Lady Pomfret met the Squire before he reached his desk and laid her hand
upon his arm. That familiar touch was the one needful to reassure him.
My lady had made Ben see himself as he was. He smiled at her
complacently:
“Well, Mary?”
“Ben wishes to speak to you alone.”
This information disconcerted the Squire, but only for a moment. Ben, of
course, had his pride. Naturally he would hate “to climb down” in the
presence of his beloved mistress. But that must be considered part of
the penalty imposed by Authority. Without discipline, in a big
establishment—where on earth were you? Nevertheless, he answered very
pleasantly:
“Alone, Mary? There is nothing that Ben can say to me which cannot be
said in your presence. And I hope,” he inflated a little, “that what he
_will_ say will be said handsomely and before you, my dear.”
Lady Pomfret glanced at Fishpingle. He made no sign. With a little shrug
of her shoulders and a tiny lift of the eyebrows, she returned to her
sofa. The Squire stared fixedly at the books brought in by Charles.
“What are these?”
Fishpingle moved nearer to the desk.
“My private books, Sir Geoffrey. The files of accounts and the ledger
you have seen already. These are supplementary, memoranda connected with
stockbreeding, copies of letters, information that will be of service to
Mr. Bonsor. The cellar and plate books are with them, carefully checked.
This is my book.” He indicated a thin red account-book.
Sir Geoffrey sat down, saying curtly:
“I am much obliged. I have no doubt whatever that everything is in
perfect order. To prove that conviction, I shall not trouble to look at
these accounts and memoranda.”
“As you please, Sir Geoffrey.”
Lady Pomfret observed lightly but meaningly:
“Sir Geoffrey, Ben is well aware that for many years you have acted as
his honorary land agent.”
The Squire frowned. He was not, as yet, well aware of this fact.
However, under the circumstances he allowed the remark, not a tactful
one, to pass. Fishpingle said quietly:
“Thank you, my lady.”
Sir Geoffrey pushed aside the books, clearing his desk and his throat at
the same moment. Then he looked at his wife.
“I take it, my dear Mary, that you have done—ahem!—as I asked you.”
Lady Pomfret displayed slight nervousness. Her voice, as she replied,
was not quite under control. But Fishpingle, not the Squire, noticed
this. And he saw, also, that her fingers interlaced upon her lap were
trembling.
“I have done my best, Geoffrey. I think that Ben does, perhaps, have a
glimpse of himself as I see him.” She flashed a glance at Fishpingle.
“Do you, Ben?”
“Yes, my lady.”
The Squire rubbed his hands, leaning forward. The adjustment of his
strained relations with a faithful butler adumbrated the recognition of
his authority by his son. Almost, he was beginning to enjoy himself.
“Capital! I shall not be hard on you, Ben. I flatter myself that I
can—a—stand in another fellow’s shoes. The long and short of it all is
that I want to—a—spare your feelings as much as possible, but—to go
back to the very beginning—you made the wrong start.”
Fishpingle smiled. A sense of humour may be lively in a man who, all his
life, has been constrained to suppress it, but occasionally it crops to
the surface.
“It is perfectly true, Sir Geoffrey. My Christian name was chosen by
your grandmother, Lady Alicia, on that account.”
Sir Geoffrey winced. To cover his confusion he said hastily:
“Did my grandmother choose it? I was not aware of it.”
“Her ladyship was my godmother.”
“So she was—so she was. Well, with the best intention in the world, my
poor grandmother made rather a pet of you, Ben. B’ Jove! she liked you
better than she did me. And that is the marrow of the matter. She
deliberately educated you above your station. Mind you, I don’t blame
you for helping yourself generously of—a—drinking deeply of—a——”
Fishpingle came to his rescue.
“The Pierian Spring, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Just so. A little knowledge, Ben, is a dangerous thing, what?”
Lady Pomfret made another observation.
“Ben has a great deal of knowledge, Geoffrey, He has saved you buying an
Encyclopædia Britannica.”
