Sir Geoffrey stood still for a moment after his son had left the room.
Then he sat down in the big armchair, staring vacantly at the hearth.
His premonition had come true—the boy had stuck a knife into him.
Almost in a whisper he murmured hoarsely, “Lionel!”
Fishpingle turned. “Shall I call Master Lionel back?”
“No,” said the Squire.
He spoke drearily. The bloom of his fine maturity seemed to fade. He
looked pale and haggard. Fishpingle had a disconcerting glimpse of old
age, of old age in its most sorrowful and touching manifestation,
solitary, disconsolate, apathetic. The Squire leaned his head upon his
hand, as if the weight of thoughts were insupportable.
Outside a bird twittered monotonously—some house sparrow bent upon
disturbing the peace of the swallows, migrants whom he regarded as
trespassers.
“Damn that sparrow!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey.
He sat upright; the sanguine colour flowed back into his clean-shaven
cheeks. Perhaps the consoling reflection stole into his mind that
matters might be worse: the boy might have married the Parson’s daughter
secretly. He said testily to Fishpingle:
“Don’t gape at me like that! Keep your pity for those who may need it.”
Fishpingle obeyed. His face slowly hardened into the impassive mask of
the well-trained servant. The Squire continued less testily but with
reproachful mockery:
“So you, you, the man I have trusted for fifty years, were chosen by my
son to plead a cause which he hadn’t the pluck to plead for himself.”
“Nothing was settled about that, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Tchah! He went to you, not to his mother—I lay my life on it—nor to
me. Why? Because, obviously, you were on his side, siding, b’ Jove!
against—me.”
“I side with Master Lionel, Sir Geoffrey.”
“That’s honest, at any rate. We know where we are. Now, Ben, you shall
plead his case in his absence. I will listen as patiently as may be.
Begin!” Fishpingle opened his lips and closed them. “Ha! You are silent
because there is nothing to say.”
“No. Because there is so much—all, all that I have learnt during those
fifty years, all that I hold most dear, most sacred——”
His voice died away. The Squire was not unmoved. He cleared his throat
vigorously and said kindly:
“Take your time. This shall be threshed out fairly between us. Sit down!
Keep your hands quiet, Ben. When you fidget, it distracts me.”
“I would rather stand, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Do as you please.” With indulgent irony he added, “The counsel for the
defence addresses the Court standing.”
Fishpingle moved a little nearer. He spoke very slowly, as a man speaks
who has some long-considered message to deliver.
“Master Lionel, before he went to India, did not expect to survive you.”
The Squire moved uneasily. Fishpingle had recalled cruel anxieties never
quite forgotten, what may be termed the unpaid bills of life
pigeon-holed, put aside for Fate and Fortune to settle. He replied,
however, with decision:
“He has grown into a strong man.”
“Has he? Are you quite sure of that? I would give my life to be sure. He
may live long if he marries the right woman. Is Lady Margot the right
woman, Sir Geoffrey?”
“Yes.”
“I wish with all my heart I could think so.”
“How can you know all that such a marriage would mean to me, and this
big property, and him?”
“I have thought of all that, Sir Geoffrey. Indeed, indeed, I have
thought of little else since her ladyship first came here. She is a lady
of quality——”
“Every inch of her.”
“And very clever. She would push the fortunes of her husband. There is a
barony in abeyance which could be terminated in favour of her son, if
she had a son. Her money would lift the mortgage which cripples the
estate. Her money would build new cottages, fertilise our thin soil, put
farming upon a higher plane, transform Nether-Applewhite into what has
been the dream of your life—and mine—a model village.”
The Squire stared at him. Fishpingle’s powers of speech had affected him
before, but never so convincingly. He said curtly:
“You have the gift of the gab, Ben. God knows where you get it from.
More, you have the knack of reading my mind, of echoing my thoughts,
using the very phrases that are mine.”
“Everything I have said is so obvious.”
“Obvious? Um! Is that another stab in the back? Well, I am obvious. I
despise twisting and wriggling. You have left out the most obvious
thing. And I dislike mentioning it. Her little ladyship cottoned to the
boy. She wants him, or she did want him, b’ Jove! And now, this girl,
this Radical parson’s daughter without a bob, without any breeding, not
much better than any blooming, red-cheeked milk-maid, has undone all my
work. What cursed spell has she cast?”
