CHAPTER XII
Church parade at Pomfret Court was something of a function. The Squire assumed the silk hat and black coat of Mayfair, with shepherd’s plaid continuations and spats. Lady Pomfret affected soft grey silk. Lionel could remember the day, shortly after he had joined his regiment, when, greatly daring, he had appeared before his sire in blue serge, topped by a billy-cock! The Squire stared at him, but said nothing. Had he despatched his son to his bedroom, with orders to appear in regulation kit Lionel would have obeyed. Visitors, need it be said, were expected to answer the roll call. In winter and rainy weather the house-party assembled in the hall; in summer they foregathered on the lawn. At the right moment the Squire would glance at his massive watch. Then Lady Pomfret and he would walk majestically down the path which led to the church, at a pace sanctified by immemorial custom. The visitors followed, chastened, let us trust, by such an example.
It has been mentioned that the family pew was in the chancel, at the back of the choir. It held a curious collection of prayer-books with Pomfret names upon the fly-leaves, and as often as not suitable inscriptions. Margot, discarding her own tiny manual, opened a much-battered specimen. In faded Italian handwriting were these lines—
“To my dear little son, from his loving mother, Selina Pomfret.”
The date, upon the title-page, told Margot that this prayer-book had belonged to Sir Geoffrey. As a boy, he must have used it habitually, have taken it to school with him, and brought it back. Now the Squire used the great calf-bound manual, emblazoned with the Pomfret arms, and never touched save by the head of the family. Margot turned over well-thumbed pages. The Morning Service, the Catechism, the Litany, and the Communion testified to much use and abuse. Obviously, the Squire had learnt by heart the Collects. Amongst the Psalms she found a dried poppy-leaf, and elsewhere a rose-petal. Obviously, too, the owner of the book had memorised his tasks with difficulty, possibly with exasperation, for some of the pages were torn. At the back of the book, upon a blank page, were penciled three entries in round hand—
Two ferrets.
Twelve nets.
Butter Scotch.
These, evidently, related to some rabbiting expedition, planned possibly during a dull sermon.
The little church was full of mural tablets and such memorials of the departed. In the windows were achievements. Here the Pomfrets had worshipped for centuries; here they were laid to rest.
Would she lie down amongst them?
The choir-boys sang lustily the Venite. In the nave, occupying two front seats, stood the girls, under the charge of Joyce. They sang better than the boys.
She saw Moxon further down the nave, standing by himself, gravely impassive. Did he want to sweep away this? It was hardly possible that he could be a Churchman. Margot herself accepted the Church of England as an institution which lent power and prestige to her order. It served admirably the purposes to which, designedly, it had been warped. It sustained authority and discipline. It stimulated loyalty. It enjoined those of low degree to rest content in the station assigned to them by an All-Wise and Loving Providence. Strictly speaking, it had become political—Church and State, an ideal partnership. Just so a Grandee of Spain accepts and reveres his Holy Mother Church, which, admittedly, is better organised and equipped.
Hamlin put to flight these thoughts when he read the Second Lesson.
His personality gripped her attention. He positively forced her to listen. Presently he would preach. Would the presence of Moxon, himself an instructor, a Dominie, and a man of advanced views, influence the Parson in his selection of a theme?
At the end of the Lesson, during the singing of the canticle, she noticed that the Squire was “ticking off” the congregation, making notes of absentees. Woe betide them if no reasonable excuse were proffered! He might well congratulate himself upon his people. The farmers and their families were conspicuous. Behind them sat the labourers, bovine, ruddy, with well-lined stomachs. The Pomfret servants filled two pews. Since the exposition of eugenics in Fishpingle’s room, Alfred had deemed it discreet not to sing out of the same hymn-book with Prudence. He sat with the under-servants, but wisely apart from the stillroom maid.
Everybody looked smugly pious and respectable.
The sermon surpassed Margot’s expectation. Hamlin spoke extempore, disdaining notes, talking to his flock simply, in words easily to be understood by a child. His thin, capable hands rested upon an ancient cushion of red brocade. This cushion was all that was left of the three-decker pulpit removed when Hamlin first came to Nether-Applewhite. Long ago, in the Squire’s boyhood, old Mr. Pomfret, in a moment of excitement, had pushed the cushion from him. It fell upon the sexton’s head. The sexton replaced it, interrupting the flow of the Parson’s discourse. Whereupon the Parson hurled the cushion into the aisle, saying loudly:
“Do you suppose, Abel Whitehorn, that I can’t preach without a cushion?”
