CHAPTER VI
Fishpingle had given Lionel sound advice. The Squire was generally at his best after dinner, provided, of course, that the cook had done her duty. Upon this occasion, in honour of the heir, she had surpassed herself. And a glass of vintage port, after champagne, has a mellowing effect. Throughout dinner, the Squire’s mercurial spirits rose steadily. Indeed, as he was sipping his port, he said, with a jolly laugh, that the Hamlins must be invited to dine—and the sooner the better, b’ Jove! Parson Pomfret had tucked stout legs under his mahogany once a week. A rare old bird—that! He related anecdotes about Hamlin’s predecessor. The family rat-catcher, Bob Nobs by name, sung lustily in the village choir. But he raised his stentorian voice high above Parson Pomfret’s endurance. One Sunday morning, after the first hymn, the Parson addressed him sharply: “Look ye here, Bob Nobs, the angels will like your singing just as well if you don’t sing so loud.”
“Did you laugh, father?” asked Lionel.
The Squire was scandalised.
“Laugh, sir? Laugh in God’s House! Certainly not, but I fairly split my sides in the churchyard.”
As soon as Lady Pomfret left the dining-room, the Squire said briskly:
“Another glass of wine, Lionel? It won’t hurt you, my boy,” and he pushed the decanter across the table.
“Thanks, no.” He hesitated, flushed, and plunged.
“The truth is, sir, I do need Dutch courage. But with your permission I’ll drink another glass of wine after I’ve told you something.”
The Squire whacked the table.
“Damn it all!” he roared. “Have you told me a lie? Are you in love?”
“No,” said Lionel.
The Squire’s face indicated immense relief.
“Pass the wine, sir. If you think you’ll need stiffening after your story, I shall do well to fortify myself before.”
He poured out a bumper, and said curtly:
“Forrard! Forrard!”
“I owe five hundred pounds.”
He waited for the outburst, but none came. Lionel went on hastily. He stated his case, the nature of the debt, and how it could be met by an advance from his agents, with a written guarantee from the Squire. He finished gallantly:
“I can pay up by instalments, out of my allowance. And when I join the regiment, I am reasonably sure of being made adjutant, if I work for it. The C.O. half promised that.”
The Squire said solemnly:
“Will you give me your word of honour that your debts do not exceed the sum you mention?”
“Yes.”
“Then fill your glass. I shall make arrangements that my bankers pay £500 into your account at Cox’s. This is a first offence, and if I know you it will be the last. Your allowance is about right. You can’t pay instalments out of it. Have you spoken to your dear mother of this debt?”
“Not yet.”
“Then—mum’s the word. I impose that condition. I can’t have my blessed woman worried. Well, well, you frightened me out of my wits. From your face I made cocksure of some cursed entanglement with a petticoat.”
“Father, this is most awfully generous. I—I don’t know what to say. And, believe me, if I had guessed that things were a bit tight with you, I should have gone slower. When you told me about the shooting I had a fit.”
“There, there, you’re a good boy, and perhaps I ought to have taken such a son into my confidence. The shooting was let for a specific purpose. I haven’t entertained decently since you left home. We must cut down our celebrations—what? And you must do without a clinking good horse which I know of. Why the devil doesn’t Ben bring the coffee?”
“He knows I’m tackling you. I told him.”
“Did you? What did the old dog say? He lifted his tongue, I’ll be bound.”
“He offered to give me the monkey.”
“What?”
“It’s a great and glorious fact. He told me he was rich.”
“Rich? Rich? The old pincher! I’ve often wondered what Ben did with his money. Saved every bob, I expect. Were you tempted to take that monkey?”
“No.”
“Good! Ben is a faithful and loyal soul.”
“Isn’t he more than that, father?”
“Hay? What d’ye mean, boy?”
“It seems to me that he must have the most astounding affection for us. I’m quite rattled about it. Why hasn’t he gone on his own?”
But, to this question, the Squire could offer no adequate answer. He mumbled out: “Dear old Ben, we rabbited together. We had rare larks as boys.” Evidently the Squire thought that this accounted for everything. Lionel thought otherwise. But he kept his reflections to himself. Alfred entered with the coffee. Fishpingle followed with the old brandy. The Squire motioned to his butler to remain in the room. It was cheery to hear his mellow tones, as he said superbly:
“A glass of wine with us, old friend. Master Lionel has told me of your offer. It was worthy of you, Ben. My hand on it.”
