CHAPTER VII
Many persons, profoundly ignorant of lives other than their own, believe that country gentlemen have easy billets. They read of big “shoots” with no understanding of the anxieties involved. They may be surprised to learn that often the host carries a stick instead of a gun. Indeed a “battue” (a favourite word amongst journalists) exacts as careful generalship as a battle. The same people imagine fox-hunting to be plain sailing over a grass country and the successful training of hounds—a pastime. A glance at “Beckford” would enlighten them. But, apart from sport, which engrosses less time on the part of a big land-owner than is popularly supposed, there remain the Bench, the County Council, the District Council, the Parish Council, and innumerable petty claims upon the leisure of men like Sir Geoffrey Pomfret. He worked hard all the year round, and much of that work was done gratuitously for the welfare of others.
Lionel had always been aware of this. Many a “shoot,” many a hunt had the Squire cheerfully given up in the prosecution of county and parochial duties. What Lionel did not know, what he soon learnt on his return from India, was that his father actually neglected his own affairs in the public interest. Fishpingle, fortunately, had filled the breach. And the Squire remained, possibly, the only man upon his estates who was not cognisant of the fact.
But Lionel was quite unable to measure the extent of Fishpingle’s influence and power because the dear old chap effaced himself. Lionel smoked many pipes with him, and, day by day, he marvelled at Fishpingle’s ability and devotion. He might have made a mark anywhere. Why had he remained a butler?
During the fortnight which elapsed before the arrival of the “dasher,” Lionel saw Joyce nearly every afternoon, but rarely alone. She played tennis with him, for Lionel and she were a match for Hamlin’s eldest son and Moxon. Between the sets she would chatter unconcernedly. It jumped to the eye that Moxon was paying her attention. And Lionel couldn’t help liking Moxon, although he described the hounds, when they visited the kennels, as “a nice lot of dogs wagging their tails.” Moxon, however, talked admirably, and Joyce listened with exasperating deference. He had brought his motor to the Vicarage, and appeared to be a man of ample means. When Lionel said as much to the Squire, that hypercritic perpetrated a joke.
“If his means are as large as his ends, he must be very rich.”
This was in allusion to Moxon’s hands and feet, points about which the Squire was particular. But he, too, liked Moxon, who proved to be “knowledgable” about fertilisers and intensive culture, and amiably willing to impart information whenever he was asked for it. Moreover, the possibility of any wedding in Nether-Applewhite brought out all that was best in the Squire. He kept on repeating to Lionel:
“A very suitable match. I hope it will come about.”
“I don’t,” said Lionel, spurred to protest by this repetition. “Joyce might do better than Moxon. He’s clever as he can stick, and not a bad chap, but—well, he’s Moxon. And I should think his people in Dundee are as sticky as their own marmalade.”
“I dare say. I repeat again—a very suitable match for Joyce. Her father is sticky. Now don’t argue with me, Lionel! It is nothing to us whom Joyce marries.”
He glanced keenly at his son, watching the effect of this sly thrust. Lionel riposted imperturbably:
“That won’t do, father, coming from you. Everybody knows what a matchmaker you are. And, by the way, that reminds me. Alfred confided to me that he wanted to marry Prudence, and that you objected. Can’t you see your way to withdraw your objection.”
“Most certainly not. Bless my soul! What are we coming to? I settled that affair with Ben before you came home. I sent a message to the little baggage through Ben. No mutiny in my house.”
“But, father, if they really love each other, poor dears!”
“Love! Tchah! I tell you this, boy, any healthy young man can love a dozen young women.”
“All at once, father?”
“You know what I mean. This ‘sighing and yearning and clinging and burning’ for one person of the opposite sex is ridiculous—preposterous.”
“I see. If you hadn’t captured mother, any other young woman would have done just as well.”
This disarmed the Squire. He laughed heartily and clapped Lionel on the shoulder.
“That was a good ’un, my boy. Dammy! you stuck me through the heart. But I wasn’t speaking of the quality. It doesn’t do to say it in these democratic times, but, between you and me, our Wiltshire labourers are not far removed from animals. I speak of what I know.”
