for the moment there was not work enough for two able-bodied
footmen, not to mention the odd man, who laboured more abundantly than
them all.
He sat down at the Sheraton bureau, and took from a drawer a much
battered tin box, which he opened with a small key attached to his watch
chain. The box held some letters and a miniature. In his less robust
moments, when any really pressing appeal happened to be made to his
sentimental side, a side carefully hidden from Nether Applewhite,
Fishpingle was in the habit of opening this box, and looking at the
miniature. He might, if the necessity were really importunate, read a
letter or two. He had picked up the miniature when a tap at the door was
heard.
“Come in.”
Prudence appeared. Fishpingle was not deceived by her self-composed and
almost valiant deportment. He knew that she had missed “elevenses” and
had spent at least a quarter of an hour crying in her room, and as much
time again in repairing the ravages wrought by tears. As he was
expecting her, and didn’t wish her to know it, he expressed a mild
surprise.
“Is everybody as idle as I am in this house?”
She perched herself upon his knee, put one arm round his neck, and
kissed his forehead.
“Dear Uncle Ben,” she cooed.
“Cupboard love, my dear. I know why you are here. I know what you
want—Alfred.”
“What a man you be!”
“Don’t you want him? Speak up!”
She put her lips to his ear and whispered. “Yes, I do. There!”
“And you came here to tell me this?”
“N—no.”
“Then why did you come?”
“Because of what Sir Geoffrey said. What did he mean? What _did_ he
mean?”
Fishpingle felt her cheek rubbed softly against his. The little witch
meant to abuse her powers. And her sweetness, the artlessness of her
avowal, were irresistible. Indecision took to its heels. Then and there
he registered a vow to fight on the lover’s side, to fight, if need be,
to a finish. He said tentatively:
“About eugenics?”
She slipped from his knee, fetched a foot-stool, and sat down upon it,
clasping his hand in hers.
“Tell about eugannicks, Uncle Ben.”
For the second time that morning he noticed that the maid was in
sunlight, whereas he sat in shadow. And her voice, eager, youthful,
vibrant with feeling, seemed to ring out of the sunlight, whereas his
own grave inflections floated quietly out of the shadowy past.
“It would come better from your mother, Prue.”
“Mother be manglin’ to-day. ’Tis easier to talk to ’ee than her, so busy
she be from marnin’ till night. An’ I brought my troubles to ’ee, Uncle
Ben, when I was a lil’ maid. Squire said that a marriage ’atween cousins
’d be dis—_astrous_. If he were talkin’ eugannicks, why then I hate an’
despise eugannicks—yas, I do.”
“He was talking eugenics. Sir Geoffrey is a great gentleman, Prue. There
are not many left like him. He lives on his own land, he spends all his
money amongst his own people.”
Prudence said sharply:
“Squire ain’t too much to spend, seeminly.”
“True enough. He’s land poor. It’s been a struggle ever since I can
remember. And I’ve been here all my life. And I know Squire
better—better than he knows himself.”
Prudence observed more cheerfully:
“We all says that.”
He pressed her hand. She divined somehow that he was speaking with
difficulty, speaking rather to himself than to her, conjuring up a
picture which she beheld but dimly.
“You are little more than a child, but have you ever thought of what it
means when two persons live together and work together for fifty years?”
“I have thought o’ that lately, Uncle Ben.”
“Eugenics begin there, my maid. Two persons living together and working
together, not entirely for themselves but for others. Now, Prue, have
you thought of the others?”
“What others?” she whispered.
“Your—children.”
“Ye—es. But I hope there won’t be too many o’ they, uncle.”
“Mind your grammar. You speak well enough before the quality. Now,
child, I’ve broken the ice for a modest maid. Eugenics mean care and
thought for those who come after us. Sir Geoffrey looks upon all of you
as his children. He gave up the hounds to build more cottages. He takes
a real interest in every colt and lamb and calf and child born in Nether
Applewhite.”
Prudence considered this, with her head on one side.
“He must get fair dazed and mazed, pore man,” she declared.
“Occasionally he does. Look at me, Prue.”
She lifted her clear eyes to his, listening attentively as he went on—
“Rightly or wrongly, Sir Geoffrey dislikes marriages between folk who
are near of kin.”
Prudence pouted.
