“Creep—crane—go canny!”
This policy was not to Lionel’s taste. Hamlin, too would abhor it, wax
sour under it, suppress pride and wrath till they might break bonds and
run amok. Under the suspense of waiting, Euphrosyne would languish.
But what else could be done?
The Fates, not Lionel, answered the insistent question.
Upon the Tuesday afternoon the Squire went a-fishing by himself, too
perturbed of mind to seek any companion save that of his own thoughts.
One thing—quite enough—he knew. The boy had not “gone for” Margot.
None the less, they remained on easy, intimate terms with each other.
But at dinner, after the hunt, Margot had spoken of leaving on the
following Wednesday. The Squire was a stickler for keeping social
engagements; such engagements were made, of course, by a young lady of
quality many weeks ahead. Had he received from Lionel, over their wine,
some intimation that all was well, he would have been quite satisfied.
But why did the boy hold his tongue? What ailed him? Lady Pomfret was
solemnly interrogated. Let her hazard some reasonable conjecture! She
presented one, tentatively, placidly, and exasperatingly. The young
people might wish to remain simply and enduringly—_friends_. The Squire
was much ruffled, purged his mind drastically, dropped an oath, and
apologised. He kept on repeating himself: “She wants him, I tell you.
She was ripe for the pluckin’ a week ago. That my son should be a
laggard——!” His wife consoled him with the assurance that no man could
read a maid’s heart. “I read yours,” he affirmed. She smiled at him. He
kissed her and went his way.
Lionel caught Joyce alone for a few blessed minutes. She had told the
Parson.
“What did he say, my angel?”
“He was wonderful,” she sighed. “I was right to tell him.”
“Of course you were,” he exclaimed fervently. “Will it hurt you to tell
me exactly what he said about—about me—and father?”
“He anticipates grave trouble. I’ll tell you every word, when——”
“When?”
“When the trouble is over. He would rather not see you yet. His position
is——”
“Humiliating! When I look at you——!”
“I don’t look my best this morning, a bedraggled thing!”
To this he replied vehemently:
“Joyce, my blessed girl, nothing can cheapen you or your father. Not
prejudice, nor discourtesy—if it should come to that—nor injustice. I
have told Margot. She was very sympathetic. Of course, she always
regarded me as a friend. She will help, if she can. Her advice—and,
mind you, she’s a dasher—is: _Creep—crane—go canny!_ Father’s absurd
position can’t be carried by storm. I shall undermine the fortress. That
will take time.”
“Yes; but I warn you father won’t wait too long.”
“I count on Fishpingle. If you could have seen his dear old face when I
told him! We shall collogue, I promise you.”
He returned home, champing the curb which circumstances imposed.
After tea, when the Squire betook himself to the river, Margot sat, as
usual, upon the lawn, with Lady Pomfret. Lionel slipped away to
Fishpingle’s room. “Colloguing,” in his present feverish condition,
soothed him. To Fishpingle he could exhibit flowers of speech, nose-gays
of pretty sentiment. And he could talk emphatically of the future, the
simple life full of costless pleasures, dignified by steady work, by the
determination to solve Moxon’s problem, to make Pomfret land pay.
Fishpingle nodded approvingly, making happy suggestions, collaborating
whole-heartedly.
In this agreeable fashion an hour or more may have passed away. Suddenly
they heard the Squire’s voice in the courtyard, loud and clear. He was
rating the egregious Bonsor.
“I tell you, man, this is your damned carelessness. Unless I give my
personal attention to every detail, things go to blazes. I am surrounded
by a pack of fools.”
Bonsor’s voice mumbled a reply. Fishpingle said quietly:
“The Squire has not caught any fish.”
Sir Geoffrey stumped in, fuming and fussing. Fishpingle rose to relieve
him of rod, creel, and landing-net. Lionel said pleasantly:
“Anything wrong, father?”
“Everything,” snapped the angry man. “Tuesday is my unlucky day. I
believe I was born on a Tuesday.”
Fishpingle politely corrected him.
“No, Sir Geoffrey. You were born on a Wednesday, at 1.45 a. m.”
The Squire turned to Lionel.
“I lost two beauties, and broke the tip of my rod.”
Fishpingle assured him that the tip could be mended in ten minutes. The
Squire fumed on:
“Four thoroughbred pigs out of the new litter are dead. Mother overlaid
’em. There are moments when I wish my mother had overlaid me. Bonsor
tells me we are nearly out of coal, Ben.”
“I warned you, Sir Geoffrey, that we were running short a fortnight
ago.”
“You didn’t. If you had, I should have ordered a fresh supply by return
of post. Bonsor says that no coal has been ordered, which proves
conclusively that you did not tell me.”