“Nature cast the spell, Sir Geoffrey.”
The Squire began to fume again, frowning and pulling at his ample chin.
“Nature——! Aided and abetted by you. Rank sentimentalist you are, and
always were. I have the obvious” (the word had rankled) “common sense to
scrap sentiment. Do you remember those cows, that half-bred herd I
inherited with other disabilities? My lady wanted me to keep them.”
“Bless her!”
“And you sided with her.”
“Did I?”
“Of course you did.”
Fishpingle smiled faintly. He crossed to one of the tallboys standing in
an alcove and pulled open a drawer. The Squire growled.
“What are you up to now?”
“I want to look at an old diary.”
He pulled out half a dozen thin books, selected one, and turned over the
pages. The Squire watched him with exasperation.
“What dawdling ways!”
“Here we are, Sir Geoffrey. Five and twenty years ago, when Master
Lionel was short-coated.”
“Get forrard, you skirter!”
Fishpingle put on his spectacles, and read aloud: “‘Heated argument with
the Squire. He and my lady insisted upon keeping our dairy cows. I
floored him with the milk returns——’”
“Floored me?”
Fishpingle continued placidly:
“‘—and enjoyed a small triumph. The cows are to be fattened for the
butcher, and the dairy will show a profit instead of a loss.’”
He replaced the diary and removed his spectacles. The Squire muttered
protest:
“As usual, Ben, you wander from the point, you shifty old fox. Why jaw
about cows? Now—what have you against Lady Margot?”
“Will she be happy here in this quiet back-water?”
“Tchah! My son’s wife—when I’m gone—will live where it’s her duty to
live—amongst her husband’s people.”
“Perhaps. Master Lionel takes after my lady. He’s incapable of
unkindness or selfishness.”
“Thank you, Ben. I’m allowing you great latitude. Go on! Take advantage
of it!”
“If Master Lionel married Lady Margot, he would try to make her happy.
He would live most of the year in London. He would share her life, and
that life is one of constant excitement and change. She has been happy
here for three weeks, because this is a change. Would she ever take my
lady’s place? Never!”
He spoke with fire. The Squire lay back in his chair, gently twiddling
his thumbs. In his opinion no woman could take his wife’s place, but
what of that? None the less, mention of Lady Pomfret smoothed out some
wrinkles. He smiled beatifically, lifted above himself.
“Who could? My lady is unique. Why make these foolish comparisons? As
for London——Well, well, I should like to see the boy in Parliament.
Let him march with these cursed democratic times, and strike a shrewd
blow for his order, a blow for the next generation.”
Fishpingle played his trump card.
“The next generation? Lady Margot has no love of children.”
“What d’ye mean? How dare you say that? How on earth do you know?”
“We have talked together.”
“About her children——!” He held up his hands.
“What are we coming to? I ask Heaven the question.”
“I can answer it, Sir Geoffrey. I know my place, and her ladyship knows
hers—none better. I did take the liberty of trying to interest her in
Nether-Applewhite children. And then she told me quite frankly that
children bored her. I remember her words—yes. ‘I can endure a clean
child for ten minutes. Babies in the mass make me think kindly of
Herod.’”
“Her ladyship, Ben, likes a joke with an edge to it. You wait till she
has babies of her own.”
“One might have to wait long for that. Lady Margot’s family is almost
extinct. A great-uncle died in a private asylum.”
“I see you’ve been nosin’ about. Just like you. All old families have
their skeletons.”
Fishpingle, carried out of himself for a moment, like the hapless
Alfred, forgot his place, as he muttered:
“Yes, yes, her ladyship is very thin.”
The Squire jumped up.
“Damn you, Ben, that is the last straw. I have sat here listening to
your mumbling with a patience and good temper wasted upon a very
thankless fellow. You know best what you owe me and mine.”
He paused. Fishpingle bowed superbly.
“I do, Sir Geoffrey.”
“You are never so irritating as when you force me to say things
intensely disagreeable. I hate to rub it in, but I am Squire of
Nether-Applewhite and you are my butler. As my butler I expect you to
consider my wishes, and to carry them out to the best of your ability.”