Margot recalled this story, one of the Squire’s time-ripened anecdotes, as her eyes rested upon the nervous hands upon the same cushion. Hamlin’s hands betrayed his feelings.
His theme concerned itself with cleanliness. He took the text from Zechariah: “Behold, I have caused thine iniquity to pass from thee, and I will clothe thee with change of raiment.”
Hamlin was at his best when he dealt with matters of common interest to his parishioners. At his worst, like most parsons, when he expounded dogma and doctrine. Margot perceived that the Squire was composing himself to enjoy the sermon. Cleanliness was next to godliness in his opinion.
Hamlin began with soap and water. Members of the congregation, too racy of the soil, stirred uneasily in their seats. Those who were fresh from the Saturday night tub smirked complacently. From bodies, the Parson moved easily to houses, and thence to the soil, much to the interest and gratification of Bonsor and the Squire. Then he paused. When he spoke again, his tone had deepened. He leaned forward, sweeping the church with his keen glance.
“Are your minds clean?”
He went on temperately, delicately, but unmistakably. The children listened to every word.
“The Divine Spirit cannot dwell in an unclean mind.”
And then the last injunction.
“The clean mind must be kept clean.”
The congregation filed soberly out of church. Joyce marshalled the children. Moxon joined her. The Squire and his party lingered near the yew tree mentioned in Doomsday Book, exchanging greetings with all and sundry. Margot said to Moxon:
“A fine sermon, Mr. Moxon.”
He assented quietly.
“When I saw you in church, I wondered whether you belonged to us.”
“I am a Presbyterian.”
“Another Established Church. And yet, surely, you disapprove of establishments?”
He laughed.
“Of some. Powdered lacqueys arouse my worst feelings.”
“Do they? Over-dressed maidservants have that effect on me. Shall we see you this afternoon?”
“I think not.”
Lionel, with a Sunday luncheon slightly oppressing him, went for a long tramp by himself, seeking the high moorland, where he hoped that an ampler æther would clear his befogged wits. He was uncomfortably sensible of his limitations, as thinker and speaker, when he talked with Margot. She had characterised him as “absorbent.” He “took in” her talk, but found it indigestible and clogging. Her experience, so variegated, produced a kaleidoscopic effect upon his mental vision, dazzling judgment. He was quick enough to grasp the elemental fact that she belonged to the “loaves and fishes” school. She had fighting instincts. She could and would fight in defence of property, and all it included. And she would use, ruthlessly, her own weapons—the rapier of her wit, the heavy sceptre of sovereignty.
After luncheon, while he was smoking a cigar with his father, Sir Geoffrey had spoken a seasonable word.
“My boy,” he said, “the little lady likes you. Now—go for her! Go for her!”
“You have had her in your eye all along, father?”
The Squire winked, laughing jovially.
“Spotted her at once. A dasher.”
“I know. But why should she dash at me?”
“Tchah! If you come to that, why did your dear mother cotton to me? B’ Jove! that bowled me over, I can tell you. She was a dasher, too. Sharp as a needle in those ancient days.”
“Margot says she is just as sharp now.”
“Rubbish! The most guileless woman I know. You ask a direct question—why does Margot take to you? I’ll tell you. She knows a good thing when she sees it. I read her easily.”
“I’m hanged if I do.”
“She gave me a hint when we first met. She’s dashed at the wrong sort, run riot a bit with a pack of half-bred hounds, clever riff-raff. Old Challoner told me that nice boys like his son were frightened of her. Being independent, she chose to trot out of her own class. Girls of her quality soon trot back. I caught the little witch at the right moment. It’s time she settled down—and she knows it. She knew, also, what I was up to when I asked her here. She came, she saw—and you’ve conquered. When she accepted our invitation to stay on, the matter was nearly clinched. Now—go for her!”
Lionel sat silent.
“Dammy, boy, have you nothing to say?”
“I like her most awfully, father. I’ve never been so pally with any girl, except Joyce.”