“’Tis right and proper that a maid may not marry her granfer, but
cousins——”
Fishpingle tried to explain that any taint, any predisposition to
disease, is likely to come out with greater virulence in the children of
those persons who are of kin. Prudence, however, remained unconvinced.
She jumped up and stood proudly before him.
“But, Uncle Ben, we be strong and hearty as never was, me and Alfie.”
“If I can make that clear to Sir Geoffrey——”
“To be sure you can, and you will.”
To her amazement and distress his tone, as he answered her, sounded
unconvincing and troubled.
“Perhaps. I—I hope so. He can be very—obstinate.”
“You be more obstinate than he.”
Tears formed in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Fishpingle was
not proof against this. Suddenly she flung herself into his arms,
sobbing passionately. Between her sobs he could hear a strangled voice
repeating miserably:
“I can’t live without Alfie, no, I can’t.”
He stroked her head till she grew calmer. He was wondering, not for the
first time, at the force of love, its violence in primitive natures, its
effect upon such an artless maid as this, and lastly the danger involved
in thwarting and diverting from its normal channel so devastating a
stream. And the resolution to help this confiding, helpless creature
gathered increasing will-power and direction. When she grew calmer, he
said softly:
“You can’t live without Alfred? Come, come, I have lived all these years
without a wife.”
As he spoke, he was sensible that an older, more experienced woman might
have turned upon him fiercely, asking him if such an abstention, whether
voluntary or forced, was to be commended. And when Prudence left his
encircling arm and lifted widely-opened eyes to his, he almost winced
before their mute interrogation. But the maid only murmured gently:
“That be true. Uncle Ben, dear, whatever made ’ee stay single? Do tell!”
Should he speak or hold his peace? Her violence had affected him most
strangely, broken down barriers of silence, self-imposed. The wish to
speak gripped him. And the right word at such a moment might be a
warning now and a solace hereafter if—if his plans went agley. He said
very quietly:
“My Christian name is Benoni.”
Prudence observed promptly—
“Benoni, so mother tells me, come slam-bang out o’ the Holy Book.”
“Yes. Did your mother tell you what Benoni means?” She shook her head.
“It means in Hebrew—a son of sorrow.”
She stared at him, trying to interpret a new and strange kinsman. Pity
informed her face, and then she smiled, recalling the old and familiar
Uncle Ben.
“But you bain’t sorrowful, dear heart.”
“I hope not. I count myself, Prue, a happy man. But sorrow brought me
into the world, sorrow brought me to Nether Applewhite.”
As her imagination grappled with his calm statement, Fishpingle sat
down. She knelt beside him, forgetting her own troubles as she gazed
anxiously into his kind face.
“Surely your mother has given you some—hint?”
Prudence affirmed positively that this was not the case. She added
proudly that her mother was no talker; one who kept herself to herself
as became a respectable mother of ten. Fishpingle continued:
“Your grandmother was my mother’s sister.”
“I know that.”
“My mother was the prettiest maid in Nether Applewhite; clever, too,
quick with her tongue, as you are—and quick with her needle, as you
aren’t.”
“Now, Uncle Ben!”
His voice lost its more familiar intonations and became impersonal and
dreamy.
“She became lady’s maid to Sir Geoffrey’s grandmother, Lady Alicia
Pomfret. She went about with her everywhere. She ran away with my
father. And when I was born she—died.”
Prudence shivered.
“Oh, dear! You never saw your own mother?”
He picked up the miniature.
“This, child, is her portrait.”
Prudence looked at it and kissed it.
“Thank you, Prue,” said Fishpingle. He took the miniature from her and
placed it with the letters in the tin box.
“Before my mother died, she sent for Lady Alicia, her old mistress. Her
ladyship took charge of me and brought me here.”
“But your father, Uncle Ben? Didn’t he want you?”
“He was not his own master. He married again later on. A small provision
was made for me, not much. That is all. What I have told you is between
our two selves. Promise?”
“I promise and vow! But why didn’t you marry? A man must love somebody.”
“I have loved Sir Geoffrey, Master Lionel, her ladyship and you.”
He kissed her tenderly, and she rose to her feet. In his ordinary tone
he said:
“Be off to your work. If Mrs. Randall asks any questions, you can say
that I had need of you.”
She hesitated.
“I have need of you, Uncle Ben. I shan’t eat nor sleep unless you tell
me that I shall get Alfie.”
“Sir Geoffrey instructed me just now to tell you something very
different. You are to find another young man.”