Master and man shook hands. Fishpingle drank his wine, was questioned and cross-questioned about his day on the river, and most graciously dismissed. Lionel thought: “This is the Old School, with a vengeance.” Once more, he wondered at the change in himself, which enabled him to see so plainly that others had not changed.
When they joined Lady Pomfret, the Squire sank cosily into an immense armchair and soon dozed off. Lionel watched his mother playing “Patience.” She sat upright at a small satin-wood card-table, her delicate hand poised above the cards, her head very erect. All her movements were graceful and deliberate. One could not imagine her running to catch a train. As a small boy, Lionel believed that she went to bed fully dressed, although really, he had proof positive to the contrary. When he sat beside her, she smiled and caressed his hand. She was playing “Miss Milligan,” an old favourite. Lionel lifted her hand and kissed it, as he said chaffingly:
“Toujours Mademoiselle Milligan!”
Lady Pomfret answered with perfect gravity:
“Millie is so jealous, when I forsake her.”
“But I am jealous that you don’t.”
She swept the cards into a heap.
“There! What a mother I am!”
They began to talk, lowering their voices. But she still sat erect. It was Lionel who relaxed. And gazing at her, the son observed an air of vigilance, something new and arresting. Was she watching him, on the alert for changes which she must discover? He whispered to her:
“Father is asleep, but you look so wide-awake.”
“Perhaps I am straining my eyes to see you.”
“Do I still seem small to you?”
“No, no,” she smiled at him; “a colossus, my dear; you bestride my tiny world.”
“Now you’re humbugging me, you wicked, satirical woman. I feel very small. Call me your Mighty Atom, if you like. I say, I wish I wasn’t quite such a mug where your elusive sex is concerned.”
“Oh! Who is eluding you, Lionel?”
He answered without embarrassment:
“Joyce Hamlin. We used to be such good pals. And I like to pick up palship where I leave it. She half promised to join us by the river to-day. Is it true that women always do what they like, what pleases ’em best?”
She was too kind and too clever to laugh at him. Her tone, as she replied, became as serious and sincere as his.
“Some women, Lionel, and nearly all men, do what pleases them, or what they think, at the time, pleases them. Joyce, I can assure you, is not one of those. But whether you can pick up palship, as you call it, with her just where you left off is another matter entirely and quite outside my knowledge.”
She paused a moment, and once more her soft fingers stroked his hand. Then she continued quietly:
“Palship, between Joyce and you, may seem simple and desirable to you. To her, probably, it presents difficulties and perplexities.”
“You are fond of Joyce, mother?”
“I am very fond of her. I should be most unhappy, if unhappiness came to her.”
Then she began to talk about India. Lionel told himself that his mother was, perhaps, more elusive than Joyce.
By the luck of things, during the days that followed Lionel and Joyce never met. Lionel had to go to London to replenish his wardrobe. He suggested a Salisbury tailor as good enough for an economising subaltern, but the Squire insisted upon a London snip. Lionel wondered whether Lady Margot Maltravers flitted into his father’s mind when he said, “Smarten yourself up, boy. You fellows from India come back looking confoundedly provincial.” Probably Lady Margot would not dash at a pair of trousers that bagged at the knee. He spent three days in town and “did” a play or two. After that the Pomfrets visited some neighbours—a many-acred squire and his wife—old friends who lived handsomely if not luxuriously. But their town house had been let, and the stables had fewer horses in them. Lionel listened to his host in the smoking-room, as he talked with Sir Geoffrey about the same eternal question of falling rents. It was pathetic to hear them, to know—as Lionel did—that such fine specimens of the race were passing—never to return. Could England spare this particular type? Could the old landed gentry be saved? If such a devout consummation depended upon their own unaided efforts the chance of salvage might be deemed negligible. Lionel met the son of the house, an old school-fellow, who was in the Blues. The young men talked together. They agreed solemnly that the deuce was to pay. Lionel confessed his inability to solve the problem. Tom Challoner said blandly:
“We’re up against it. I’m chasing a jolly little Yank with a barrel of dollars. If I pull it off, Lionel, the old place is safe for a generation or two. That’s how they’ve kept together the big properties in France.”
