CHAPTER XVII
Next day, after the shock of battle, Sir Geoffrey felt uncommonly sore and tired. Never had he made so wretched a breakfast! His wife, screened by a large silver urn, poured out his tea in placid silence. This silence was not the least of many flea-bites. After his interview with the Parson, she had asked no questions. The Squire was unable to determine whether this could be deemed sympathy or strategy. For his part, he had said nothing, being well aware that the Parson, in a sense, had carried off the honours of the encounter. This disagreeable impression—for it was no more—might be to his credit, but it in no way bridged the gulf between the two men. Rather the contrary. Nevertheless to repeat to Lady Pomfret the Parson’s arguments might provoke discussion of them. Accordingly, when the ladies retired to bed, the Squire went to his room, where he smoked at least three cigars before turning in. Margot discreetly did not appear at breakfast. The Squire marked ravages upon Lady Pomfret’s face, as he choked down his food. She looked pale; the lines about her mouth and eyes seemed to have deepened; her hands, as they poised themselves above cream-jug and sugar-basin, fluttered a little. He tried to read her mind and failed. But he never doubted her for an instant. She would stand shoulder to shoulder with him till the end.
Presently she left the room. The Squire got up and examined her plate and cup. She had eaten nothing, and drunk half a cup of tea! The Squire swore to himself.
He went to the library and sat down at his desk, littered with papers and accounts taken from Fishpingle’s room by the ex-butler and placed by him on the desk. The neat files, row upon row, seemed to stand at attention like soldiers on parade awaiting the word of command. The Squire gazed at them frowning helplessly. Presently Fishpingle would present himself and his books. What happened when a butler left a big establishment? There ought to be inspections of silver and wine, and the Lord knows what beside. All that, however, could be taken as done. He picked up a file of accounts. Under a rubber band was a neat slip of paper serving as an index of contents. Fishpingle must have sat up half the night getting these neat files into order.
“Damn!” exclaimed the Squire.
Charles, the second footman, now in supreme command, entered, but remained grinning sheepishly at the door.
“Come in, you fool,” said his master testily. “Good Lord; haven’t you been taught how to enter a room properly?”
“Yas, Sir Gaffrey.” He added deprecatingly: “I know that I be raw, Sir Gaffrey.”
This mild answer had its effect.
“True—true. We’re at sixes and sevens, Charles.”
Much encouraged Charles grinned again.
“Ah-h-h! Flambergasted we all be this marnin.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Mr. Bonsor, Sir Gaffrey.”
“Tell him to wait. I can’t see him yet.”
“Yas, Sir Gaffrey.”
Charles withdrew, still grinning. The Squire muttered to himself: “Yas, Sir Gaffrey! What an oaf!”
Already he felt uncomfortably warm, so he got up and opened a window, staring out of it across the park. When he came back to his desk, he noticed a big ledger upon a chair. He took it up, dipped into it, frowned, and dropped it with a bang upon the carpet. This enormous tome was Fishpingle’s petty-cash book. The Squire seized a quill and a sheet of paper. The quill scratched and spattered ink. Sir Geoffrey hurled it over his shoulder and selected another. He began a list, headed: “Secretary—butler—first footman—stillroom maid——”
He laid down his quill, beginning to mutter again, inarticulate growlings. Whose business was it to attend to these domestic duties? He must find that out at once. He rang the bell. After an exasperating delay Charles appeared.
“Why the devil don’t you come when I ring, sir?”
“I be single-handed, Sir Gaffery.”
“Yes, yes, I had forgotten. My compliments to her ladyship and I wish to see her for a minute.”
“Yas, Sir Gaffrey. Be you wanting her old ladyship or her young ladyship?”
“My wife you idiot!” roared the Squire.
“Yas, sir Gaffrey.”
The Squire paced up and down the room till Lady Pomfret came in. Beads of perspiration stood upon his massive forehead. He wiped them away with an immense bandana. But he smiled pleasantly at his wife as her kind tones fell like dew upon his heated tissues of mind and body.
“You want me, Geoffrey?”
He met her in the middle of the room, took her hand, and kissed it.
“Mary, my dear, I want you desperately. The whole house is upside down b’ Jove! And, by the way, that fellow Charles is a disgrace to our establishment, a clown, an idiot.”
“He is your godson, Geoffrey.”
She smiled faintly.
