"Men are not so very, very different from us women. I often laugh to save myself crying."
Mrs. Yellam admitted that there might be something in this.
The Squire was busy with his bailiff, fattening bullocks, and, generally speaking, trying to increase his flocks and herds. In this task, he found an enthusiastic partner in Fishpingle, who possessed two obsessing interests: love of the land and love of the Pomfrets. Nobody, except the Squire and Lady Pomfret knew that this quiet, handsome old man, so distinguished in appearance, and so choice in his use of words, might have been lord of the manor, had he marched into life along the broad highway which leads from the altar. Fate ordained otherwise. Fishpingle had been constrained to stroll placidly along a by-path. He hoped that he would so walk till the end.
His point of view was characteristic. Of the more complex designs of Providence, which such men as Hamlin were seeking to elucidate, Fishpingle took no cognisance. He admitted gravely that they lay beyond his vision. But he was quite certain that the land, the backbone of England, must and would receive the attention which, before the war, had been so unwisely withheld. He had always wanted to see his country independent of necessary supplies—wheat, cattle, sheep and hogs—imported from other countries. Upon that peg he had hung his philosophy. And now, towards the close of his days, he believed that what he had prayed for might come to pass. To that end he was prepared to consecrate such energies as were left to him. Incidentally, his enthusiasm served to wean Sir Geoffrey's mind from acrimonious criticism of politicians. To provide in the present means that might fill the inexorable demand of the future absorbed the thoughts of Squire and Bailiff.
Towards the middle of September, two Nether-Applewhite men were killed in action. A week later, Lionel Pomfret was reported "severely wounded." Sir Geoffrey crossed over to France. Lady Pomfret remained at the Court in command of the hospital. She moved amongst the men with the same gracious smile upon her lips; courage and faith—those great twin brethren—sustained her; but the news was very bad, so serious that Mrs. Yellam hardened once more her heart. Lionel had been shot through the back, and lay, half-paralysed and in constant pain, in a receiving hospital. Upon the Sunday after these details reached Nether-Applewhite, Susan Yellam sat huddled up in her pew, and almost mumbled the responses. Alone with Fancy, her sorrow broke into words:
"I be thinking o' keeping away from church next Sunday."
"Mother—!"
The dear word escaped from Fancy's lips unconsciously. She had never used it before, except in her thoughts.
"What be you callin' me?"
Fancy knelt beside her, stroking her rough hand.