“Why lug in Joyce?” growled the Squire. “She’s canoodlin’ with the Professor at this moment, I’ll be bound.”
Lionel experienced a pang. Jealousy ravaged him. The Squire went on less testily:
“No pressure! On you, I mean. These things must come about naturally. But—there it is.”
“I’ll think it over.”
Every word of this confidential talk stuck aggressively into a not unretentive memory as Lionel breasted the hills above Nether-Applewhite. And he knew that his father was right. If he “went” for Margot, he might capture her. Very slowly that conviction came home to him. And she had said that she loved Nether-Applewhite. A carefully directed shaft which made a bull’s eye.
When he reached the high ground, he sat down and filled his pipe. He began to think about Hamlin’s sermon. Was his mind clean? Judged by ordinary standards—yes. But he was no Sir Galahad. Certain moral lapses engrossed his attention. Margot would laugh at them and him, but they obtruded themselves.
How was a mind kept clean?
The Parson had dealt faithfully with this. But he was addressing an audience of farmers and villagers. Handling the same theme before a London congregation from a West End pulpit, Hamlin might have touched upon prosperity in its more tainting manifestations. The material side of life, its increasing luxury, its excitements, would have been presented inexorably. Lionel thought of Fordingbridge cleansed and rejuvenated by poverty and hard work. Fordingbridge must have been tempted to marry a nice little girl with a bit of money. Had he done so, what effect would it have had upon his mind? Lionel returned to his own moral lapses. They had come about when he happened to be on leave, with “money to burn”—at a “loose end.” What a descriptive expression! On duty with his regiment, working hard, temptation passed him by.
Not possessing a vivid imagination, he was unable to evoke a clear picture of a future passed with Margot. It lacked what photographers call “definition.” Outlines were blurred. He had, however, an uneasy feeling that this little Queen would reign over him, and rule his life in lines parallel with hers. The rôle of Prince Consort was not too enviable. More, he had no love of London, no belief in himself as an M.P. Her assurance that he could hold his own with the mandarins failed to convince him.
By this time he was about as unhappy and perplexed as a healthy young man can be. His desire to please and help his father, his acute sense of what Margot’s fortune could accomplish, his growing affection for the little lady, his belief that his mother shared the Squire’s wishes, stood out saliently against—what? A naked fact. He didn’t love Margot. If she consented to marry him, the marriage would be one of convenience. It may be maintained by sentimentalists that recognition of such a fact by an honourable man is in itself a ban. Moxon, for example, would have deemed it so. But Moxon was not the son of an ancient house, nor part of a system. Moxon was capable of immense sacrifice. Like Palissy, he would have burned his bed to keep alight a furnace, if some vital discovery depended upon a few extra sticks of firewood. He would have perished at the stake rather than recant his convictions. And yet, with all his cleverness and sympathy, he couldn’t understand the point of view of men like Sir Geoffrey. To marry to save an estate, he would have condemned as contemptible.
Lionel’s thoughts travelled downhill to Joyce, to the Vicarage garden, where Moxon and she were sitting together. The certainty that on the morrow he would hear of their engagement piled the last straw upon his burden. And yet, with jealousy tearing at him, he failed to realise that love, not friendship, gave the green monster a strangle hold.
He returned to Nether-Applewhite. Passing the Vicarage, he saw Moxon walking up and down the lawn with the Parson. He hurried on, now doubly assured that Joyce had “whistled.” Moxon, no doubt, was receiving the paternal blessing. The green monster gripped her victim tighter. With a gasp, with a quickening of every pulse, Lionel beheld the truth shining blindly upon him. He loved her; he had always loved her, since they were boy and girl together, and—wonder of wonders—Pelion upon Ossa—he had never known it till too late. Fool, idiot that he had been, in love and blinded by love, the plaything of the gods.
The animal instinct to hide turned his steps from the carriage drive, across the park, and into a small wood about two hundred yards from the Vicarage. He stumbled on, making for a summer-house, a tiny temple built by Lady Alicia Pomfret. It stood by the edge of a miniature lake, upon which water-lilies floated—gold and silver cups on round green plates. Lionel approached the temple from behind, silently, for his feet sank into softest moss. Suddenly he stood still, hearing a strangled sob, an attenuated wail of sorrow. Some woman in sore trouble was weeping. Irritated, yet loth to intrude, he swung on his heel. Who could it be? The villagers had free access to the park on Sunday. The Squire liked to see couples wandering, hand in hand, beneath his lordly trees. But this wood was taboo, because wild fowl haunted the pool. A servant-maid—little Prudence, perhaps—crying for her lover? No. The wood was out of bounds for her.