“He isn’t—impossible!”
“I am sure of it.”
“We’ll see about that.” He placed her courteously in a chair, sat down at his desk, opened a drawer and took out a small notebook in which were entered his village godchildren’s names. “B’ Jove! you’re right, Mary. He is my godson. I shall deal faithfully with him.”
Lady Pomfret sighed.
“Please, for my sake, go easy with him. He may give notice, too. I should like to spare you further worry, Geoffrey, but the kitchen-maid and two under house-maids are leaving us.”
“What? Why, Mary, why?”
“Out of sympathy, I suppose, for Prudence and Charles. It has never happened to us before, dear, but these—how shall I put it—these sympathetic strikes are not uncommon, I fancy.”
Sir Geoffrey’s eyes obtruded; so did his chin.
“Strikes, Mary? Did you say—strikes? Good God!”
“Mrs. Randall and Mrs. Mowland are very tearful. We must exercise the greatest forbearance.”
The Squire roared out:
“Let the whole ungrateful pack go to blazes. You and I, Mary, will end our days in a nice comfortable hotel.”
“My dear Geoffrey——! Are there any nice comfortable hotels left?”
The Squire answered mournfully:
“Not one. Mary, I have never felt so sore, so disillusioned, so profoundly convinced that life under modern conditions is not worth living.”
Charles appeared, obviously apologetic.
“What is it now?”
“Mr. Bonsor, Sir Gaffrey. He be due at Home Farm. If so be as you won’t see him——”
The Squire turned to his wife.
“I can’t see Bonsor this morning. You know, Mary, there is something about Bonsor’s face which irritates me beyond endurance. He invariably smiles when things go wrong.”
“See him, dear, and get it over.”
“Very well. I’ll see Mr. Bonsor here and now.”
“Yes, Sir Gaffrey.”
“And when you are speaking to me, Charles, kindly remove that imbecile grin. You would grin at your own mother’s funeral.”
“Yas, Sir Gaffrey; I mean, no. Mr. Fishpingle, he did tell me that you fancied a cheerful, upliftin’ countenance.”
“You take your orders from me for the future.”
Charles disappeared. The Squire said entreatingly to Lady Pomfret:
“Don’t go, Mary. I’ll get rid of Bonsor in two minutes. The fellow has no initiative, none. I have much to say to you. Who engages servants?”
“What servants? I suppose that the master of the house engages his butler. I engage the upper women servants. Mrs. Randall engages the young maids.”
“What a mess we’re in, confound it!”
“Alas! yes.”
“Have you seen Lionel?”
“No.”
“He has the common decency to keep out of my sight. We must deal with these refractory servants first. Strikes! In my village! That we should live to see it. Shush-h-h! I hear Bonsor. His step is heavier than his wits.”
Bonsor entered, very deprecating. He bobbed his head to Lady Pomfret, greeted the Squire perfunctorily, and sat gingerly upon a chair near the desk which the Squire indicated with a wave of his hand.
“Well, Bonsor, I can see by your face that you have something unpleasant to tell me.”
Bonsor “bobbed” again.
“Don’t bob, man! Out with it!”
“You promised to let me have those estimates for the drainage of the water meadows.”
“Um! Fishpingle has them. They shall be sent up this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Sir Geoffrey. The coal has been ordered, a truck. Can you tell me what was paid for the last delivery, per ton?”
“No, I can’t. But I’ll let you know.”
“One more matter, Sir Geoffrey. The bill for the chancel repairs is heavier than I expected. If you could go over the accounts with Mr. Hamlin——”
“Later. Not to-day.”
“That is all, I think, for this morning.”
He rose, smiling, bobbed again, and went out. Sir Geoffrey raised hands and eyes to the ceiling.
“Why, Mary, do I have such a lot of chuckle-headed ignoramuses in my employ? I ask you—why?”
She replied gravely:
“Because, dear, you love to have your own people about you, which is so nice and endearing of you.”
“Thankless swine! I feel a draught. Is a window open? Yes. Who opened it?”
He shut the window and returned to the sofa upon which Lady Pomfret was sitting. He sat beside her, took her hand in his, and patted it gently.
“Now, Mary, I sent for you because I want you to see Ben and bring him to his senses.”
“Oh-h-h-h!”