Lionel interrupted.
“But he did, father. Fishpingle told you in my presence, just after
luncheon, as you and I were going to look at the horse I rode
yesterday.”
Sir Geoffrey glared at both butler and son.
“Just like him,” he snorted. “Ben knows perfectly well that a new horse,
if he’s a decently bred ’un, drives everything else out of my head.
Order the coal, Ben. Wire for a truck.”
“Very good, Sir Geoffrey.”
The Squire crossed to the hearth and sat down in Fishpingle’s big chair.
He frowned portentously, muttering:
“I am most confoundedly upset.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Tchah! I’m not speaking of the coal, nor the pigs. This is Tuesday.
Does Alfred go out on Tuesday?”
“I let him go this afternoon, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Did you know that Tuesday was Prudence Rockley’s afternoon off?”
“No, Sir Geoffrey. Mrs. Randall lets Prudence go out, if there’s no
pressing work.”
The Squire stamped his foot.
“Pressin’ work. Ha—ha! Hit the right word, for once. Very pressin’
work, b’ Jove! In defiance of my orders, I caught Alfred and Prudence
kissin’ each other—under my very nose. Pressin’ work, indeed. They
skedaddled. Hunted cover. Spoiled my sport, I tell you. I couldn’t get
out a clean line. Are they in now?”
“I think so, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Send for ’em—at once. Bring ’em here. Don’t stare at me, boy! I’m not
suffering from suppressed gout, as you think. I’ll stop these
gallivantings.”
“You have often said that you liked our men and maids to have a whiff of
fresh air between tea and dinner.”
Fishpingle had left the room. The Squire stamped again.
“I did. And this is what comes of thinking for others.”
“Father——?”
“What is it?”
“Go easy with them! They love each other dearly.”
“Good God! They’re first-cousins, boy. Not a word! Stay here! You shall
see me deal with ’em.”
“But——”
“Not a word,” roared the Squire.
Lionel lit a cigarette, frowning, conscious that he was being treated as
a child, resenting it, anxious to plead for the lovers, anticipating
“ructions,” and condemned to be present, a silenced witness. Fishpingle
came back, followed by Prudence and Alfred, looking very sheepish and
red. Alfred was in livery. Prudence had not changed a very dainty little
frock.
“Stand there!” commanded the autocrat.
The blushing pair stood still in front of the table, facing the Squire,
who sat erect in his chair, assuming a judicial impassivity, as became a
Justice of the Peace and a Chairman of the Board of Guardians. He
addressed Fishpingle, coldly:
“Now, Ben, did I, or did I not, give you a message some two months ago
to be delivered by you to Prudence?”
“You did, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Kindly repeat it.”
“You instructed me to tell Prudence to find another young man.”
Lionel tried to restrain himself, and failed lamentably.
“Oh, I say!”
The Squire preserved his magisterial tone and deportment.
“You say nothing, Lionel. This is my affair. Now, Ben, I’ll lay ten to
three you never delivered my message.”
“That he did,” whimpered Prudence. “In this very room, too.”
“Um! I beg your pardon, Ben. Don’t sniff, Prudence! And answer my
questions truthfully. If that message was delivered, how dare you kiss
Alfred in my shrubberies?”
Prudence pulled herself together, meeting the Squire’s inflamed glance.
“Me and Alfred’ll be man an’ wife, come Michaelmas.”
“In—deed? Cut and dried, is it?”
He apostrophised Alfred, who may have misinterpreted a derisive but calm
inflection. Alfred brightened, his voice was eager and propitiating.
“If so be, Sir Geoffrey, as you meant what you wrote in the newspapers.
Give me mort o’ comfort. ’Twas in the _Times_. Mr. Fishpingle’ll have
it. He keeps everything you write, he do.”
The Squire stared at his footman. Lionel said quietly:
“What did Sir Geoffrey write, Alfred?”
Alfred assumed a pose acquired in the National schools, head erect,
hands at side, feet close together.
“Sir Geoffrey said that the sooner a man o’ twenty-five and a fine young
maid of eighteen set about providin’ legitimate an’ lawful subjects for
the king, the better. An’ more than that. I got the piece by heart, I
did. He said that in Nether-Applewhite he paid a premium for such there
matches—a lil’ cottage, look, and a lil’ garden, and a fi’-pun’ note,
so be as God A’mighty sent twins.”
Prudence blushingly rebuked him.
“_Alferd!_”
“His brave words, Prue, not mine.”
Sir Geoffrey coughed. That a servant of his should memorise his prose
might be deemed flattering and eminently proper. He said graciously:
“I meant ’em. There is a cottage for you——”
“May the Lard bless ’ee, Sir Geoffrey!”
