CHAPTER XIII

Lionel awoke gaily to the consciousness that he was in love, and beloved, and going hunting in Arcadia. What young man could expect more of the gods? True, Joyce remained at home. But absence, after the first intoxicating avowal, does indeed make the heart grow fonder. Nevertheless, he “funked” his confession to Margot. Had he been less ingenuous and modest that “funk” might have been greater. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Margot really wanted him, as he, for example, wanted Joyce. And it must be self-evident by this time that such non-belief was justified. Men and women have so much energy. Some have more than others, but the underlying principle is constant. Energy can be conserved or dissipated. Margot squandered vital force upon many people and many things. Let the sages decide whether she had received value or not. Assuredly she had eaten many cakes.

Alfred assisted at the drawing on of boots, polished till they shone like glass.

Lionel said to him: “Prudence and you must mark time, Alfred.”

“Ah-h-h! That be gospel truth. And ’tis true, too, that stolen kisses be sweet, but I fair ache for more of ’em. Mr. Fishpingle do say: ‘Enough, ’tis as good as a feast!’ but I be hungry for the feast, Master Lionel.”

“You leave it to me.”

“But can you downscramble Squire, Master Lionel?”

“‘Downscramble’ is good. Keep a stiff upper lip. She’s worth waiting for and fighting for.”

“That she be, the dinky dear.”

“I say, Alfred, scent ought to be good to-day.”

That, also, was the Squire’s opinion, expressed thrice at breakfast. Hounds met at twelve about six miles from Nether-Applewhite. The horses were to be sent on, a motor would convey Margot, Sir Geoffrey and Lionel to the meet. A second horse was generously provided, for Margot in case the tufting were prolonged. The Squire said to her:

“I want you to see the real thing from start to finish, a wild buck scientifically hunted and killed.”

“I don’t want it killed, Sir Geoffrey.”

The Squire was shocked. Such a remark from Moxon would have amused him. He thought this lady of quality knew better.

“Hounds must have blood, or they won’t hunt. These deer wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for the huntin’. They do a lot of mischief, the artful dodgers. And they lead a glorious life for many years, with a sporting finish. For myself, I ask nothing better.”

“Have you been hunted?”

“Oh—ho! You ask my lady that? She ran me down in the open, broke me up, b’ Jove!”

He made a hunting breakfast—fish, grilled kidneys, ham of his own curing—solemnly commended to visitors—and a top dressing of marmalade. “Tell me what a man eats for breakfast,” he would say, “and I’ll tell you what he is.”

After breakfast, the Squire was busy with Bonsor in his own room. Lionel burned to tell his tale to Fishpingle, to read his face, to set about planning a sly campaign against the Squire. Joyce stood high in the old fellow’s esteem. After a night’s rest and half an hour’s snug thinking in bed, Lionel came to the conclusion that his lady-love was irresistible. Fishpingle would share and fortify this opinion. Together they would leap to the assault. If a true lover does not entertain such high faith in the beloved, is he worth a pinch of salt? And when she is his, when that tender assurance has percolated to his marrow, with what enhanced value he regards the priceless possession. We have heard a collector “crab” a Kang He blue-and-white bottle as he bartered with a dealer, and, next day, rave about it when it stood in his cabinet. Lionel had never “crabbed” Joyce, but he had described her to friends as a “ripper,” a “real good sort,” and “bang out of the top drawer.” Now, in a jiffey, she became Euphrosyne. He intended to ransack the poets for satisfying epithets. With any encouragement, he might have essayed a—sonnet. The metrical difficulties would not have daunted him.

In this exalted mood, he sped, hot-foot, to Fishpingle’s room. Finding him alone, he held out both hands:

“Congratulate me, you dear old chap, I’ve got her.”

To his amazement Fishpingle remained luke-warm. He said almost awkwardly:

“I wish you and her ladyship all happiness, Master Lionel.”

“Her ladyship!”

Lionel laughed as loudly and jovially as the Squire. Then he slapped Fishpingle hard on the shoulder.

“Her ladyship be—blowed for a shining bubble! I’ve hooked and landed Miss Joyce.”

Fishpingle beamed speechless with emotion. It was a tremendous moment, a soul-satisfying pause as if the whole world stood still. Then he said fervently:

“God bless you both! I have prayed for this day. Here, in this very room, just before you came back, the Squire and I drank a toast: ‘Master Lionel’s future wife.’”

Lionel stared at him.

“What? Father was thinking of—her?”

“No,” said Fishpingle grimly; “but I was.”

Lionel sat upon the edge of the Cromwellian table.

“Sit down, old chap. What d’ye think father will say to this?”

“Sir Geoffrey will say a great deal. I hardly dare think what he will say.”

Lionel betrayed distress. Fishpingle’s expression brought back the qualms which kindly sleep had banished.

“She’s so sweet,” he murmured.

Fishpingle nodded.

“She is, Master Lionel. You’ve chosen a wife, sweet as a field the Lord has blessed. She’ll make your life and the lives of others as fragrant as her own.”

“If you feel that, why can’t father feel the same, after—after the first disappointment? Of course, you guessed his little plan. Everybody