CHAPTER XIV

“Creep—crane—go canny!”

This policy was not to Lionel’s taste. Hamlin, too would abhor it, wax sour under it, suppress pride and wrath till they might break bonds and run amok. Under the suspense of waiting, Euphrosyne would languish.

But what else could be done?

The Fates, not Lionel, answered the insistent question.

Upon the Tuesday afternoon the Squire went a-fishing by himself, too perturbed of mind to seek any companion save that of his own thoughts. One thing—quite enough—he knew. The boy had not “gone for” Margot. None the less, they remained on easy, intimate terms with each other. But at dinner, after the hunt, Margot had spoken of leaving on the following Wednesday. The Squire was a stickler for keeping social engagements; such engagements were made, of course, by a young lady of quality many weeks ahead. Had he received from Lionel, over their wine, some intimation that all was well, he would have been quite satisfied. But why did the boy hold his tongue? What ailed him? Lady Pomfret was solemnly interrogated. Let her hazard some reasonable conjecture! She presented one, tentatively, placidly, and exasperatingly. The young people might wish to remain simply and enduringly—_friends_. The Squire was much ruffled, purged his mind drastically, dropped an oath, and apologised. He kept on repeating himself: “She wants him, I tell you. She was ripe for the pluckin’ a week ago. That my son should be a laggard——!” His wife consoled him with the assurance that no man could read a maid’s heart. “I read yours,” he affirmed. She smiled at him. He kissed her and went his way.

Lionel caught Joyce alone for a few blessed minutes. She had told the Parson.

“What did he say, my angel?”

“He was wonderful,” she sighed. “I was right to tell him.”

“Of course you were,” he exclaimed fervently. “Will it hurt you to tell me exactly what he said about—about me—and father?”

“He anticipates grave trouble. I’ll tell you every word, when——”

“When?”

“When the trouble is over. He would rather not see you yet. His position is——”

“Humiliating! When I look at you——!”

“I don’t look my best this morning, a bedraggled thing!”

To this he replied vehemently:

“Joyce, my blessed girl, nothing can cheapen you or your father. Not prejudice, nor discourtesy—if it should come to that—nor injustice. I have told Margot. She was very sympathetic. Of course, she always regarded me as a friend. She will help, if she can. Her advice—and, mind you, she’s a dasher—is: _Creep—crane—go canny!_ Father’s absurd position can’t be carried by storm. I shall undermine the fortress. That will take time.”

“Yes; but I warn you father won’t wait too long.”

“I count on Fishpingle. If you could have seen his dear old face when I told him! We shall collogue, I promise you.”

He returned home, champing the curb which circumstances imposed.

After tea, when the Squire betook himself to the river, Margot sat, as usual, upon the lawn, with Lady Pomfret. Lionel slipped away to Fishpingle’s room. “Colloguing,” in his present feverish condition, soothed him. To Fishpingle he could exhibit flowers of speech, nose-gays of pretty sentiment. And he could talk emphatically of the future, the simple life full of costless pleasures, dignified by steady work, by the determination to solve Moxon’s problem, to make Pomfret land pay. Fishpingle nodded approvingly, making happy suggestions, collaborating whole-heartedly.

In this agreeable fashion an hour or more may have passed away. Suddenly they heard the Squire’s voice in the courtyard, loud and clear. He was rating the egregious Bonsor.

“I tell you, man, this is your damned carelessness. Unless I give my personal attention to every detail, things go to blazes. I am surrounded by a pack of fools.”

Bonsor’s voice mumbled a reply. Fishpingle said quietly:

“The Squire has not caught any fish.”

Sir Geoffrey stumped in, fuming and fussing. Fishpingle rose to relieve him of rod, creel, and landing-net. Lionel said pleasantly:

“Anything wrong, father?”

“Everything,” snapped the angry man. “Tuesday is my unlucky day. I believe I was born on a Tuesday.”

Fishpingle politely corrected him.

“No, Sir Geoffrey. You were born on a Wednesday, at 1.45 a. m.”

The Squire turned to Lionel.

“I lost two beauties, and broke the tip of my rod.”

Fishpingle assured him that the tip could be mended in ten minutes. The Squire fumed on:

“Four thoroughbred pigs out of the new litter are dead. Mother overlaid ’em. There are moments when I wish my mother had overlaid me. Bonsor tells me we are nearly out of coal, Ben.”