Her face fell dolorously. Fishpingle’s eyes twinkled, and his square
chin obtruded itself.
“But I tell you, Prudence, to do nothing of the sort.”
She laughed.
“I shall obey you, uncle.”
Like Alfred, she burst into song as she flitted down the corridor.
* * * * *
Fishpingle locked the tin box and put it away. Then he saw to it that
Alfred and the second footman, a singularly raw youth, were diligently
at work in the pantry. The second footman had been taken, so to speak,
from the plough-tail because Sir Geoffrey had stood sponsor for him, and
it was an idiosyncrasy of the Squire’s to keep an eye upon his
god-children, rather to the disgust of Fishpingle, who set an inordinate
value upon old plate, and much to the amusement of Lady Pomfret. Having
rated the second footman soundly, Fishpingle went into the dining-room,
where a small table in the big oriel window was laid for two. Upon the
walls hung portraits of dead and gone Pomfrets, and in the centre of the
room stood the great mahogany table at which many of them had made
merry. Fishpingle frowned as his eyes rested upon the portrait of Sir
Guy Pomfret, the present baronet’s grandfather, a gentleman of fashion,
who had played skittles with a fine fortune. Beside him, painted by the
same artist, hung the portrait of Lady Alicia, his kind friend and
protector. He owed his education to this stately dame, and much else
beside. Fishpingle smiled pleasantly at her.
Having satisfied himself that the luncheon table was in order, he opened
one of the casement windows and gazed placidly at the park, which sloped
with charming undulations to the Avon. His glance lingered with
affection upon the ancient yews thriving amazingly upon a thin, chalky
soil. They had been here before the Pomfrets! There was a particular yew
in Nether Applewhite churchyard mentioned in Doomsday Book. Out of some
of these yews had been fashioned the bows of Crécy and Agincourt.
He wondered whether the old order of landed gentry were doomed. The
parson, Mr. Hamlin, a bit of a Radical, held iconoclastic views.
According to this reverend gentleman, who much enjoyed an argument,
great estates, and in particular those which suffered from lack of ready
money, would share the fate of similar properties in France, and be duly
apportioned amongst a triumphant democracy to the betterment of the
majority. Fishpingle loathed such a possibility, the more so because the
parson’s arguments were hard nuts to crack. Such a man, upon such an
estate, provoked surprise and exasperation. Fishpingle knew that he had
been offered the living because he was famous as a cricketer. The Squire
believed in muscular Christianity. After the irreparable event came the
soul-shattering discovery that the parson supported Mr. Gladstone. A
three acres and a cow fellow!
A May sun illumined the landscape. The dining-room faced due east, and
to the west, beyond the woods which fringed the park, stretched the New
Forest. Sir Geoffrey hunted with both fox-hounds and buck-hounds, and
Fishpingle could well remember the days, not long passed, when the house
at this spring season was hospitably full of “thrusters” from the
shires, keen to kill a May fox in the most beautiful woodlands in
England. Economy prohibited such lavish entertainment now that rents
were falling with the price of corn and the rate of living steadily
rising.
A soft voice put to flight these reflections.
“Ah, Ben, I thought I should find you here.”
Fishpingle turned hastily to behold his mistress smiling at him.
Fishpingle never looked at her without reflecting that no artist could
possibly do her justice. Others, but no better judges, shared this
conviction. A delicate bisque figure, moulded by Spengler, would lose
its charm if painted. Lady Pomfret suggested the finest bisque, and yet
colour radiated from her, those soft tints which seem to defy
reproduction. She was past fifty, matronly in person, but youth
remained, an inalienable possession. The consciousness that she was
beloved may have kept ardent this dancing flame, for love is the supreme
beauty doctor. To this great gift some fairy godmother had added a
lively sense of humour constantly exercised by the wife of Sir Geoffrey.
And, in every way, she was his happy complement. He believed, honest
fellow, that he ruled his wife. Fishpingle knew that he became as wax
beneath her slender, pliable fingers. Long ago, she had accepted his
disabilities as part and parcel of the man she loved. His quick temper,
his prejudices and predilections growing stronger with advancing years,
his too hasty conclusions and judgments endeared the Squire to her. And
she knew that he adored her, had remained the gallant lover of her
girlhood, prodigal in attentions which delight women. Invariably he saw
her to her carriage; he rose when she entered a room; he brought her
flowers and such simple oblations; he paid her compliments. He exacted
from others the respect which he rendered so spontaneously to her.