“And whose fault is that?”
The Squire frowned. It was confounding that his son should ask such questions. He said sharply:
“Have you been talking with Hamlin?”
“I talk with Tom, Dick, and Harry. I want to know what people really think. If it irritates you, father, to discuss the conditions in our own county, I’ll shut up.”
The Squire fumed a little, but he was not ill-pleased. The boy expressed himself well and modestly. And he had inherited from his dear mother an ironical humour which tickled him. Whether, also, he had inherited her tact remained to be seen.
“Whose fault is it?” he repeated slowly. “That’s a bit of a stumper, boy. One can’t answer a big question like that—off hand.”
“Is it their fault? A lot of ’em herd together like animals.”
“Not on my property, Lionel.”
“I know. You’ve been awfully decent about that, but elsewhere. Within a radius of ten miles, we both know of conditions that beat the London slums. Is that their fault?”
“No.”
“Things are changing slowly for the better, but why can’t they be speeded up? If our labourers could be made more intelligent, we should profit as much as they. You’ve looked after their bodies jolly well. You believe in eugenics.”
“I do, b’ Jove! I don’t believe in clap-trap education, never did. Our old gaffers, who signed their names with their thumbs did a better day’s work than their half-educated sons.”
Lionel laughed.
“Father, I can roll you in the dust. I hate to do it.”
“Do it, if you can, you young rascal. I defy you!”
He laughed, more loudly than Lionel.
“How about Fishpingle?”
“Ben? What the doose has he got to do with it?”
“He has been a tower of strength to you, simply because he is educated. He shines brighter than Bonsor. Where would you be without him?”
“Um! You think you’ve downed me, boy. You quite forget that Ben is the exception that proves the rule. I’ve trained Ben. What he knows he’s got from me, b’ Jove! And I’ll admit that because his confounded memory happens to be better than mine he is able, once in a while, to get the upper hand by quoting me against myself. That’s a little trick of his which always exasperates me. Ben has understudied me, so to speak, to his own advantage and mine. He could take Bonsor’s place, and I sometimes think I shall let him have it. But, I repeat, Ben is exceptional. As to that, everybody knows that real ability always pushes itself out of the ruck. And—there it is! With the ruck, you can do so little practically nothing—nothing. If you have finished your cigar, we’ll join your mother.”
Lionel followed his sire into the Long Saloon. Lady Pomfret was playing “Patience” as usual. Lionel decided that he must do the same. His jolly old father couldn’t be pressed, as many a young man had discovered out hunting, when the Squire carried a Master’s horn. “Don’t ride in my pocket, sir,” he would roar out. “Am I hunting hounds or are you?”
But, happily, they could talk together without much heat—a significant sign. What encouraged the young man to persevere was the conviction that the Squire desired, heart and soul, the true welfare of his people. All of them were well housed, well fed, medically supervised—in a word, “protected” against their own ignorance. And Lionel’s ever-increasing conviction that such protection defeated its honest aims was instinctive rather than practical. He had no cut-and-dried scheme of reconstruction to offer to his father, or anybody else. His disabilities oppressed him. As a matter of fact, he did talk with Hamlin, and came away from such talks much discouraged. Hamlin was iconoclastic by temperament and training, a John Knox of a fellow! He advocated sweeping reforms, and after such a clear-up as he demanded Lionel wondered vaguely what would be left. The squires of England might be scrapped!
At the end of the week Moxon left. If he said anything to Joyce before his departure, the maid kept it to herself. Her friendly aloofness went on puzzling Lionel. She seemed the same jolly pal, but she wasn’t. Something, or somebody, stood between them. It might be Moxon; it might be the Parson, who certainly gave his unpaid curate plenty of work. The fact that she was at work, when he was fishing, riding, and playing golf or tennis, took some zest from these amusements. He said frankly to the Parson:
“Why can’t Joyce play about with me, as she used to?”