Again Sir Geoffrey frowned, wondering what my lady was “at.” Why these
tactless interruptions? He admonished her quietly:
“Please, my dear, please! Ben’s knowledge of my affairs has been
dangerous. Proof? It has brought us to this abominable pass. As I smoked
my cigar on the terrace just now——Where is it?” He picked it up.
“Confound it! It’s gone out.” He flung it aside. “Where was I? Yes, yes;
as I smoked my cigar I thought of Cardinal Wolsey, poor fellow, and
bluff King Hal—bless him! Well, well, we mustn’t let our thoughts
wander. There is an Eastern proverb: ‘As the sands of the desert
are—are——’”
Fishpingle finished the quotation:
“‘As the sands of the desert are to the weary traveller, so is overmuch
speech to him who loveth silence.’”
“Quite! Quite! Now, Ben, I am prepared to meet you half-way. Prudence,
all said and done, is your kinswoman not mine. Strongly as I feel about
first cousins marrying, I have made up my mind to abide by what I wrote.
For her ladyship’s sake, I consent to reinstate Prudence and Alfred in
my establishment, and to sanction a marriage——”
“Thank you, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Against which I, personally, protest.”
If the Squire expected effusive gratitude, he was disappointed.
Fishpingle said respectfully:
“The young people have left the house, Sir Geoffrey, but they will be
glad enough to come back.”
“I should think so. We come now to Mr. Lionel. For the future we had
better speak of him as _Mister_ Lionel, till—a—he becomes Captain
Pomfret.” Fishpingle bowed. “So far, you have acted as go-between. You
are aware that he is absolutely dependent on me?”
“He has his pay, Geoffrey,” murmured Lady Pomfret.
“Tchah! He is, I repeat, absolutely dependent on me. Give me time, and I
can deal adequately and temperately with the young hothead. As for Miss
Joyce, Ben, between ourselves, and from my knowledge of her father, that
young lady will not be permitted to enter any family where she is not
heartily welcomed by a majority of its members.”
Having thus expressed himself, magisterially, the Squire relaxed mind
and body. He lay back in his big chair and smiled genially. To his
immense surprise, Fishpingle remained silent. Lady Pomfret spoke:
“There are only three members of our family, Geoffrey, and Joyce will be
heartily welcomed by two of them.”
The Squire stared at her. She met his eyes steadily. Utterly confounded,
he stammered out:
“Did you say, Mary, two of ’em?”
“Yes. Lionel and—myself.”
Sir Geoffrey sprang to his feet, alert and furious.
“Good God!”
Lady Pomfret said mildly:
“I fear this is a shock to you.”
He looked apoplectic. Even now, realisation that his wife sided against
him had not quite come to him.
“A shock,” he repeated, “a shock? It’s positively an—an—what word do I
want?”
By long force of habit, he turned to his faithful henchman.
“An earthquake?” suggested Fishpingle.
“Yes. Thank you, Ben. This is an earthquake. I—I feel as if the
foundations of my life had been—a—undermined. Not a word, I beg you.”
He walked to the window and, for the second time that morning, flung it
wide open. The familiar landscape met his gaze. Vaguely, he became aware
of the smooth lawn, the terrace, the clumps of trees—his beloved
possessions. But the vision of them was blurred. An old hunter, turned
into the park to end his days there, was grazing near the deer. His eyes
dwelt upon this faithful friend. If he went up to old Champion, would
the horse savage him? He felt “savaged” by his wife. That was his first
lucid impression. The animal instinct to “hit back” tore at him. With a
tremendous effort he controlled it. He turned. Fishpingle had not moved.
Lady Pomfret sat still on the sofa, looking down. He approached her.
“You—you are against me in this, Mary?”
“Yes, also!” she sighed.
“You have been conspiring with Ben. You, my wife, have entered into a
cursed league with my—servant?”
She replied tranquilly:
“I obeyed the letter of your injunction, Geoffrey. I tried to make
your—your ‘servant’ see himself as I see him. And I see him more and
more clearly as the one man I know who has subordinated his interests,
his ambitions, his advancement, to ours. I see him exalted far above
us—this friend of many years.”