“I am prepared to be magnanimous. I must make allowance for poor Ben’s irritability and quick temper. I have no doubt whatever that he is thoroughly ashamed of himself. And well aware as I am of his shortcomings, I have never questioned his devotion to you. Will you see him?”
“If you wish it, Geoffrey.”
“I do wish it. You can tell him that I am prepared to accept an apology. I make this concession for your sake, my dear.”
She smiled at him, with a lift of her delicate brows.
“Oh, thank you, Geoffrey.”
“Not at all. God knows that I’m perfectly content with bread and cheese and a glass of ale, but I have to think of you and Margot. It is most unfortunate that our servants should have chosen such a moment to defy me. As for Lionel, I cannot trust myself to speak of him to you.”
Lady Pomfret attempted no defence of her son. And the thought of the approaching interview with Fishpingle was distressing her. What could she say to Ben? What would he say to her? Her attention was distracted, however, by the appearance of Margot, evidently clothed for the road, and looking more than ordinarily alert and sprightly. Somehow she gave the impression of speed, whenever she donned her motoring kit, of excess speed. Lady Pomfret, looking up at her, said to herself, “We could never have kept up with her.”
She greeted her hosts gaily, as if nothing had happened. This is a great gift given to few. No young lady of her years could skate so gracefully and swiftly over the thinnest ice.
“My Rolls-Royce will be round in five minutes.”
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the Squire. “Surely you will stay to luncheon?”
“Dear Sir Geoffrey, how could I put you to the inconvenience of entertaining me at such a moment? My maid tells me that all your servants are on strike.”
“All of ’em?” gasped the Squire.
Lady Pomfret murmured soothingly:
“Your maid, dear Margot, is mistaken.”
“I hope so.” She continued briskly, having rehearsed what she spoke of afterwards as “my little song and dance.” To fly from any storm was instinctive, but her determination to trail clouds of glory remained distinctive. “Probably. But the strike is on. It may spread. It may be declared off. That depends altogether on——”
“Them,” the Squire rapped out.
“You,” she corrected him charmingly. “The situation, however, lamentable, is in your hands. Really—it is a tremendous opportunity. I see you, Sir Geoffrey, seizing that opportunity, hugging it to your heart.”
The Squire stared at her.
“You see that, do you? I see fog—pea-soup fog. Lift that fog, and I shall be your obliged servant.”
She laughed joyously.
“You will lift the fog. I preach Peace with Honour. This is your chance to give an admiring world an object lesson. I am speaking, of course, of this strike in your household, of your decision about Prudence and Alfred. That decision will become the talk of the countryside. With the rare exception of half a dozen potentates like yourself, public opinion will range itself with the young people. Now, believe me, such authority as you exercise with absolute sincerity and good faith is being indicated all over the kingdom. You know that, and deplore it. So do I. But—there we are! And if that authority is sustained—this is my little point—it must give way under certain irresistible pressure—reculer pour mieux sauter! Send for this nice-looking pair, rebuke them fittingly for any slight impertinence, and then forgive them handsomely. Place the responsibility of marriage upon them. Ease yourself of the odium of preventing such a marriage. Such a gallant recognition of the rights of others will endear you to your people. Now, forgive me for speaking my mind.”
Lady Pomfret wondered whether her little ladyship had spoken all her mind. Was she pleading indirectly for Lionel and Joyce? How clever of her to leave them out! She glanced at her husband, frowning and ill at ease. What were his thoughts? He said heavily:
“You mean well, my dear, and I thank you. What you have said will receive my due consideration.”
“Je ne demande que ça!” She swept him a curtesy, and then turned to Lady Pomfret. Her voice softened delightfully:
“You have been sweet to me. Thank you for your gracious hospitality. I hate kissing, but may I kiss you?”
She bent down and kissed the softly tinted cheek. Lady Pomfret answered tremulously:
“Perhaps another visit, at a happier time, will make you forget what has passed.”
Margot held out her hand to Sir Geoffrey.
“Good-bye, Sir Geoffrey. You have a charming son. If you will give him my love, I don’t think he will misunderstand me.”
Sir Geoffrey stood erect, very impassive.
“I will see you to your car.”
“As a favour to me—don’t! I disturbed you just now. Let me pop off quietly. Au revoir!”
Half protesting, he consented, opening the door for her to pass out. She blew another kiss to Lady Pomfret, just before she vanished. The Squire came back to his wife, who was reflecting that her visitor had a knack at exits and entrances.