“I have tried to do so, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Up to a point—up to a point. I admit it. Let us have the facts, say I!
And then deliver judgment on them. You have aided and abetted two
servants in this establishment who are flagrantly disobeying me. And you
have aided and abetted Master Lionel, with the knowledge and therefore
with the deliberate intention of upsetting other plans which I had
confided to you. If I am wrong, pray correct me.”
Thus the magistrate, using the words and gestures of authority. As he
spoke a quaint benevolent despotism illuminated his sturdy face. How
kind he could be to his dependents when they kow-towed to his rule both
wife and butler knew. And the memory of countless petty sacrifices which
had truly endeared him to “his people” moved Fishpingle profoundly. But
his own intimate knowledge of those people, a knowledge so seldom
gleaned by the Overlord, the vivid, intimate experience of fifty years,
had taught him inexorably that such powers as the Squire and his like
exercised were a wastage of vital force, misdirected energy which, in
the fullness of time, must defeat its own purposes. And this, he had
slowly come to realise, was the underlying tragedy of the countryside.
With this realisation marched its corollary. The authority of the
squire, vested by immemorial custom in him, was, in turn, passed on by
him to the farmers who used it or abused it according to their lights.
And the farmers, with rarest exceptions, united energies to maintain
ever-weakening positions against those beneath them. If prosperity
followed a generous use of such power, the result, even then, was
disastrous to the labourer and his family. He lost initiative,
foresight, any desire to rise and better his humble condition. When he
rebelled, when he decided to tear himself loose from emasculating
influences, what could he do? Emigrate. And England loses a Man.
Fishpingle had studied carefully the books and pamphlets lent to Lionel.
As he admitted, they were one-sided, a compilation of hideous
grievances, valuable as such, almost valueless from the point of view of
reconstruction. The “three acres and a cow” school filled this wise old
man with derisive contempt. To divide great estates into small holdings
of individual ownership might seem a sound solution to economists who
wrote incisive articles in rooms littered with works of reference. The
man on the spot was not so optimistic. He had seen the experiment tried
with allotments. The labourer lacked knowledge; he muddled about with
soils, just as his wife muddled about in the kitchen, spoiling good
food. No reform, so Fishpingle believed, could come from below. Light
must shine from above.
If the Squire could be led to see clearly the issues he had raised.
If Authority, in fine, could impose its own limitations?
Was it possible to answer the stem indictment brought against himself,
as steward and butler? Obviously, the Squire considerd his own position
to be impregnable. And yet, alas! it was built upon foundations now
crumbling away. If such foundations could not be replaced with sound
masonry, the great fabric reared upon them would fall in irretrievable
ruins, serving, like the feudal castles, as a landmark of the past.
He said with dignity:
“You are not wrong in that, Sir Geoffrey. I don’t deny these charges.”
“Good! You are an honest man, Ben. Acknowledge frankly that your
sentiment, your affection for these young people—I include Master
Lionel—have warped your judgment and seduced you from your duty and
loyalty to me, and, dammy! I’ll wipe out the offence. Come, come!”
His tone was genial and persuasive, so kindly that Fishpingle wrestled
with the temptation to “creep” and “crane.” Perhaps the thought of
Lionel’s “lead” over a stone wall fortified him. He drew back from the
proffered right hand of a fellowship he prized inordinately.
“What? You refuse?”
“You called me honest, Sir Geoffrey. I hope humbly that I am so. I am
your butler, but my conscience is my own. I hold firmly to the
conviction that you have no right, granting that you possess the power,
to interfere with these young lives. I say less than I feel out of the
respect and affection I bear you.”
The Squire swore to himself. If Fishpingle had beheld him, not as the
friend of many years, not even as the kindly master, but as an
abstraction, a sort of composite photograph of all overlords, so Sir
Geoffrey beheld Fishpingle as the composite servant, the subordinate,
the underling. To be quite candid, he regarded the Parson, _his_ parson,
in much the same light. There had been moments, few and far between,
when the Squire had taken himself censoriously to task. As a rule, such
disagreeable self-analysis forced itself upon him when he was dealing
with matters outside his particular jurisdiction, county matters rather
than parochial. He had marked the effect of power exercised
misapprehendingly, with insufficient technical knowledge behind it. And
if he happened to be a party to any such blundering, he felt very sore.