“My lady!” exclaimed Fishpingle.
Sir Geoffrey remained speechless for some moments. His voice broke as he
answered her:
“I cannot trust myself to reply to you, Mary. But I say this—you have
made a fool of me.” He turned sharply to Fishpingle. “This means that
you are not prepared to offer me an apology?”
“I am not, Sir Geoffrey.”
The Squire addressed his wife, peremptorily:
“Please leave us, Mary.”
Lady Pomfret stood up. The two men gazed at her, each profoundly moved
in different ways. To each she revealed herself as mistress of the
situation. Never had her quality shone out so unmistakably. Her serenity
came back, and with it an indescribable emanation of power—that
undeniable authority founded not upon tradition and pride of place, but
radiating dazzingly from a pure and sincere heart. To Fishpingle she
seemed transfigured; to Sir Geoffrey, for the moment, she had ceased to
be his wife. She moved slowly to Fishpingle:
“God bless you, my dear Ben.”
Sir Geoffrey opened the door. His courtesy didn’t fail him.
Lady Pomfret paused before she passed through. Her voice was clear and
sweet:
“And may God bless all you do, my dear husband.”
Sir Geoffrey closed the door.
* * * * *
He went back to the open window, hoping, possibly, to inhale inspiration
from Nether-Applewhite air. Really, he was gasping for air, like a boxer
after a stiff bout. And yet, flustered as he was, he remained the slave
of habit. Always he had pigeon-holed affairs of importance, dealing
drastically with little things, purging his mind of them first, so that
he could approach the big thing with a clear brain. Sound policy! At
this crisis, when, as he put it, the foundations of life seemed to be
crumbling, when _his_ wife and _his_ son arraigned _his_ authority, he
returned, like an old hound, to the original line, bent upon pulling
down his quarry. His wife had failed him! The greater reason that he
should not fail. In his own words, “Ben must be downed.” To achieve this
with dignity and courtesy engrossed his energies and attention.
He left the window, and took up a commanding position on the hearthrug,
with his back to the portrait of his father. He began temperately,
sensible that it behooved him to set an example of good temper and
forbearance:
“I have made allowances for you, Ben. I have assumed part of the blame
for what took place yesterday, because it is true that you’ve worked
faithfully for me and mine. But no servant can speak as you spoke to me
and remain in my service. The thing is unthinkable—impossible. And yet,
you offer no apology.”
He spoke so kindly, with such sincere amazement, that Fishpingle evaded
the issue.
“Consider the years I’ve been here, Sir Geoffrey, and all, all that the
dear old place means to me.”
“That, Ben, is a reason for behaving so that you can still belong to
us.”
The Squire felt more at his ease again. He told himself that he was
dealing faithfully with a misguided man. Fishpingle’s next words
confirmed this faith.
“I am grieved to have angered you, deeply grieved.”
“Ah! Now, Ben, we are coming together.”
“Are we, Sir Geoffrey? I wish that it were so. But how—how can I stand
up as a man and say that I’m wrong when I feel here,” he struck his
chest, “that I’m—right?”
The Squire cocked his chin at a more obtuse angle.
“By God! It’s I that am wrong, is it?”
Fishpingle answered very slowly:
“You have been very generous about Prudence and Alfred. But—there’s Mr.
Lionel. He’s your only son, Sir Geoffrey. If he dies unmarried,
strangers will come here. Strangers”—he glanced round the beautiful
room—“will live here. Is it wrong of me to think so much of that?
Wasn’t I brought up at Nether-Applewhite? Didn’t I play with you as a
child—an only child, too?”
“That will do, Ben. What you say moves me, as it moves you. But, if you
are to remain here, we must change our relations.”
Fishpingle murmured almost inaudibly:
“Yes, yes; our relations must be changed.”
There was a long pause. The Squire fidgeted. He repudiated sentiment,
but sentiment was gripping him. The distress upon Fishpingle’s face
pleaded eloquently for him.
“Come, come, Ben. Don’t be an obstinate old fool! Beg my pardon
handsomely, and have done with it. Damn it! Ill bribe you, b’ Jove! You
shall have Bonsor’s billet, and his house, and poke your nose into
everything till—till the end.”