Lionel replied bluntly:
“It seems a rotten way of doing it.”
“Tell me some other dodge.”
Lionel remained silent.
Next day the four men of the party played golf—singles in the morning and a foursome in the afternoon. Age played with Age and Youth with Youth. In the foursome, Age triumphed. During the morning, Lionel said carelessly to his companion:
“I wonder if you know Lady Margot Maltravers?”
“Know her, my dear fellow? Everybody knows La Reine Margot.”
“You call her that, do you?”
“I don’t. Her Majesty doesn’t bother with the likes of me.”
Lionel tried to disguise his astonishment. At Eton his companion had cut “a wide swath.” He was in “Pop,” and a member of the School XI, a bright star, shining high above Lionel. And now, when they met again, Lionel was well aware that in Mrs. Grundy’s shrewd eyes, and in the eyes of marriageable young women, a handsome captain of the Household Cavalry loomed larger than a Green Jacket subaltern.
“What do you mean, Tom?”
“Just what I say. She’s a clever nut is Margot. She consorts with the highbrows. Know her? Why, your old governor met her in our house. She’s took an uncommon shine to him. He cut us all out.”
“She is coming to stay with us in a fortnight.”
“Is she?” He glanced sharply at Lionel. “Then look out! She’ll keep her hand in with you. Her weapons don’t get rusty from not usin’ ’em.”
“Flirtatious—eh?”
“The most abandoned coquette in London.” Then seeing Lionel’s eyebrows go up, he added quickly, “I’m not crabbin’ her. Personally, I believe she’s as cold as Greenland’s icy mountains. Her vitality is mental, not physical. She’s had a dozen affairs. Comes out of ’em cool as a cucumber. I predict that she’ll make a big marriage—take on a Serene Highness. Pots of money! Go easy with her, old lad. Hide your feelings.”
Lionel laughed.
“I shall have to, Tom.”
“Eh?”
“I mean that I particularly dislike that sort of girl. But father cracks her up no end. For his sake, not mine, I shall hide my feelings.”
“If she whistles, you’ll come to heel.”
Lionel returned from this visit slightly depressed, and unable to analyse his own incohate emotions and sensibilities. His father had treated him so generously that he was positively tingling with impatience to make some return. He was in the mood, in fine, to lead a nice girl, with a bit o’ money, to the altar, but not such a “dasher” as Lady Margot. Being a modest youth, he jumped to the conclusion that she would not dash at him. If she did——! Well, in that unlikely contingency he could retreat, tactically.
The sight of Joyce, whom he met by accident in the village, heartened him up. He reproached her for faithlessness in not coming to the river upon his first day at home; but she replied simply that her father had despatched her on some errand to a house at the farther end of the parish. He murmured a faint protest—
“Parson’s unpaid curate, are you?”
“Father pays me, as—as your mother pays you.”
“Jolly little I do for her.”
Joyce laughed.
“Really? If you’ve grasped that Lionel, it’s well with you.”
“It isn’t altogether well with me. I’m a bit moithered. It would do me good to have a heart-to-heart talk with you.”
“Thanks.” She smiled demurely. “But why especially with me?”
“Because you’re such a practical little dear.”
“Am I? I wonder. Perhaps I am only practical where others are concerned.”
They were walking along the high-road which follows the river for a few hundred yards. And this bit of road happened to be almost the centre of the Pomfret property. So far as eye could see every acre—good, bad and indifferent—belonged to the Squire. Lionel said eagerly:
“Just so. And as this matter concerns me, you could give sound advice, couldn’t you?”
Obviously he firmly believed her to be wholly unconcerned in his affairs. And she wasn’t. Her quickening pulses told her that. But she said lightly:
“I could try. What bothers you?”
