CHAPTER XVI
Lionel was clever enough to realise that he had behaved like a fool within five minutes of leaving Fishpingle’s room. He hastened to his mother, and, by the luck of things, found her alone. He could see that she was infinitely distressed already, inasmuch as a visitor had been treated with discourtesy. She dwelt on this, not without humour, till Lionel stopped her. His abrupt manner, so unlike him, alarmed her instantly. She put out her hand, as if to ward off the coming blow. He seized it and kissed it. Then she guessed.
But she remained silent, while he told his tale, haltingly, but not inartistically, for climax came at the end. She murmured softly:
“My dear son——!”
He knelt down and laid his throbbing head on her lap. She stroked his hair. He looked up at her.
“Mother, I love her.”
She smiled at him.
“So do I. Can you doubt that?”
“No, no. But father——! I have burnt all my boats just when I most needed them. I meant to go slow, to break my news considerately. I have behaved like a madman, irritated and offended him past forgiveness.”
He may have hoped that she would deny this. No comforting word dropped from her lips. Never had he seen her face so troubled.
“Have you nothing to say?” he burst out.
She answered gently: “You mustn’t hurry me, Lionel. I stand between my husband and my son. I have a duty to each. I tell you this—in small things I can and do influence your father. Dear old Ben can say as much. In Matters which touch deeply his pride, his ambition, his inherited instincts and sensibilities, my influence is—negligible. All my life I have known this; all my life I have prayed that no issue might arise between us which would provoke me to—to fight against those instincts, so strong in him, so ineradicable.”
“And I have raised that issue.”
It was a bitter moment for the young man. Glancing keenly at his mother, he perceived her delicacy, her physical frailty. From her he had inherited a like weakness, which a healthy, sane life had almost eliminated. But he remembered long weary days and sleepless nights when he had suffered grievously from actual incapacity to do things done by strong young men. At Eton he had not been allowed to play football. Later, a long day’s hunting tired him terribly. The work at Sandhurst, digging trenches, making bridges, route marches, caused him distress. Perhaps these physical lesions had strengthened his spirit and aroused his sympathy. Any loss implies some gain. And if the present moment was bitter, knowing, as he did, that he was inflicting cruel anxiety upon a mother ill able to bear it, such bitterness may be well deemed trivial compared to that immeasurable and inexpiable remorse which tears the hearts of strong men, when they realise that the sympathy and tenderness long overdue to some beloved creature has been aroused too late, when the kind familiar tones are hushed for ever.
Lady Pomfret assented.
“I shall have to fight for you, Lionel.”
“Darling mother, can’t you keep out of it?”
“Quite impossible.”
Lionel got up and paced the room, a small room adjoining Lady Pomfret’s bedroom, much used by her, full of objects which vividly recalled to Lionel his childhood and youth. A tiny chair in which he had sat learning to “read without tears” stood in its old place. In one of the dwarf book-cases were a row of children’s books. Photographs of himself at all ages met his eye.
Presently he burst out, as she sat thinking before him:
“Father simply can’t resist you.”
“Ah! But this isn’t altogether that. He will have to fight not so much against you and me, but against himself. Really we are asking him to change his character, his point of view. It is certain that he will definitely refuse to sanction this engagement. And you are dependent on him. Unless I am utterly mistaken he will bring pressure to bear. Mr. Hamlin will put the same pressure upon Joyce. This is going to be harder upon her, poor dear, than you, because it will be made plain that marriage with you may be so disastrous to you from every material side.”
Lionel groaned. Lady Pomfret poured a little balm into his wounds.
“But I will say this. I rejoice, with all my heart, that it is Joyce, not Margot, whom you love. I feared that you might be tempted to take the easy way. You might have been allured by her wit and charm. I am confident that her money did not weigh with you.”
“Thank you, mother.”
“For the rest, we must be patient with your dear father. You tell me that Margot knows, that she was nice to you. Perhaps, for a few hours, you had better leave your father to me. You ought to see Joyce at once.”
“Yes, yes.”
“And tell her father frankly the exact position. He will have to fight his pride.”
They talked on till the stable-clock struck seven. A minute later the Squire’s heavy step was heard in the corridor. He entered the room. Probably he expected to find mother and son together. And it says much for his courtesy and breeding that at such a moment he remembered what was due to his wife. He said heavily:
“Well, Mary, I suppose that Lionel has told you his story?”
“Yes.”
“He gave me no time to answer him. But I have answered the man whom he asked to act as go-between. Ben pleaded his case, pleaded it better than Lionel could have done. Ben will deliver my answer before he goes.”
Lady Pomfret gasped.