Could it be Joyce?
And, if it were, why was she weeping?
He must satisfy himself that it was not Joyce.
Cautiously he peered round the corner of the temple, glimpsing a pretty hat with no pretty head in it. He craned forward. Upon a stone seat, encircling a round table, sat Joyce. Her face was bowed upon her hands, which lay palm-down wards on the table. Her attitude—the relaxed body, the slender, rounded shoulders, the trembling fingers, were eloquent of overpowering distress. Lionel stood staring at her, petrified by pity and surprise. What had happened to make a dear creature, normally so calm, so serenely mistress of herself, this piteous spectacle?
He whispered her name.
She raised her head swiftly. Through a mist of tears she beheld the man she loved gazing eagerly at her with the shining eyes of a lover.
For a breathless eternity of seconds the spell remained unbroken. Then Lionel sprang at her—ardent, avid, aflame to hear from her lips the silent message of her melting glance. He held her in his arms; he pressed her yielding body to his; he kissed her hair, her brow, her cheeks. She remained passive, almost swooning under this revelation of his feelings and hers. Presently she heard his voice—broken, quavering, almost inarticulate:
“Joyce darling, I l-love you. I w-want you more than all the world. And—and you love me, don’t you? Say it—say it quickly, my own sweet Joyce.”
Whirled away upon the rapid current of his emotion and her own, twin streams racing together, she whispered the words tremblingly.
He took her head between his hands, kissing away a tear, a dew-drop upon dark lashes.
“If you love me, Joyce, give me your lips. I want the very breath of your spirit. I didn’t know it, dear, till to-day, but always, always my soul has been yours.”
She hesitated. The colour stole back into her pale cheeks. She sought his eyes, delving deep into their honest, clear depths. He met the challenge of that searching glance, holding his head erect.
She smiled and kissed him.
Presently, holding her hand, he asked tenderly:
“Why were you crying? What has happened?”
She answered simply:
“Mr. Moxon asked me to marry him. I like him so much, Lionel. I felt so sorry for him. Then he went away. I knew that he would come back, because, being the man he is, so strong and clever, he couldn’t believe what I said to him. It was my fault. My ‘no’ sounded, I dare say, weak and unconvincing. This afternoon he asked me again. I knew that father wanted it. I—I thought—I—I was so sure that you were utterly beyond me, somebody else’s——”
“Heavens! You accepted him!”
“Very nearly, not quite. If I had——! It was a dreadful ordeal for both of us. I told him that I didn’t love him. He said he would make me. He pleaded desperately. At last I escaped. I ran here—here where we played as children, where we have talked together so often, where I read your letters. And then, I gave way. I cried—for you. And God had pity on me, and sent you.”
Lionel said solemnly:
“May God deal with me, Joyce, as I deal with you.”
Soon they wandered from the rosy present into a future dark with clouds. Lionel made sure that he could tackle the Parson. He spoke with entire frankness of his father.
“He will be disappointed, dearest; we must face that. He may withhold his consent, growl and bark, but he will come round.”
“And Lady Margot? She wants you, Lionel. She couldn’t hide that from me.”
Lionel blushed.
“If she wants me, and I won’t admit it, either to myself or you, it is because she loves excitement and change. She may think she wants me. She ought to marry a swell—a personage. I shall tell her about you to-morrow. We are hunting together.”
“When will you tell the Squire and Lady Pomfret?”
His face grew distressed.
“Joyce, darling, I hate to ask this of you. I—I hope I’m not a coward. But I must seize the right moment. I shall talk with dear old Fishpingle, who knows father better than he knows himself. And because it would be such folly not to use ordinary discretion will you, too, keep this wonderful news from your father till I have spoken to mine?”