“Rather a spoiled beauty,” growled the Squire. “These London girls are all alike. I thought she looked scraggy, Mary. Thin blood—thin blood. An uncle died in an asylum.”
“Heavens! You never told me.”
The Squire glanced at the clock.
“Now, my dear, Ben is almost due. Tackle—him.”
“What can I say? What can I say?”
“Make him see himself, as you see him.”
Lady Pomfret became alert. Her eyes sparkled as she repeated reflectively:
“As I see him?”
The Squire answered trenchantly:
“Do that and all will be well. I shall leave you now, and smoke a cigar on the terrace. Give me a call, if you want me.”
Lady Pomfret looked steadily at him; he smiled at her reassuringly. As he was selecting a cigar he heard her voice.
“You mean exactly what you say, Geoffrey? I am to make Ben see himself as I see him?”
“Yes.”
He lit his cigar, puffed at it, and bent down, chuckling, to tap her cheek. Standing at the door he said a last word:
“When you have pulverised him, put your dear head out o’ window and beckon to me. I’ll nip in to receive his apology. And don’t forget! I’m doing this for you.”
Left alone, Lady Pomfret leaned her head upon her hand. She knew what had passed between master and man, just the bare recital of the facts from the Squire’s mouth without further comment from him. The fact that he had invited comment and seemed, indeed, to shrink from it, made things a little easier for her. Like Lionel, he wished to spare her pain and anxiety. That was obvious. Also he considered that he could deal with the situation without her. But had he an inkling of her real feelings? And when he learnt the truth, how would he take it?
She heard a small clock chime the half-hour.
A minute later Fishpingle and Charles came in. Charles carried several books. Fishpingle was dressed in a dark grey suit, and she noticed at once that he had ceased to be the butler. He bore himself with quiet dignity, but his face indicated vigils, being very pale and haggard. Charles placed the books upon the desk and retired. Lady Pomfret rose.
“My poor Ben!”
She held out her hand with a gracious gesture. He took it reverently, bowing over it. She saw that he was too moved to speak. Placidly she continued:
“You look worn. Did you get any sleep last night?”
“I was busy with the books, my lady,” he replied evasively.
She sighed.
“I have not slept at all. Sir Geoffrey has asked me to see you first.” She hesitated for a moment, choosing her words slowly. “He has laid upon me a strange injunction.”
“Strange, my lady?”
“Yes. For the first time in my life, Ben, I shall try to obey not the spirit but the letter of that injunction. Please sit down! How tired you look!”
He sat down facing her with his back to the great chimney-piece. As he did so, she glanced at the only family portrait in the room, a picture which hung above the mantelpiece, a full-length likeness of Sir Rupert Pomfret, the Squire’s father, taken in hunting-kit. It had been painted shortly before his death, when he was still a young man. Lady Pomfret turned her eyes upon Fishpingle as she sat down upon the sofa.
She murmured almost to herself:
“It’s an extraordinary thing, Ben, but you have served the Pomfrets so long and faithfully that you have actually come to look like them.”
And again she glanced at the portrait.
Fishpingle replied formally:
“It may be so, my lady.”
“It is so. Have you seen Master Lionel?”
“Last night, my lady. I delivered Sir Geoffrey’s message. I would not hurt you or distress you for the world——”
“Do you think I don’t know that?”
“Master Lionel means to marry Miss Joyce.”
“Ah!” Their eyes met; she smiled faintly. “I seek his happiness.”
“The happiness you have always sought for others, my lady, is reflected on your face now.”
She said tranquilly: “And on yours, my old friend.”
She paused, still smiling at him. Then, holding up her head, she spoke the words which he desired to hear above all others:
“My son has chosen the right wife.”
The effect of them upon Fishpingle was startling and disconcerting. Colour flowed into his cheeks; his eyes sparkled; his voice broke with emotion.
“You—you say that. And I doubted. I dared to doubt. May God forgive me!”
“My sympathies are with Alfred, Lionel, and you.”
“Master Lionel let you tell me that. How good of him!”
Her tones deepened:
“But I know my husband. I know his strength and his weakness. He will not surrender to any arguments or entreaties of mine, although he loves me dearly. He is saturated with a sense of his own undivided responsibilities. He believes that he is acting according to his lights. He believes that I think as he does. He believes, poor dear fellow! that at this moment I am pulverising you.”