“Geoffrey! Is Ben going?”
“Yes.”
“After fifty years——!”
“We reached the breaking-point.”
He ignored his son entirely. Lionel had wit enough to remain silent. Indeed, the last blow had stunned him, as it had stunned Lady Pomfret. The Squire continued in the same heavy voice:
“Our guest leaves to-morrow. I take it that we can play our parts at dinner as usual. When Margot has gone, this matter can be taken up again.”
Lady Pomfret inclined her head. The Squire left the room.
“See Ben at once,” said Lady Pomfret. Her voice trembled; her eyes were wet, as she added hastily, “Tell the dear fellow that I am grieved beyond expression, that I—I count upon his patience and forbearance.”
“All that and more, mother. My God! that my happiness should be bought at such a cruel price.”
Lady Pomfret answered firmly:
“I should reckon no price too great for that, but your happiness is not bought—yet. Leave me alone, my dearest, for a few minutes.”
He kissed her tenderly and went.
Dinner was a lamentable affair, although an outsider might have found food for comedy. Alfred, for example, failed to follow the lead of Fishpingle, who conducted himself as usual. Charles, the second footman, looked like a mute at a funeral. Margot, however, shone brilliantly, lightly bridging chasms of silence. Lionel was not present. Just before dinner, Lady Pomfret went to Margot’s room, and put before her the facts. Margot shrugged her shoulders:
“But, really, as I said in Fishpingle’s room, this is feudal.”
“So it is.”
“Sir Geoffrey will have to surrender an untenable position.”
“I am not sanguine.”
That was all, and quite enough, too, as Margot reflected to herself. Whereupon she purged her mind of any desire that Lionel should suffer at his father’s hands. Her philosophy, her hatred of what was disagreeable, her temperamental inability to feel very deeply, hastened to her rescue. From some high coigne of vantage, she surveyed herself and could smile at her own discomfiture. If she could calm this tempest in a teapot, if she, unaided, could persuade her host that his position was untenable, with what trailing clouds of glory would she speed from Pomfret Court! Twice, between soup and savoury, she made the autocrat laugh. Lady Pomfret divined her kind intentions, and smiled derisively.
The almost interminable dinner ended.
Coffee was served in the Long Saloon. The Squire had just finished his chasse of old brandy, when Fishpingle came in.
“Mr. Hamlin, Sir Geoffrey, wishes to see you. I have shown him into the library.”
“Um! I will join Mr. Hamlin at once.”
As the door closed behind Fishpingle, the Squire said testily:
“Just like the man. Well, I expected him. And the sooner it’s over the better.”
He stumped out. Margot, for an instant, wished that she were a housemaid, with no scruples about eavesdropping. Greek was about to meet Greek, and a memorable encounter must take place. Lady Pomfret sat, shading her eyes with her hand, reflecting that men were nearly all alike. How often she had said to her husband, when he was straining at the leash to meet and “down” some obstreperous tenant, “Dear Geoffrey, sleep over it.” And as invariably he had replied, “My dear Mary, I can’t sleep over this. I shall lie awake all night. I must settle this pestilent fellow.” In some such a spirit the Parson had come to Pomfret Court. When had he hesitated to speak his mind? Right was right, so he maintained, and must prevail. But often, too often, right did not prevail. A good cause is like a good horse. It must be ridden with judgment.
“Will there be ructions?” asked Margot, sympathetically.
“I fear so, my dear. How helpless women are at such times!”
“Yes; we co-operate with the forces of gravity, men don’t.”
Meanwhile the Squire was entering his own room. The Parson greeted him austerely, refusing a cup of coffee and a cigar. He accepted a chair. The Squire sat down at his big desk.
“Lionel dined with us,” said the Parson. “Your message was duly delivered to him by Fishpingle.”
“Then we both know where we are,” said the Squire briskly.
“Do we, Sir Geoffrey?”
A suppressed irony, not lost upon the Squire, informed the question. The Parson had long held the opinion—shared, as we know, by Lady Margot—that the lay rector of his parish wandered in the Middle Ages. Sir Geoffrey believed that his vicar kept company with rogues and vagabonds, whom he described genetically as demagogues.
“I know where I am,” amended the Squire. “I have often said that I inherited this property with certain disabilities. Amongst them, I take it, you would reckon a keen sense of trusteeship, a sense of tradition, a conviction that I must follow where my predecessors have trod before me.”
Hamlin smiled grimly.
“You are right. I reckon that sense a disability. But I respect any man’s honest convictions. I will be equally frank with you. Had it rested with me, I should have chosen for my daughter a husband who was entirely free from those same crippling disabilities. I should not have chosen your son.”