Let it be remembered, also, that his father died when he was a boy. He
had come into his kingdom upon his twenty-first birthday. Comparing him
with neighbouring magnates, he shone conspicuous as a man who did his
duty, and was comfortably warmed by the fire of self-righteousness. As a
soldier, let it be added, he would have obeyed any order from his
commanding officer. On Authority’s shoulders be the blame, if such order
were contrary to the King’s Regulations. In this case he assumed full
responsibility before God and man. From the pinnacle upon which, so he
devoutly believed, God and man had placed him, he beheld Fishpingle as a
faithful servant, a rank mutineer.
He said freezingly:
“Very well, sir. I shall deal with my son myself. I shall tell him
to-night that under no circumstances will I consent to his marriage with
an obscure girl whose father doesn’t even bear arms. Ha! I asked him,
when he came here, what his coat was, and he replied, laughing in my
face, ‘My coat, Sir Geoffrey, is _sable_, with collar and cuffs
_argent_.’ Master Lionel can marry without my consent. Thanks to your
encouragement he is quite likely to do so. He must come here after my
death, but not before, sir, not before.”
Fishpingle said entreatingly:
“Sleep over it, Sir Geoffrey, I beg you. Miss Joyce is like my dear
lady.”
“She isn’t.”
“As you said just now, nobody could be quite like her ladyship. But Miss
Joyce has her lamp.”
The Squire tartly requested him to explain. Fishpingle allowed his
glance to stray to the photographs upon the mantelshelf. As he spoke he
saw his mistress as she had revealed herself to him during nearly thirty
years. Her light streamed over the past.
“My lady’s lamp, Sir Geoffrey, has burned so steadily. I have never seen
it flame or flicker. It throws its beams on others, never on herself.
But one knows that she is there, behind her lamp, always the same sweet
gracious lady, serene in all weathers; above us, shining down on us, and
yet of us.”
Sir Geoffrey turned abruptly and went to the window. Fishpingle
perceived that he was agitated, touched. He blew his nose with quite
unnecessary violence. Then he turned.
“You have described my lady better—I admit it—than I could describe
her myself. But Miss Joyce has not her lamp.” His voice hardened. “Now,
Ben, mark me well. I propose to put down this mutiny with a firm hand.”
He held it up. “These rioting servants must be brought to heel. You will
discharge Alfred after dinner and pay him a month’s wages in lieu of
notice. You will send Prudence back to her mother to-night. Alfred can
leave to-morrow morning. You hear me?”
While he spoke, with increasing emphasis, he marked a subtle but
unmistakable change in Fishpingle. The man revealed himself divested of
a butler’s smug trappings. Any air of subserviency vanished. A stranger,
seeing the two men together, facing each other, at issue with each
other, would have marked a resemblance, the stronger because it was of
the spirit, not the flesh. In height and build they were much alike, but
Fishpingle’s head was incomparably the finer.
“I hear you. A hard, cruel man has spoken, not my old master and
friend.”
“Silence, sir!”
“I thought, I believed, that I knew you. And I did know you once. But
you have changed—changed. You are no longer my master. I am no longer
your man. Discharge your own servants, Sir Geoffrey Pomfret!”
With shining eyes and features quivering with agitation, he ended upon a
clarion note of defiance and wrath. Sir Geoffrey was infinitely the
calmer.
“I take you at your word,” he said. “I discharge—_you_. For her
ladyship’s sake, not mine, I ask you to wait upon us at dinner for the
last time. To-morrow morning, at ten-thirty, you can bring your books
and accounts to my room.”
Fishpingle bowed.
Sir Geoffrey waited one moment. Perhaps, at the last, he looked for an
apology. None came. Fishpingle stood erect, but less rigid. His
indignation passed swiftly. His glance lost its fire; his eyes, still
smouldering, assumed a sorrowful expression.
Sir Geoffrey went out. The clock in the stable-yard chimed and then
tolled the hour—seven. Upon the previous Saturday it had rung out with
the same solemn note a delightful day.
* * * * *