Sir Geoffrey raised a minatory finger.
“Provided, mark you, that each marries—somebody else.”
This was too much for the feelings of an inflamed maid. Prudence
confronted the autocrat with heaving bosom and sparkling eyes.
“If so be, as I can’t have Alfred, I’ll die a sour old maid, I will.”
Her outburst provoked the Squire to unmagisterial wrath. He raised his
voice and a dominating hand.
“Hold your tongue! We have had quite enough of this. I can’t prevent
Alfred marrying you, you little baggage, but if he does he must find
another place, and a cottage in a parish which doesn’t belong to me.”
Prudence’s courage and defiance oozed from her. With a wailing cry, she
flung herself into Fishpingle’s arms.
“Uncle Ben——!”
Fishpingle comforted her.
“There, there, my maid! You obey me. I tell you to go to your room and
have a nice comfortable cry. Off with you!”
The Squire added a word:
“And keep out of my shrubberies, confound you!”
Prudence left Fishpingle’s arms, and turned to the Squire, with tears
rolling down her cheeks. She said defiantly:
“I know where I be going—quick!”
She bolted, slamming the door.
“The minx! Where is she going?”
Fishpingle couldn’t inform him. Possibly to her mother, who was head
laundry-maid. The Squire addressed Alfred.
“You can go, Alfred, but I warn you not to follow that pert, ungrateful
girl. And—in case you should be tempted to disobey me, bring me at once
a large whisky and soda.”
“Bring two, Alfred,” added Lionel.
Alfred obeyed, crestfallen and sullen. As soon as he left the room,
Lionel began to protest:
“Look here, father, this is too hot, I——”
The Squire smiled blandly.
“Tch! Tch! All this has been intensely disagreeable to me boy, But,
dammy! I must practise what I preach. Sound eugenics. No in-and-in
breeding. Ben here agrees with me, don’t you, old friend?”
“No, Sir Geoffrey.”
The astonished Squire gripped hard the arms of his chair.
“Wha-a-at?” he roared.
Fishpingle replied deliberately:
“I do not agree with you, Sir Geoffrey. I repeat what I said before. The
strain in this case is clean and strong on both sides. In my judgment
Alfred and Prudence are specially designed by Providence to practise
what you preach, and to provide His Majesty in due time with legitimate
and lawful subjects.”
Sir Geoffrey rose majestically. He approached his butler. He surveyed
him from head to heel. Upon his red face amazement wrestled with
incredulity. With an immense effort, he controlled himself, saying
calmly:
“You mean, Ben, that you—_you_ oppose my wishes?”
“In this instance, yes.”
Alfred entered with the cooling drinks. Sir Geoffrey gasped out:
“I have never been so—so——”
“Thirsty, Sir Geoffrey?” suggested Fishpingle, as Alfred presented the
salver.
The Squire seized a glass with a trembling hand, completed the sentence,
“in all my life.”
“Nor I,” said Lionel, taking the other glass.
Alfred withdrew. Sir Geoffrey tossed off his drink, nearly choking. As
he slammed the empty glass upon the table, he exploded.
“You—traitor!”
Lionel slammed down his empty glass.
“_Traitors_, father; I’m with Fishpingle, if an honest opinion is called
treachery.”
“Good God! My own son against me.” But, quickly, he moderated his tone,
saying testily: “There, there! ‘Traitor’ was too strong an expression. I
withdraw it. But I stand firm on the other matter. I repeat: Prudence
and Alfred are too near of kin.”
Lionel answered respectfully:
“You, sir, have proved Fishpingle’s case up to the hilt.”
“Eh? What d’ye mean, boy?”
“Fishpingle will read you an extract from an article written by you on
this subject, won’t you, old chap?”
“With pleasure, Master Lionel.”
He crossed to his bookcase, opened a drawer below it, turned over some
papers, and fished out a scrap-book.
“Something I wrote. All right! I stand by my own words—always have
done. No chopping and changing for me!”
Fishpingle found the page and the clipping. He put on his spectacles.
“Hurry up,” enjoined the Squire. “What an old dodderer!”
Fishpingle began:
“Under date April the first——”
“Is this a stupid joke, Ben?”
“That happens to be the date, Sir Geoffrey. The article was written by
you some fifteen years ago.”
“Um! Ancient history. I refuse to accept unqualified responsibility for
what I wrote fifteen years ago.”
Lionel laughed. He felt that the tension was relieved.
“I say—play cricket, father!”
“Cricket? How the doose, boy, can you remember what I wrote when you
were a lad of ten?”