Lady Pomfret approached Fishpingle and said confidentially:
“The Squire is upset this morning.”
Fishpingle, slyly aware that this was the thin edge of the wedge, and
that Sir Geoffrey had attempted to enlist his wife upon his side and
against the lovers, assigned to the Squire’s discomposure what he knew
to be the wrong reason.
“I told him the mare was not up to his weight.”
“That distressed him; it wasn’t that.”
“Might have been the sheep, my lady.”
“It might have been, but it wasn’t. I think, Ben, that you are well
aware of the real reason. Now, why have you made this match?”
Fishpingle made a gesture of repudiation. Lady Pomfret laughed.
“I can guess that Nature was the matchmaker, not you. It is unfortunate
that they are cousins.”
“Why so, my lady? There is no danger in such matches, where the strain
on both sides is clean and sound. That is Sir Geoffrey’s own view.”
Lady Pomfret held up a protesting finger.
“My dear Ben, I cannot talk eugenics with you, because I should be
confounded by your superior knowledge. What I want to ask you is this:
are the young people deeply attached to each other, or is it a mere
passing flirtation?”
He answered her positively.
“They are deeply attached, my lady. I can assure you that it is no
passing fancy, but the real thing.”
“Does an old crusty bachelor flatter himself that he knows the real
thing?”
“He does, my lady.”
Lady Pomfret laughed gaily. The freedom and familiarity of her
intercourse with this faithful servant were the greater because she knew
that he was incapable of abusing his privileges.
“Ben,” she continued, “I am quite sure that your fighting instincts have
been aroused. Don’t shake your head! I know you, and you know me. The
Squire is thinking of sending Alfred away, but I ventured to point out
to him that he was a most excellent servant, who understood our ways,
and that poor Charles, his godson”—she chuckled—“was hardly ready for
promotion. That gave him pause. Now I suggest to you the propriety of
marking time. Youth can wait, and so can Age. This tempest in our teapot
will blow over. And— strictly between ourselves—we must give undivided
attention to a match which more seriously concerns the fortunes of our
family.”
Fishpingle became alert instantly.
“Master Lionel is coming home,” he exclaimed. “This is great news, my
lady, wonderful news.”
“We don’t know for certain, Ben. It is probable. And then——!”
“And then?”
She recovered her sprightliness, which had vanished at mention of her
son. He was with his regiment in India. He had exchanged from an English
battalion because his lungs were none too strong. The dreadful word was
never spoken, but Fishpingle knew that a slight but unmistakable
tendency to consumption had manifested itself. There was reason to
believe that the young fellow had grown more robust in the Punjab. But
the taint, the predisposition, had been inherited from his mother’s
family, the Belwethers.
Lady Pomfret’s eyes twinkled.
“He has not been allured by any girl in India. I have his positive
assurance on that.”
Fishpingle made no reply. He was wondering whether his mistress could
assign a reason for this indifference, a reason divined rather than
known to himself. From the guileless expression of her face, he could
draw no inference save this: that she was less guileless, where her own
flesh and blood might be concerned, than she appeared. He waited
patiently for further enlightenment. He perceived, moreover, that Lady
Pomfret was in a rarely expansive mood.
“If we could pick and choose for him!”
“Ah!”
“Money is sadly needed, Ben.”
Each sighed, thinking of necessary things left undone—sterile acres
that cried aloud for fertilisers; farm-buildings falling into disrepair;
grumbling tenants; the long, dreary catalogue of “wants” upon an
impoverished estate.
“You have great influence with the Squire, Ben.”
She spoke with significance. Fishpingle smiled. The dear lady had sought
him with a definite object in view, which she would reveal after her own
fashion. In this case, it was revealed sooner than she had intended, for
she “gave herself away” by allowing her eyes to linger upon the finest
picture in the dining-room, a magnificent Sir Joshua, a full-length
portrait of a Pomfret beauty. At once Fishpingle stiffened and became
impassive.
“You don’t approve?”
Her feminine quickness of apprehension on such occasions as these always
disconcerted him. He realised that he, in his turn, had “given himself
away.”
“Sell that? Never, my lady.”