She remained silent, troubled as he was, trembling a little. He continued urgently:
“For both our sakes, Joyce—please! Your father is a proud man, quick-tempered. He couldn’t endure the thought of his daughter being unwelcome anywhere. I should feel as he does. And he would insist upon an immediate recognition of our engagement. There might be a scene, a rupture between Parson and Squire. Think of that!”
“I do—I do.”
“I dare not speak to mother first, but something tells me she will help us. She loves you. But she would think it her duty to tell father. Indeed, he would never forgive her if she kept such a secret from him.”
“Yes, yes, but Lionel, I must tell father. I hate to refuse the first thing you have asked me, but father has been more than father to me. Ever since mother’s death he has tried to take her place. Often I have laughed at him, when he came fussing to my room about my wearing warmer clothes and all that, but I loved him the more for his fidgeting. I must tell him to-morrow morning, after Mr. Moxon has gone.”
“He may forbid you to see me.”
“You don’t know him. He is proud, yes, but he will sacrifice his pride for me. If I ask him, he will help us. We may have to wait. Do you think I cannot wait for—you?”
They parted, and returned to each other. The man exacted pledges from the maid. She would remain true if the winds whistled and the tempest roared? She swore it, as she clung to him, hearing the raging blast already, shrinking from it, revealing herself adorably as weak only in this: the gnawing fear that her love might bring trouble and suffering to her lover. Gallantly, he reassured her. Let the storm, if it came, rage itself out! They would glide afterwards into a snugger harbourage. He turned to leave her, but looked back. Tears filled her eyes. He kissed them away.
“I found you crying. Let me leave you smiling. Your smiles, Joyce, are your dowry. I shall work to win those dear little smiles.”
She told him that she was happy. Did he grudge her tears of joy?
“Smile, smile! Let me kiss your dimples. Where are they—those dimples?”
They revealed themselves and vanished. He tore himself away. Looking back again and again, he saw her erect and smiling bravely.
She smiled till he was out of sight.
Protest met him from three sets of lips, as he came back to his family. Where had he been? Why had he skipped tea? The Squire said jovially:
“Very sound! Tea, after a Sunday luncheon, is an insult to one’s dinner. The walk has done the boy good. Our air on the high ground is the best in England. Look at the rascal! His eyes are sparkling. But we missed you. Didn’t we?”
He appealed to Margot. She assented, with less sprightliness than usual, trying to account for the light in the absentee’s eyes. Lady Pomfret remained silent, lacking the Squire’s faith in Nether-Applewhite air. She divined that something had happened. What? Exercise might have quickened friendship for their visitor into love. Lionel radiated resolution. His laugh rang out crisply. He stood facing them, with his chin at a conqueror’s angle. He wanted to tell the truth then and there. He told it in his own way.
“I have had a wonderful afternoon.”
Margot said quickly, with a derisive inflection:
“There are moments when Lionel cannot bear the society of women.”
Lionel retorted emphatically:
“A clean miss!”
“Who is she?” asked Margot. “Name—name?”
He met her instantly. Never had she seen him so alert, so joyous.
“Ah! Our Forest has its nymphs. They show themselves to the Faithful. They dance with the pixies down our glades. Perhaps I met Euphrosyne.”
The Squire was delighted. He made sure that a seasonable word had fallen upon fruitful soil. And any allusion to poets whom he had read—Milton was one amongst few—provoked capping. He chuckled:
“Euphrosyne, b’ Jove! Heart-easing Mirth. I met the nymph,” he glanced at Lady Pomfret, “in a London ball-room, and grabbed her.”
“And tore her gown,” added Lady Pomfret.
“She forgave me sweetly, tearing my heart in two.”
Margot beckoned to Lionel, who sat down beside her. She said mockingly:
“If your Euphrosyne wore a gown, describe it to me. Obviously Sir Geoffrey has begun to make love to his own wife.”
“I’ve never stopped, my dear.”
Lionel knew that this was true. And the fact illumined his horizon. His father had married for love, and remained in love. Such a true lover would warm to all lovers. Just then he remembered Prudence and Alfred. Unconsciously he frowned.
“Why do you frown?” asked Margot.
The Squire was bantering his wife. Under cover of that jolly voice, Lionel said softly:
“I happened to think of two hapless lovers with a barbed wire fence between them and marriage.”
“Really? Can’t they cut it?”
“No—it must be cut for them.”