“Then I repeat—we know where we are.”
“Not yet. Where we are seems to me of little consequence. I am concerned with others, the position of my daughter and your son. They love each other.”
“Can they marry on that alone?”
“Certainly not. I am a proud man, Sir Geoffrey, and I will not inflict pain upon you and mortification upon myself by asking the obvious question: What have you got against my child? I can answer that question myself. I know where she and I stand in your eyes. I remember your expression when I told you that I didn’t bear arms. I saw that a stupid jest on my part irritated you. We Hamlins are yeomen. My forefathers wore leather jerkins when yours rode in mail-armour. You prize your descent from them; I prize mine. Let that pass. You are you; I am I. Probably, we shall carry our traditions and predilections to the grave with us. It comes to this. If I put it bluntly, as a yeoman, forgive me. Your parson’s daughter is not good enough to marry your son.”
The Squire winced a little, reflecting that a yeoman had indeed spoken bluntly. He was tempted to state his own case, but wisely refrained. The Parson—confound him!—chose to put the thing in a nutshell. Let it remain there. Nevertheless, he said courteously:
“I have a genuine affection and respect for Joyce; but, as you say, I do prize my descent. And I wish to see it continued unblemished.”
“Then why did you ask my daughter to your house? Why, feeling as you do, did you expose her to the dangerous possibility of what has actually taken place? Why didn’t you, a descendant of knights, protect an innocent, artless girl against the attractiveness and intelligence of you own son?”
The Squire had not expected this. He frowned, pulling at his chin, a trick that indicated perplexity. And a better swordsman might have been sore put to it to parry successfully such a thrust.
The Parson pursued his advantage:
“I hope that I have presented this particular case from a new point of view. And I am aware that your sense of what is due to me as well as to yourself may prevent your answering me. You thought, probably, that your only son shared your sense of what is due to your family. Obviously, he didn’t. He is friendly with every pretty girl on your estate. You trusted him, in short.”
The Squire nodded. He was not ungrateful at being spared a reply. Hamlin continued in a deeper tone:
“You are your boy’s father. I, unhappily, have been constrained to act as father and mother to my girl. She loves Lionel with all her heart and mind. I think that I know something of Lionel. Whatever we may do, Sir Geoffrey, this pair will remain faithful to each other. We meet to-night upon this common ground: we are two profoundly disappointed men. You made your plans for your boy’s marriage; I made plans for my girl. Our hopes are ropes of sand. I urge you solemnly to sanction this marriage, not, I beg you to believe, because of the worldly advantage to Joyce, but because Lionel and she, out of all the world, have chosen each other.”
“No,” said the Squire.
He rapped out the negative, leaning back in his chair. Much of the starch was out of him; native obstinacy remained. To his credit, let it be recorded that he was not unmoved by Hamlin’s simple, sincere statement. He could appreciate—none better—the Parson’s transparent honesty. And Hamlin’s thrust had almost reached a vital spot. The “no,” in fine, would have been taken by a keener psychologist and one less personally interested than Hamlin as a sign of weakness, not strength. It meant really that the Squire was not prepared to argue his case upon ground chosen by Hamlin. Joyce had been made welcome in his house; more, she had worked faithfully and well in his parish; had he foreseen the possibility of an entanglement, he might have kept her at a distance. Such thoughts filtered through his mind. Back of them remained the conviction that he had the right to interfere in such matters, that he was exercising—reluctantly, if you will—a cherished privilege. Royalties were constrained by law to marry members of their own caste. The same law, unwritten, obtained in his order. You broke that law at your peril. Till now the Pomfrets had held it inviolate.
The judicious will agree that the Parson should have “dug himself in” after taking by surprise the first trench. Another man would have done so. Unfortunately, Hamlin’s moral courage was habitually exercised at the expense of his judgment. The curt “no” provoked him terribly. It stood for what he despised and condemned in the Squire and others of his class. It meant the scrapping of argument and reason, the abuse of Authority. But he was fully prepared for it. His manner changed instantly. He, too, assumed authority, vested in him by the touch of Apostolic Hands, an authority he held to be indisputable and omnipotent.
“You say ‘no,’ Sir Geoffrey. Then you force me to speak not as man to man, but as your vicar who would consider himself recreant to his vows if he held his peace at such a moment.”
The Squire was “touched,” as fencers put it. What did the fellow mean? What the devil was he up to now? Hamlin continued austerely:
“You are a member of my congregation, and as such neither greater nor less than any other in this parish. I tell you plainly that you are in danger of mortal sin, for such unwarrantable interference with the welfare of others, an interference which in the case of Alfred and Prudence Rockley may lead to actual sin, is a crime against God and man. I charge you to pause before you exercise powers vested in you, as you admit, and for which you will be held ultimately to strict account.”