She shrugged her shoulders, regarding him ironically, reflecting with
ever-increasing amazement that long service with the Pomfrets had
positively turned him into a Pomfret, that he had become blind, like his
master, to what was so crystal clear to her—the necessity of sacrifice,
of lopping off superabundant growth to save a splendid tree.
“It is worth twenty thousand pounds, Ben.”
He remained silent. Undismayed, she tried again.
“That outlying strip of building property, eh? Would it be missed?”
Fishpingle grunted. It was futile to discuss such matters with a
Belwether. Everybody knew that their estates had melted away by just
such a process of constant disintegration. He said vehemently:
“Your ladyship knows that the most valuable pictures are heirlooms.”
“That could be got over with Master Lionel’s consent.”
So, she had taken expert opinion! A sweet lady, but a crafty.
“All the land is strictly entailed.”
“So you have told me before, but that, too, could be arranged, if the
necessity of breaking the entailment were made plain.”
Fishpingle let himself go. To the amusement of his mistress, he became
for the moment the Squire, using the Squire’s familiar gestures, taking
words often in his mouth.
“My lady, Sir Geoffrey may be right about this, or he may be wrong, but
what he inherited from his father cannot be sold. He will pass it on to
his son. That is part of his religion.”
“And yours?”
The sharp question, so quietly spoken, took him aback. She continued
quickly:
“You feel as he does about this supremely important matter, but
why—why? That is a mystery to me. I can understand his feelings about
his own property, not yours. Have you no sense of detachment, Ben? Can
you not see, as I see, the issues involved?”
Her voice faltered. Fishpingle became acutely distressed. He said
entreatingly:
“My lady, I would do anything, anything, to serve you and yours, but not
this one thing. It would mean the beginning of the end. Every Pomfret
before Sir Guy added to this property till it became what it is. You
know that the Squire would give his right hand if he, too, would carry
on the family tradition and buy, not sell. As for the issues involved, I
think I see them plainly. Sir Geoffrey sees them. He does not shrink
from them. Nor do you, I know.”
“Ah! you don’t quite know, but go on.”
“Expenses must be cut down. Economy in management, better organisation
and better prices, which must come, will pull us through.”
She retorted sombrely:
“Better prices may not come, and my son is coming home.”
“Master Lionel, my lady, will think as his father thinks.”
“Ben, you make things hard for me.”
She sat down, folding her hands upon her lap. Her expression indicated
resignation, feminine weakness. Fishpingle was not deceived. The battle
was not over, but beginning. Her ladyship had cleared her decks for
action.
“I can’t quite follow you, my lady.”
“You will in a moment,” her tone brightened. Outside, she could hear Sir
Geoffrey rating a retriever. That meant freedom from interruption. In
five minutes the faithful Ben would be enlightened. She asked him to sit
down. He did so with a premonition of defeat.
“Has it occurred to you, my dear old friend, that the simplest solution
of our problem might be found if Lionel married money?”
Fishpingle flushed a little. The delicate flattery of leaving out the
formal pretext to her son’s son, the tacit assurance that she suspended
for a moment the difficult relationship between mistress and man,
produced its intended effect.
“I have often thought of it, my lady.”
“Then you will admit that Lionel is placed in a false position?”
Fishpingle winced. She had pierced, at the first thrust, the joint in
his armour.
“He might be,” he admitted.
“He is in it already. God forbid that direct pressure should be used.
The Squire is incapable of that. Because we should not use such
pressure, the dear fellow might apply it himself. And if—if, Ben, he
happened to fall in love with a charming, penniless girl——”
Her voice died away. Fishpingle tried to read her thoughts and failed
helplessly. Did she suspect that there was such an attachment already?
After a pause she went on:
“That would be a great trial and disappointment to his father.”
Fishpingle opened his mouth and closed it.
“You know that, Ben, as well as I do. There are many nice girls with
money. Sir Geoffrey, poor dear man, is picking and choosing half a dozen
such, but our son can be trusted to make his own choice.”
“Yes,” said Fishpingle.
“If you had to choose, Ben, between the selling of that Reynolds and the
building land _and_ Lionel’s future happiness would you hesitate a
moment?”
“Not a moment, my lady.”
“I was quite sure of that.”
She rose, smiling placidly. Fishpingle rose with her. Nothing more was
to be said. The conqueror held out her hand.
“You are a true friend, Ben, loyal and—discreet.”
With that Parthian shot, she went her way.
* * * * *