“I warned you, Sir Geoffrey, that we were running short a fortnight ago.”

“You didn’t. If you had, I should have ordered a fresh supply by return of post. Bonsor says that no coal has been ordered, which proves conclusively that you did not tell me.”

Lionel interrupted.

“But he did, father. Fishpingle told you in my presence, just after luncheon, as you and I were going to look at the horse I rode yesterday.”

Sir Geoffrey glared at both butler and son.

“Just like him,” he snorted. “Ben knows perfectly well that a new horse, if he’s a decently bred ’un, drives everything else out of my head. Order the coal, Ben. Wire for a truck.”

“Very good, Sir Geoffrey.”

The Squire crossed to the hearth and sat down in Fishpingle’s big chair. He frowned portentously, muttering:

“I am most confoundedly upset.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Sir Geoffrey.”

“Tchah! I’m not speaking of the coal, nor the pigs. This is Tuesday. Does Alfred go out on Tuesday?”

“I let him go this afternoon, Sir Geoffrey.”

“Did you know that Tuesday was Prudence Rockley’s afternoon off?”

“No, Sir Geoffrey. Mrs. Randall lets Prudence go out, if there’s no pressing work.”

The Squire stamped his foot.

“Pressin’ work. Ha—ha! Hit the right word, for once. Very pressin’ work, b’ Jove! In defiance of my orders, I caught Alfred and Prudence kissin’ each other—under my very nose. Pressin’ work, indeed. They skedaddled. Hunted cover. Spoiled my sport, I tell you. I couldn’t get out a clean line. Are they in now?”

“I think so, Sir Geoffrey.”

“Send for ’em—at once. Bring ’em here. Don’t stare at me, boy! I’m not suffering from suppressed gout, as you think. I’ll stop these gallivantings.”

“You have often said that you liked our men and maids to have a whiff of fresh air between tea and dinner.”

Fishpingle had left the room. The Squire stamped again.

“I did. And this is what comes of thinking for others.”

“Father——?”

“What is it?”

“Go easy with them! They love each other dearly.”

“Good God! They’re first-cousins, boy. Not a word! Stay here! You shall see me deal with ’em.”

“But——”

“Not a word,” roared the Squire.

Lionel lit a cigarette, frowning, conscious that he was being treated as a child, resenting it, anxious to plead for the lovers, anticipating “ructions,” and condemned to be present, a silenced witness. Fishpingle came back, followed by Prudence and Alfred, looking very sheepish and red. Alfred was in livery. Prudence had not changed a very dainty little frock.

“Stand there!” commanded the autocrat.

The blushing pair stood still in front of the table, facing the Squire, who sat erect in his chair, assuming a judicial impassivity, as became a Justice of the Peace and a Chairman of the Board of Guardians. He addressed Fishpingle, coldly:

“Now, Ben, did I, or did I not, give you a message some two months ago to be delivered by you to Prudence?”

“You did, Sir Geoffrey.”

“Kindly repeat it.”

“You instructed me to tell Prudence to find another young man.”

Lionel tried to restrain himself, and failed lamentably.

“Oh, I say!”

The Squire preserved his magisterial tone and deportment.

“You say nothing, Lionel. This is my affair. Now, Ben, I’ll lay ten to three you never delivered my message.”

“That he did,” whimpered Prudence. “In this very room, too.”

“Um! I beg your pardon, Ben. Don’t sniff, Prudence! And answer my questions truthfully. If that message was delivered, how dare you kiss Alfred in my shrubberies?”

Prudence pulled herself together, meeting the Squire’s inflamed glance.

“Me and Alfred’ll be man an’ wife, come Michaelmas.”

“In—deed? Cut and dried, is it?”

He apostrophised Alfred, who may have misinterpreted a derisive but calm inflection. Alfred brightened, his voice was eager and propitiating.

“If so be, Sir Geoffrey, as you meant what you wrote in the newspapers. Give me mort o’ comfort. ’Twas in the _Times_. Mr. Fishpingle’ll have it. He keeps everything you write, he do.”

The Squire stared at his footman. Lionel said quietly:

“What did Sir Geoffrey write, Alfred?”

Alfred assumed a pose acquired in the National schools, head erect, hands at side, feet close together.

“Sir Geoffrey said that the sooner a man o’ twenty-five and a fine young maid of eighteen set about providin’ legitimate an’ lawful subjects for the king, the better. An’ more than that. I got the piece by heart, I