The Squire rose.
“I accept that responsibility, Mr. Hamlin. Good night.”
The Parson rose with him. He bowed with grim dignity. The Squire rang the bell and opened the library door. As Hamlin passed through, he said quietly:
“Lionel is passing the night at the Vicarage.”
To this the Squire made no reply.
The Parson returned to the Vicarage, where Lionel and Joyce awaited him. One glance at his grim face sufficed. A strong man had been hit hard in a weak place. Possibly, he accepted punishment penitentially. But it was not his way to admit that to others. Joyce flew at him, kissing him tenderly, holding his hands. Lionel felt more in love than ever as he watched a pretty display of sympathy and pity. With much feeling he said regretfully:
“It has been beastly for you, sir.”
The Parson was in no mood to tell a tale even if it reflected credit on himself. He set forth the fact that mattered:
“Sir Geoffrey refuses his sanction. I say this for him. He accepts full responsibility. His position is archaic, impregnable on that account to the assault of reason.”
Lionel flushed, but he replied eagerly:
“My mother will fight for us. I have her word. I wish she could keep out of it.”
“Lady Pomfret will meet what I have met—ah obstinate faith, a conscience clearly sincere though perverted. This unconscious abuse of Authority is basic, racial. It is sapping its own foundations everywhere, but how can your father be made to see that?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Nor I,” murmured Joyce.
“I suppose,” said Lionel, after a pause, “that you, sir, will refuse your sanction?”
“Apart from sentimental considerations, I ask you, Lionel, as I should ask any other man, how do you propose to support a wife if your father cuts off your allowance?”
This talk took place in Hamlin’s study, lined with books cheaply bound and constantly read, so different in every aspect from the Squire’s library. The Parson had sat down at his desk. Joyce sat near him. Lionel remained standing.
“I am not afraid of poverty,” the young man declared stoutly.
“Nor I,” murmured Joyce.
“But I am,” said the Parson, trenchantly. “It’s a bed of nettles.”
Lionel spent some time and eloquence in describing what “other fellows” had done in India. With a little “pull” one could get excellent billets, managerships of tea and rubber plantations, married men preferred. The Parson raised a cynical pair of eyebrows.
“Have you any qualifications, special knowledge of tea or rubber?”
“He could learn,” pleaded Joyce.
“At another man’s expense?”
Lionel winced and said no more. The possibilities of advancement in his profession had been already dismissed as negligible. The Parson spoke less austerely:
“Forgive me, my boy, for putting these questions. I don’t doubt either your courage or goodwill. Joyce is worth fighting for. Now, let us suppose that your father surrenders, what then?”
His keen eyes flashed an unmistakable challenge. Lionel answered eagerly:
“I want to live here, as my father’s agent. I have everything to learn about the land, but I mean to learn—I can learn. This big property must be made to pay. Hard work, but it’s work I shall love.”
To the Parson’s amazement, he went on to speak of grievances to be redressed, of schemes for the bettering of rural conditions, of a more scientific method of farming. This, as we know, was undiluted Moxon. When interrogated, Lionel frankly admitted as much. Joyce, echoing Moxon, had fired him. As he warmed to his theme, he noticed that the Parson’s thoughts seemed to wander. Had he followed those thoughts he, too, might have been amazed. For Hamlin, smarting beneath a sharp disappointment, had wondered why such a man as Moxon had come into Joyce’s life merely to drift out of it. Now that question was answered. When Lionel finished, he said simply:
“Good. If you realise the work to be done all is well. But some of you country gentlemen, with no training other than that of the Public Schools and Services, seem to think that you can manage big estates efficiently without training; and you arrogate to yourselves powers almost of life and death over your people. That is a monstrous vanity. This blind belief in yourselves will undo you. Why should your so-called rights be used to inflict wrongs upon others? However, light seems to have come to you. Follow it! I’ll ask one more question. The application of scientific methods to such farming as is done here means a large outlay. Have you thought of that?”
“Yes,” said Lionel, eagerly. “With my consent, father and I could sell some heirlooms.”
The Parsons eyes and voice softened.
“What? You, a Pomfret, would make that great sacrifice?”
“Gladly.”
“Then I sanction your engagement to Joyce. You will have to win your wife with hard work of mind and body. Personally, I believe you can do.”
He grasped Lionel’s hand with so convincing a grip that the young man winced. Then he went to bed, leaving Joyce and Lionel together.