“Simply because Fishpingle read that clipping to me about a week ago.”
The Squire growled.
“This looks like a damned conspiracy.”
At this moment Lady Pomfret sailed into the room, followed by Margot.
Prudence had fled, weeping to her kind mistress. Regardless of a
visitor, the maid had told her piteous tale, entreating help, first aid
which couldn’t wait. Lady Pomfret had hesitated, knowing her man. Then
Margot had interposed. “L’union fait la force.” Let them seek the
autocrat together. Let women’s wit and tact prevail! She ached for the
encounter. Together they would triumph gloriously. Lady Pomfret yielded
reluctantly to importunity. Prudence raced back to Alfred.
Lady Pomfret smiled at her lord.
“Dear Geoffrey, we have just seen poor little Prudence Rockley.”
Margot, in her sprightliest tone, added incisively:
“Yes; and we’ve nipped in to fight under Cupid’s banner.” She advanced
to the charge gaily. “Now, you must listen to—me.”
But Sir Geoffrey was proof against alluring wiles.
“Must I?” he said stiffly.
“Why, of course, you must. Dear Lady Pomfret was dragged here by me.
Frown at me, not at her. I plead for youth and beauty.”
Just then, Youth and Beauty peered in through the open window. It was
daring, audacious, a violation of inviolate tradition. But what will
you? The hapless pair were beside themselves with misery and despair.
Each gripped the other’s hand.
Sir Geoffrey was hard put to it. Courtesy to a guest strained him to
breaking-point. He bowed silently. Margot continued:
“You are a true lover, Sir Geoffrey. You must know that love is free.”
The Squire shied at the adjective. And this interruption had befogged
him.
“Free love,” he repeated. “God bless my soul! What next?”
Lady Pomfret explained, deprecatingly.
“Margot means, Geoffrey, that love is free to choose, to select——”
Margot continued with animation:
“Jill has the right to pick her Jack. If Jack is willing”—she paused
and looked at Fishpingle—“and I understand that he is—”
Alas! Poor Alfred! The question undid him. Had he remained silent,
Margot might have triumphed. The Squire was melting beneath her fiery
glances. He wanted to please her. He loved to confer a favour royally.
But a voice from outside froze the very cockles of his heart.
“Aye. That I be, my lady.”
Such an interruption, at such a time, from such a source, filled the
Squire with fury. He roared out:
“Ben.”
“Sir Geoffrey?”
“Discharge that impertinent rascal at once.”
Lady Pomfret spoke and looked her dismay.
“Oh, Geoffrey! Who will wait at dinner? Poor Charles is so inefficient.”
Sir Geoffrey lowered his voice.
“Discharge him after dinner. Pay him his wages, and send him packing.”
Another voice floated in through the window.
“I go with Alfie, Sir Geoffrey.”
The Squire, fulminating, strode to the window, Youth and Beauty had
vanished. He came back, as Lady Pomfret observed disconsolately:
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! We shall soon be left without servants.”
Everybody was upset. For once Margot forgot her tact. She said with
acerbity:
“But really this is—feudal. It reeks of the Middle Ages.” Then,
regaining her sprightliness, she smiled: “Sir Geoffrey, do come back to
the twentieth century.”
Lady Pomfret smiled faintly.
“Please do, dear Geoffrey.”
“Never! What unspeakable insolence!”
“Poor things!” sighed Lady Pomfret. “They forgot us because we had
driven them to think only of themselves.”
Her charming voice, her kind, pleading eyes, her gracious gestures, were
not wasted upon the Squire. Lionel, in a cheerful tone, said to the
company generally:
“Fishpingle was about to read us something of father’s, something
eugenic and relevant.”
Sir Geoffrey protested:
“Um! Ha! In the presence of ladies——” He cleared his throat.
Margot said happily:
“I shall listen with pleasure to anything Sir Geoffrey has written.”
Lionel turned to Fishpingle, who held the clipping in his hand.
“Go ahead, Fishpingle! Please remember, Margot, that my father is
astride his favourite hunter. Now for it!”
Fishpingle, thus adjured, and after a glance at Sir Geoffrey, began to
read aloud: “The question of in-and-in breeding——”
“Gracious!” ejaculated Lady Pomfret.
“I beg your ladyship’s pardon.”
“How well you read!” said Margot. “Pray go on, you delightful person!”
Fishpingle went on: “The question of in-and-in breeding, where the
parent stock on both sides is vigorous and healthy, can only be answered
by experiment. As a successful breeder of cattle, horses, and hounds, I
am strongly in favour of it. If History is to be believed, the Pharaohs
of the earlier dynasties, all of them pre-eminent for strength of mind
and body, married their own sisters.”