Fishpingle gasped out: “You are.”
“What can you mean, Ben?”
He burst into vehement speech, and again she was oddly reminded of Sir Geoffrey, who would sit silent, impassive, if he chanced to be deeply moved, and then suddenly explode.
“At the back of my mind, at the bottom of my heart, I have always feared that this sad day might dawn. And I knew what bitter strife would mean to you, who have always loved peace. It does pulverise me that you should be brought into this misery.”
He covered his face with his hands. Lady Pomfret gave him time. Presently she went on:
“If I obey Sir Geoffrey literally, I am to try to make you see yourself as I see you.”
He looked up, puzzled at the delicate irony of her tone. She faltered a little.
“It’s not an easy task, Ben, for a woman who loves her husband, a woman who—who shrinks from exalting another man at his expense.”
“Don’t attempt it, my lady!”
“Ah! But I must. I see you so clearly this morning. I see you, not as you sit there, worn and sad, but as I saw you first when Sir Geoffrey came courting me. What a handsome fellow you were, Ben, in those far off days.”
Unconsciously, Fishpingle sat more upright. He lifted his head. For a moment youth came back to him. Lady Pomfret continued:
“Even then I used to wonder at your devotion to Sir Geoffrey. I have gone on wondering ever since, although custom tempered that wonder. It amazed me, I remember, that you didn’t marry. It amazes me still.” As he remained silent, avoiding her eyes, she went on gently: “I understand. There must have been somebody, some girl whom you cared for deeply, and who didn’t return your love.”
“Yes.”
“I guessed so. I trust that I shall never know her name, for if she belonged to us, I—I should hate her.”
She spoke almost viciously.
“You will never know her name, my lady.”
“Ah! Now I understand your devotion to us. I see you more clearly than ever, Ben. Out of a great disappointment and sorrow you have risen to heights. I am proud indeed to be your friend.”
She stood up. He rose with her. Some subtle strength, radiating from her, infused itself into him. More and more she marvelled that this man could have been content with a subordinate position. And the wretched conviction shook her that never could he return to the pantry as a servant. She heard his voice thanking her with no taint of obsequiousness. They confronted each other as equals.
“There!”
The exclamation was one of relief. She had spoken, relieved herself of a responsibility. Her tone became lighter, more persuasive.
“I have obeyed Sir Geoffrey’s injunction in the letter. Now for the spirit. He will be lost without you. He was lost this morning. I have never seen him look so wretched. And he will make everybody else as wretched as himself. To ask you to do what he expects, to apologise, to take up your faithful service again as if nothing had happened—that is impossible. Not even to keep you with us would I dare to suggest such a humiliation. But—can nothing be done?”
To her surprise, he made no response to an appeal which she could see plainly had moved him tremendously. Her surprise deepened as he half turned, staring intently at the portrait of Sir Rupert. Then he said abruptly:
“I will see Sir Geoffrey.”
“Shall I call him now?”
He bowed.
Lady Pomfret went to the window, opened it, and called:
“Geoffrey, Geoffrey!”
His voice came back bluffly, jovially:
“I am here, Mary. I’ll be with you in one moment.”
She shut the window and returned to Fishpingle.
“Do you wish to see the Squire alone, Ben?”
He bowed again. Was he too upset to speak? She hesitated, puzzled by his manner and expression.
“But—suppose he asks me to stay?” Fishpingle made a gesture. “If he asks me to stay, Ben, I shall do so.”
He replied formally:
“As your ladyship pleases.”
Sir Geoffrey entered, with a half-smoked cigar between his fingers. He had assumed a somewhat jaunty deportment. Nether-Applewhite air, fresh from the downs, had blown away the fog. He was prepared to be “magnanimous.” Margot’s advice “Forgive them handsomely!” simmered in his thoughts. He would make the young people happy and grateful, if Ben apologised. For the moment Lionel’s affair was pigeon-holed. His house must be put in order without delay.
As he advanced towards his wife, the Squire shot a keen glance at Fishpingle, standing in the centre of the room. His heart warmed towards an old friend who looked, b’ Jove! confoundedly down in the mouth, with a complexion the colour of skilly.
He said pleasantly:
“Good morning, Ben.”
“Good morning, Sir Geoffrey.”