Hamlin answered rather grimly:
“Joyce hasn’t stood still.”
As he spoke he eyed Lionel sharply, so sharply that the young man felt uncomfortable. Hamlin went on in a very uncompromising tone:
“I give my daughter a free hand, Lionel. I trust her absolutely.”
“But, of course, sir.”
“There is no ‘of course’ about it. She happens to have earned that trust. ‘Playing about with you’ sounds harmless enough, and I trust you unreservedly, too; but tongues will wag in country villages, and I don’t want them wagging about my girl. That’s all.”
Lionel accepted this as satisfactory. The Parson had given a hint to Joyce. He smiled pleasantly, so pleasantly that the Parson took his arm and pressed it.
“You’re a good fellow, Lionel, but rather dense.”
“Thank you, sir. Have another shot.”
All the grimness went out of Hamlin’s voice, as he explained:
“You are only dense like so many worthy folk, where others are concerned. When I prepared you for confirmation, when we read together before you went up for Sandhurst, I discovered joyfully your modesty. Don’t squirm! We’ll have this out. You’re not the swaggering sort. I’ve never caught you preening yourself. It is quite likely that you are unaware of your attractiveness.”
Lionel did squirm, but the Parson held him tightly.
“Oh, I say, sir——!”
“More—you exercise the faculties that have been well exercised already. I didn’t get my ‘blue’ that way. At first I was a hopeless duffer at cricket. I believed that I wasn’t built for cricket. But something inside of me bit at my vitals, and I went to work with my brains—and after much tribulation I got there.”
“By Jove! you did!”
“Well, suppose you profit by my experience. Try harder to measure your own potentialities. Joyce has lost her mother. I try, very ineffectively, to take her place. In a word, Lionel, playing about with Joyce may be fun for you, regarding her as you do almost as a sister, but it might be disastrous for her. What it has cost me to say this you may realise when you have a daughter of your own.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lionel, in a different tone.
This talk with a man who detested mere chatter opened Lionel’s eyes. Was it possible that little Joyce could care for him in another way?
It is humorous to reflect that Hamlin—acting according to his lights—had brought about the one consummation he wished to avoid. He had underrated Lionel’s modesty, and indicated possibilities which hitherto had been beyond the young fellow’s horizon. Probably, Mrs. Hamlin—had she been alive—would have handled the same subject differently. The mere idea that Joyce might regard him other than as a pal made Lionel think of her, tenderly and chivalrously, as a woman abundantly equipped to inspire a warmer sentiment than friendship. But when he put the straight question to his inner consciousness: “Am I in love?” he couldn’t answer it.
But he obeyed the letter of the Parson’s injunction. He made no further effort to secure those pleasant heart-to-heart talks which he had missed so confoundedly. And here again—as the judicious will agree—he was playing Cupid’s game. Joyce felt piqued by the subtle change in him. She wondered if she had offended him.
We are at liberty to divulge one secret. Moxon had proposed. And she had refused him. Possibly, the Parson divined the reason. As a rule, penniless daughters of poor clergymen do not say “No” to eligible young men, unless their affections are otherwisely engaged. It is certain that Joyce—with her old-fashioned upbringing—was incapable of frankly admitting to herself that she loved a man whose feelings were agreeably fraternal. If, in maiden meditation, she dared to envisage Lionel as a lover, it is equally certain that she shrank, tremblingly, from the issues involved. Love passages with Sir Geoffrey Pomfret’s son and heir meant—ructions.
Moxon behaved with discretion and cleverness. He went away with the Parson’s permission to return after a decent interval. He perceived that he had “rushed” Joyce, and apologised so handsomely that she felt absurdly sorry for him, and inclined to blame herself. Indeed, having said “No” with unmistakable emphasis, she spent a sleepless but not altogether disagreeable night in speculating what her future might have been had she said “Yes.”