Lady Pomfret interrupted quietly:
“I think that will do, Ben.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Lionel, watching his sire’s expression, confident that the clouds were
rolling away, said, with a laugh:
“Father, you’re down and out.”
“I never wrote it,” said the Squire, emphatically.
“Then who did? You signed it.”
“Ben wrote it,” declared the Squire.
“Ben?” echoed Lady Pomfret. “Did you write it, Ben?”
Fishpingle replied modestly:
“The sentence about the Pharaohs is mine, my lady. I happened to be
reading about them at the time. And when I typed Sir Geoffrey’s
manuscript——”
Margot murmured:
“What a paragon! A butler who does typewriting.”
Sir Geoffrey said hastily:
“It amuses Fishpingle. He’s what we call in the Forest a ‘caslety man.’
Yes, yes, I remember. He slipped in that paragraph about the Pharaohs.”
“It hammered your point well home,” said Lionel.
“It did,” said Margot. “Now, Sir Geoffrey, haul down your flag! Make
this nice young couple happy, to please me.”
“And me, Geoffrey.”
The Squire, at bay, pressed too hard, and seeing, possibly, derisive
gleams in more than one pair of eyes, said curtly:
“I propose to be master in my own house.”
Margot compressed her lips. She admitted candidly that any woman may be
snubbed once. It is her own fault if she courts a second rebuff. She
laughed acidulously, said very chillingly, “Oh, certainly,” and left the
room. Lady Pomfret approached her husband, and laid her hand upon his
sleeve.
“Prudence is Ben’s kinswoman, very dear to him. If Ben approves this
match, what business is it of ours?”
Sir Geoffrey answered obstinately:
“They were born and bred in my parish, this impudent couple. They can do
what they like—out of it.”
Lady Pomfret kept her temper admirably. If she travelled along lines of
least resistance, she reached her goal eventually. She turned to
Fishpingle with a little rippling laugh:
“Ah, well, I leave the Squire with you, Ben. We know—don’t we?—how
kind he can be.”
She went out. Lionel opened the door for his mother, closed it behind
her, and came back. Obviously, he was losing control of his temper. His
fingers were clenched; an angry light sparkled in his eyes; he carried a
high head. Sir Geoffrey saw none of this. He was glaring at Fishpingle.
The autocrat addressed his butler:
“I am furious with you, sir. Thanks to you and your precious kinswoman I
have been forced, sorely against the grain, to refuse a guest a favour,
and, worse, to rebuke my dear wife.”
Lionel cast discretion to the void. The Pomfret temper might be deemed
an heirloom. It slumbered in Lionel. Now—it woke.
“This is damnable.”
The Squire could hardly believe his ears. When he turned upon his son,
his eyes, also, seemed hardly to be trusted. Lionel was positively
glaring at him. Rank mutiny! Riot!
“How dare you take this tone, boy?”
Lionel attempted no apology.
“I would remind you, sir, that I am a man, and not only your son, but
your heir. If I survive you, which at one time didn’t seem likely, this
property and its responsibilities must come to me. I have a
right—indeed, sir, it is my duty—to protest against an act of
injustice and cruelty.”
“Leave the room, sir. This is intolerable.”
Lionel boiled over. Behold the creeper at awkward fences! Behold the
craner! Fishpingle, standing behind the Squire, hoisted warning signals.
In vain. A hot-headed youth was riding hard for a fall. He met his
father’s eyes defiantly.
“I am not blind, sir, to your plans for my future. You intended me, your
own son, to be a pawn in your hands.”
Fishpingle groaned.
“Master Lionel——!”
“Fishpingle, I have been a coward. I asked for your help. I wanted you
to plead my cause, to use your influence——”
The Squire started.
“Influence? You asked another man to influence—me. Are you stark mad?
And what cause, pray, is he to plead? Answer me.”
Fishpingle stretched out his hands.
“Master Lionel——”
“Hold your damned tongue, Ben!”
“Please,” said Lionel.
Fishpingle crossed slowly to the window, and looked out over the park.
Two men whom he had loved and served were standing upon the edge of an
abyss and he was powerless to avert disaster. His spirit travailed
within him, bringing forth nothing. He heard Sir Geoffrey say, in a
frozen voice:
“I am waiting, Lionel, for an explanation, and an apology.”
The son answered in the same hard, cold tone:
“I am too proud, father, to explain a fact, which needs no explanation
and no apology. Last Sunday afternoon I asked Joyce Hamlin to become my
wife, and she did me the honour of accepting me.”
Without pausing to watch the effect of this stunning blow, he turned and
left the room. Fishpingle remained at the window.
* * * * *