Overcome by his own magnanimity, the Squire blew his nose sonorously.
“I have always wanted that, Sir Geoffrey. It’s a big bribe. But, there’s
Mr. Lionel——”
The Squire lost his temper.
“What has Mr. Lionel got to do with you, Ben? I’ve let you have your way
about Prudence. B’ Jove! I’ll take no more of this from any one out of
my family.”
“You are proud of your family, Sir Geoffrey, and so am I. I’ve a natural
right to speak plainly to you.”
The Squire was arrested by his tone.
“A natural right? What d’ye mean?”
Fishpingle hesitated; he stretched out his hands.
“I want to go fishing and rabbiting with Mr. Lionel’s children.”
“Tchah! So you shall—so you shall. Dammy, don’t I know that you’re
proud of the family; and it shouldn’t be difficult for you to own up
that you’ve treated the head of its shabbily. Here, now—there!”
He smiled again, seeing Fishpingle as a boy. A ferret carried by the
Squire in his coat pocket had bitten him in the throat. Ben had pulled
the beast off. Lady Alicia had ordered that coat to be burnt, because
the polecat scent offended her aristocratic nose. What jolly days those
were, to be sure!
“Yes—I’ve been wrong,” murmured Fishpingle.
“Ah!” The Squire chuckled a little.
Fishpingle added incisively:
“I should have told you long ago, and gone away.”
“Gone away? Is the man daft? Told me—what?”
“Things you have never guessed. Will you sit down at your desk, Sir
Geoffrey?”
The Squire stared at him, amused rather than angry.
“Upon my word,” he said, “this is beginning to look like a case for a
doctor. You ask me to sit down in my own room. Very well!”
He moved to a chair which faced the desk, and sat down.
“Pardon me, Sir Geoffrey, I asked you to sit at your desk.”
“Um! You are evidently not quite in your right mind, Ben. However——”
He crossed to the desk and sat down, staring at Fishpingle, who, to his
amazement, took his place on the hearthrug.
“Does anything strike you, Sir Geoffrey? God knows that I want the light
to come to you not too suddenly.”
“I am helplessly in the dark.”
“Please look at Sir Rupert’s portrait, and then at me.”
Sir Geoffrey did so, and was none the wiser. He said as much. Fishpingle
said quietly:
“I am his son.”
Sir Geoffrey jumped up.
“My father’s son—you. It’s a wicked lie.”
“Is it? Look again!”
Sir Geoffrey glared first at Fishpingle and then at the picture. He said
irresolutely:
“No, no—it can’t be. And yet—and yet, there _is_ a look. My
father’s—son?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known this?”
“Since Lady Alicia died.”
“My grandmother knew?”
“Everything.”
“Is there evidence to support this—a—affirmation?”
Fishpingle put his hand into his pocket and produced a bundle of
letters.
“These.”
He moved to the desk and handed them to the Squire, continuing in the
same quiet voice:
“They were written by Sir Rupert to my mother. If you glance at one you
will recognise the handwriting.”
Sir Geoffrey untied the silk riband, and took the first letter. He put
on his pince-nez. As he did so, Fishpingle saw that his fingers were
trembling. He took off the pince-nez and rubbed the lenses, but they
were clean and clear.
“It is my father’s writing.”
“Read the beginning and the end.”
Sir Geoffrey did so. The letter fluttered from his hand. He lay back in
his chair, murmuring: “His Dream Wife! His Dream Wife!” Then, as another
thought came to him, he jumped up excitedly.
“My father calls your mother his ‘dream wife.’ Does that mean that he
married her? Are you his lawful son—his eldest son?”
Fishpingle drew himself up.
“No. I am a Son of Sorrow.”
“My God! My God!”
“I would not have you think ill of my mother. Sir Rupert wished to marry
her. It is all in those letters. I am proud of the woman to whom they
were written. This is her miniature.”
He handed the miniature to Sir Geoffrey, who gazed at it long and
searchingly.