We have observed that Lionel obeyed the letter of the Parson’s injunction. It was not so easy to obey the spirit, unless he kept away from the young lady altogether. When they did meet, he was consumed by curiosity and excitement. He tried to read the virgin page, so immaculate to his eye. And then, through Fishpingle—a confirmed gossip about such affairs,—he learnt of poor Moxon’s rejection. Prudence pumped the facts out of the bouncing parlourmaid at the Vicarage.
“He means to try again,” said Fishpingle.
“Does he? I wonder why she refused him.”
Fishpingle remained exasperatingly silent.
It is significant that Lionel did not pass on this bit of gossip either to the Squire or his mother. When he next met Joyce, he decided that she looked a thought pale. Did this lack of colour indicate vigils? Why on earth couldn’t she confide in him? What would account adequately for her silence? A nice regard for poor Moxon, or——! He blushed as he confronted the more obvious hypothesis.
Under such circumstances, conversation, between an ingenuous pair, is likely to become artificial and constrained. They met and parted acutely ill at ease. The curare poison into which Cupid dips his darts paralyses action and stimulates sensation. They began to suffer abominably. Of the two, Lionel may have endured sharper pangs, because Joyce had her work, whereas time hung heavily upon his hands. Neither, as yet, had squarely faced the fact that they were in love.
Cupid laughed, as he fashioned more darts.
Meanwhile the Squire’s bankers had paid £500 into Lionel’s account at Cox’s. The actual payment of the money, promptly despatched to settle his debts, sent a fresh tidal wave of gratitude through Lionel’s mind. And he felt mighty uncomfortable when the importunate Bonsor clamoured, in his presence, for grants in aid of the Home Farm. On top of this came disconcerting news. Three young men in Nether-Applewhite announced their intention of emigrating. Upon many neighbouring estates depopulation was causing anxiety to farmers and landowners. The Squire was very hot about it, and sent his son with powers plenipotentiary to deal with the deserters. Lionel knew them well. They played cricket and were sober, respectable fellows, in the prescient eyes of the Squire potential fathers of large families. To lose them would be a disaster.
Lionel interviewed the Mucklows upon the Sunday preceding Lady Margot’s arrival.
He tried chaff first, and then serious remonstrance. The youngest of the three, so Lionel remembered, had announced his wish of becoming a gamekeeper, a calling for which he had special aptitudes. Lionel said to him:
“I thought, George, you wanted to be a keeper?”
George, somewhat to the consternation of his elder brethren, replied with a grin:
“Lard love ’ee, Master Lionel, it looks, seemin’ly, as if keepers an’ game-preservin’ won’t last another ten years. Where would I be then?”
“Rubbish!” exclaimed Lionel.
George accepted this deferentially, adding, as if in excuse:
“I’d a mind to be a policeman, I had, bein’—so to speak —so fine a figger of a man, but policemen bain’t wanted in Nether-Applewhite.”
“You say that as if you regretted it.”
“’Tis tarnation dull here, Master Lionel.”
An interminable discussion followed. The young men pursued many avocations, harvesting, cutting poles, bark-stripping, hurdling, and thatching. Month in and month out each could earn about eighteen shillings a week, a good wage in Wiltshire. They lived with their parents, but helped with the rent and paid board and lodging. So far as Lionel could gather, they were seeking change and amusement—livelier times.
“You fellows won’t get that in Canada.”
Western Canada had been mentioned as their future home.
“Ah-h-h! Have ’ee bin back there, Master Lionel?”
“No, but I know something about it. When the winter sets in, fifty degrees of frost, and you find yourselves frostbitten and forty miles from a doctor, you’ll be thinking of this snug cottage.”
But none of them budged from his determination to leave England. George, who might be reckoned the fool of the family, said finally:
“Us do hear tell there be no quality over there. Every tub a-stanin’ on its own bottom.”
“You’ll be standing on your head, George.”
Lionel returned to his father, rather discomfited. The Squire frowned, as he listened to his son’s report.
“I’ll see ’em,” he declared. “Hounds that run riot must be rated.”
“You told me to use tact.”