He burst into fluent speech. Ought he to chuck the army? His father had made a jest of it, but—facing disagreeable facts—was it not his duty to begin some sort of preparatory work to fit himself for a job he knew nothing about. Fellows like Bonsor were simply hopelessly out of date. Take the Home Farm—the Squire’s joy and pride. It was run at a loss. And all the tenant farmers needed “binging up.” The old order was doomed if it persisted in running things on old, worn-out lines. All this, and much more, he poured into Joyce’s attentive and sympathetic ears. When he paused for a second, she said quietly:
“What does Sir Geoffrey say?”
He laughed derisively.
“Father? I can’t talk with him about this. And, between ourselves, how can he talk with me, being the man he is? Every word I’ve said to you is an indictment of his policy and management. And I can’t talk with mother, either, because any criticism of his methods would hurt her horribly. I did talk to Tom Challoner. We’ve been stayin’ with ’em. Tom is in the same tight place, but he’s found a way out.”
“Captain Challoner must be cleverer than I gave him credit for. What is his way?”
“Dishonourable marriage.”
“Oh-h-h!”
“All the same, his way doesn’t seem dishonourable to him. And from his point of view, mind you, if he marries money to save the old place it is a sacrifice. But he doesn’t think of the girl at all.”
“Do men think of a girl, as a rule?”
Something in her soft voice arrested his attention. He looked at her. Her cheeks were pinker than usual. That, however, might be due to a warm day and exercise.
“Are you cynical about men?” he asked abruptly.
“Oh, no. But I suppose—I think——”
“Come on! Heart-to-heart, Joyce. No skrimshanking!”
“I don’t know many men. I’ve met Captain Challoner. I’ve read about men like him. He’s a type, isn’t he? He might want a girl, either for herself or her money, but he wouldn’t ask himself if he could make her happy and contented, would he?”
Lionel was too busy with his own affairs to throw pebbles at a pal. He professed ignorance. Tom Challoner was a good sort. Any girl would have an easy time with him.
“Some of us want more than that.”
She stopped, smiling pleasantly. Her destination, a small cottage, was reached. Lionel offered to wait for her.
“I shall be busy for an hour at least.”
He grumbled, unwilling to go.
“What are you doing in there?”
“The mother of five children is in bed with a sixth. I play housemaid and nurse. We shall meet to-night. Father and I dine with you.”
“Yes, I know. Joyce, you must wear your prettiest frock. Have you a very pretty frock?”
“I think so. I made it myself.”
She nodded and vanished.
Walking on, Lionel remembered that he had asked for her advice, but somehow he had not got it.
That afternoon he rode with the Squire. Father and son were very friendly together, although each shrank from discussion of subjects next his heart. This intercourse, so intimate—up to a point—revealed the Squire in a new light. Really the Squire revealed himself, accepting his boy, at long last, as man and comrade. To his dismay, however, Lionel did not share his feelings about the family heirlooms. Sir Geoffrey approached them warily, sincerely anxious to know where an up-to-date young soldier stood.
“We have some valuable stuff in the old house,” he said.
“Have we?” Lionel asked.
“The Sir Joshua, for instance. With your consent, my boy, it might be sold.”
“Would it fetch much?”
“Possibly twenty thousand, if the right people were bidding.”
Lionel whistled. Then he said, tentatively:
“I love the picture, but I’d let it go gladly if the mortgage could be diminished by that big sum, or——”
“Or?”
“If the money could be laid out on the estate. Fishpingle says——”
“Don’t quote old Ben to me, boy. He transmits my ideas. Well, well, you surprise me. I have regarded our heirlooms as sacred.”
“But the mortgage, father?”
“Tchah! You find that nice little girl. Snug dowries have cancelled many a mortgage.”
“Yes; that is what Tom Chanoller says.”
The dinner was pleasant enough. Squire and Parson tacitly avoided subjects upon which they might differ. Joyce looked charming in the simple frock of her own making. Some tennis was arranged. Hamlin mentioned that his eldest son was coming home and bringing with him a friend. Of this friend, Joyce, somewhat to Lionel’s chagrin, spoke with enthusiasm. He had distinguished himself at Cambridge, was now a Fellow of his college, and regarded as a rising chemist.
“A chemist?” exclaimed Lionel.
“Not a druggist. His line is coal-tar products. He says the Germans have that field almost to themselves, but he is digging deep into it. Mr. Moxon has imagination. That is what is wanted in an inventor.”