“A beautiful creature, Ben, and a good.”
“Yes. She gave to the man she loved everything; she asked nothing. This
letter,” he took another from his pocket, “was written to me by Lady
Alicia. I read it first, standing by her grave.”
“I want no more proof, Ben.”
“Please read it.”
Sir Geoffrey did so. This was the letter:
“MY DEAR BOY,
“I have never had the courage to speak to you of your father,
although, before he died, he made me promise to tell you the
whole truth. I prefer to write it, so that it may serve, if
necessary, as evidence. Your father was my eldest son, Rupert.
It is needless to tell you anything about your mother, because I
have often spoken to you about her. You will understand her
better still when you read the letters which my executor will
give to you after my death and look at the miniature which was
painted of her for your father. He wished to marry her. She was
devoted to me, and devoted to your father. She refused to marry
him steadfastly, but she might have done so had I not exacted a
sort of pledge from her. And then, they ran away together and
lived for a year in a queer little village called Fishpingle,
where you were born, and where your mother died. I promised her
to look after you and to educate you. That was her great
wish—that you should rise above her level. I sign myself for
the first and last time
“Your loving Grandmother,
“ALICIA POMFRET.”
The Squire replaced the letter in its envelope. As he gave it back to
Fishpingle, he asked hoarsely:
“Have you forgiven our grandmother?”
“There was nothing to forgive. My dear lady, had her son wished to marry
Prudence, would have done the same. I am Pomfret enough to understand
that.”
The Squire nodded, murmuring:
“And yet, if my father had got his way, you would be sitting in this
chair—the Lord of the Manor.”
Fishpingle repeated the words softly:
“The Lord of the Manor.”
Sir Geoffrey stood up. He moved slowly towards Fishpingle, slightly
bent, with bowed head. Then he held out his hand.
“My—brother.” He raised his head and his voice: “And before God, Ben,
you have been my brother. For more than fifty years.”
“Happy years!”
“Ben, what can I do for you—what _can_ I do?”
Fishpingle answered simply:
“The thing nearest my heart is the happiness of your son, who will stand
here when we are gone.”
Sir Geoffrey said hurriedly:
“I know that, I know that. I must call my wife.”
“You mean to tell her?”
“I must.”
“Nobody else.”
“If you insist. But—have I found a brother only to lose him?”
“You know what I wish—to remain here, to help you, to help Mr. Lionel.”
The Squire pressed his hand, too moved to speak. He turned abruptly,
walked to the door, and opened it.
“Mary—Mary—I want you.”
She must have known that she would be wanted, for she had remained near
him. Her voice floated through the open door:
“I am coming, Geoffrey.”
Lady Pomfret entered. She glanced at her husband’s face, and then at
Fishpingle standing erect near the desk. Sir Geoffrey closed the door.
He was not a man to do things grudgingly. The scales had fallen from his
eyes. He saw Fishpingle as clearly as his wife saw him. In a firm voice,
he said to Lady Pomfret:
“Mary—I surrender unconditionally.”
THE END
By HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL
NOVELS
FISHPINGLE
THE TRIUMPH OF TIM
SPRAGGE’S CANYON
QUINNEYS’
LOOT
BLINDS DOWN
JOHN VERNEY
THE OTHER SIDE
PLAYS
QUINNEYS’
SEARCHLIGHTS
JELF’S
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
NEW YORK
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Punctuation has been corrected without note. Other errors have been
corrected as noted below:
Page 32, the mantle-shelf, framed ==> the mantel-shelf, framed
page 78, achievements, eschutcheons setting ==> achievements, escutcheons
setting
Page 82, oldest tenand make a short ==> oldest tenant made a short
Page 90, home-coming as less joyous ==> home-coming was less joyous
Page 112, and soon dozen off ==> and soon dozed off
Page 197, “I feel,” he paused ==> “I feel,” she paused
Page 244, You are dependant on ==> You are dependent on
Page 250, tossed their sandwitches into ==> tossed their sandwiches into
Page 298, to the grace with us ==> to the grave with us
Page 298, Let is remain ==> Let it remain