Eventually, Fishpingle saw the brethren and persuaded them to remain in Nether-Applewhite. He elicited the truth. Two of the brothers were engaged to be married and wanted cottages. Bonsor had told them to remain single, because no cottages were vacant. Fishpingle promised them new cottages, whereat the Squire grumbled and growled. He said to Lionel:
“Where is the money to come from?”
Lionel winced, thinking of the draft on its way to India. The Squire tapped him on the shoulder—
“Lionel, my boy, that nice little girl with something in her stocking is house-warming in my heart.”
Lionel nodded, not too enthusiastically.
The Squire was so full of his plan for cancelling the family mortgage and rebuying the land sold by his grandfather that he could not keep it from Fishpingle. As a rule, they spent an hour together each morning, going over estate accounts which, properly considered, were Bonsor’s business. Fishpingle, however, had kept such accounts for fifteen years, burning much midnight oil over them.
“Ben,” said the Squire, “that little lady is coming to us next week.”
“You mean Lady Margot, Sir Geoffrey.”
“I do. What d’ye think of her—hay?”
“Very urban Sir Geoffrey.”
“What d’ye call her? Urban? God bless my soul! What words you use! Where d’ye get your vocabulary from?”
Fishpingle answered deprecatingly:
“From you, Sir Geoffrey, from my lady, and from the dictionary.”
“Urban—eh? Well, why not? When you and I were her age, we liked London—what? I know I did. And I should like to see Master Lionel in Parliament. Between ourselves, Ben, I am hoping and praying that Master Lionel and Lady Margot will take a shine to each other. She liked his photograph, b’ Jove? And if I do say it, there isn’t a nicer young fellow in England. You’re starin’ at me like an owl. Can’t you say something?”
“I took the liberty of looking Lady Margot up in the Peerage.”
“Did you? Well, you found a thumpin’ good pedigree. No better stock anywhere.”
“What there is of it, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Hay.”
Fishpingle rose slowly, crossed the room to the bookcase and took down his “Burke.” The Squire watched him with impatience.
“Your slow ways irritate me. Where did ye get that Peerage?”
“I bought it, Sir Geoffrey.”
Fishpingle opened the big book, and put on his spectacles. Having found the page, entitled “Beaumanoir,” he pushed the volume across to the Squire, who adjusted his pince-nez.
“Not much stock left,” said Fishpingle.
The Squire frowned, running his forefinger up the page.
“You’ve been talking to my lady,” he snapped out.
“No, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Then she’s been talking to you.”
“Not about the Maltravers family.”
“Um! The stock has worn thin, but what of it—what of it? An infusion of fresh, healthy blood is needed.” He closed the Peerage with a bang. “Take the damned book away!” Fishpingle replaced it, and came back. “Sit you down man,” Fishpingle obeyed. “I take you unreservedly into my confidence.” Fishpingle bowed solemnly. “I want to bring about this match. As I told my lady—no pressure. It must come about naturally. I haven’t asked anybody to meet Lady Margot here. The young people will be thrown together, and there you are!”
Fishpingle remained obstinately silent. The Squire glared at him.
“You don’t share my wish, you crusty old dog? What’s in your mind. Speak out freely!”
“I was thinking, Sir Geoffrey, of young Lord Fordingbridge.”
“Then your wits are wool-gathering. He married a year ago, and what a marriage, b’ Jove! His agent’s daughter.”
“A fortnight ago,” said Fishpingle, with a faint smile, “her ladyship was safely delivered of twin sons. His lordship and his lordship’s father were only sons. That stock had worn thin.”
Light came to the Squire and blazed in his blue eyes.
“I take you, Ben, I take you. I suppose, if you had your way, you’d arrange a marriage between my son and a prolific milkmaid.”
“It would be sound eugenics.”
“Damn eugenics! I’d sooner see my boy dead in his coffin than marrying out of his own class. What d’ye say to that?”
“Nothing, Sir Geoffrey. What wine will you drink to-night?”
“Champagne,” roared the Squire, getting up. “I shall need a bottle to myself after this.”
“Certainly, Sir Geoffrey.”