“Moxon?” said the Squire. “Let me see. One of the Moxons of Wooton?”
Hamlin answered drily:
“I don’t think so. Moxon’s father, I believe, made a fortune in jute.”
“What is jute?” asked Lady Pomfret.
Hamlin explained. Moxon père had begun life sweeping out an office in Dundee. Moxon fils might end—anywhere. Already he was quite independent of a rich father.
“Very creditable,” said the Squire majestically. Everybody present knew that Sir Geoffrey would have shown much greater interest in a Moxon and Wooton. Nevertheless, he continued in the same tone, with a sweeping gesture:
“I am told that our tennis courts are in order. We shall be delighted to see your young people using them. Possibly Mr. Moxon has studied artificial fertilisers. If so, I shall be happy to have a word with him.”
Hamlin’s face stiffened. Lionel could read his thoughts. The Squire was not above accepting a tip from the son of a jute-manufacturer. Otherwise he might be regarded as an outsider. And, struggle as he did against inherited prejudices, Lionel, in his heart, was unable to regard this distinguished chemist as a social equal. Joyce, he reflected, could be reckoned as a jolly little sister. Joyce, evidently, had been swept off her feet by young Moxon. Suppose, too, that Moxon, a clever chap, had been captivated by her? Could he attend their wedding with satisfaction? Most emphatically—no! He did not ask himself what his feelings would be if Tom Challoner were leading Joyce to the altar.
After dinner a round game was played, so Lionel had no chance of getting Joyce alone. The guests left early, and the Squire said, with a sigh of relief:
“That’s well over. Hamlin drank lemonade. Depend upon it, lemonade irrigates his perversity. Beastly sour stuff! Joyce seems to like this jute-manufacture’s son. We may have a wedding in the village. Very suitable match.”
Lady Pomfret nodded. She observed, out of the corner of her eye, that her son was pulling savagely at a small moustache.
Lionel played one game of billiards with his father, and was handsomely beaten. Then he went to bed, but not to sleep. He tossed uneasily between his lavender-scented sheets, growing more and more irritable. Had Joyce gone out of his life? In India, upon a night much warmer than this, he had lain awake thinking of jolly hours spent alone with Joyce. They would fish and ride together, with lashin’s of tennis. Did she avoid him purposely? In the old days, she popped in and out of the Hall like a kitten. Was she waiting now to be asked formally to come to luncheon or tea? Could it be possible that she was engaged to this chemist? No, no, Hamlin was the last man to countenance a secret engagement; and Joyce was incapable of keeping a fact of such importance from her father. Moxon—confound him!—and Joyce were not engaged, but they might be in a few days or so.
He got out of bed, lit a pipe, and cooled himself by the open window. A nightingale trilled a few notes, the broken song of late June. Lionel was in no sentimental mood. The nightingale singing to his mate provoked an absurd image of Moxon talking to Joyce about coal-tar products.
He cursed Moxon; and ordered the nightingale to “shut up.”
Then he laughed himself into a happier humour. Why should he care? Ten to one, he had found a mare’s nest. Girls were not enthusiastic about fellows they were fond of. Rather the contrary! Six to four Moxon was engaged to some freckle-faced lassie in Dundee. He felt remorse when the nightingale stopped singing. He leaned far out of the window and said clearly:
“I’m sorry, old chap; you go on singing to your missus.”
But the nightingale was huffed—and didn’t.
Owls hooted and hunted through the darkness. Male and female hunted together; for the first brood, now feathering nicely, were hatching out the second lot of eggs with their soft, warm little bodies. From the shrubberies came the hoarse cry of the nightjar, who moves the babies each night to a different nursery. Lionel felt more at ease in mind and body. The night was so still that he could just hear the rumble of a distant train speeding towards Salisbury. He thought of the people in the train, rushing on to adventures and misadventures, to new joys and old sorrows. Pace—progress—change! What a trinity!
He found himself yawning. He was almost dozing. The sand from the suburbs of slumber tingled in his eyes. The nightingale, still silent, may have heard his last words just audible to the sensitive ear:
“Good night, you jolly old world.”