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.
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:
Lady Pomfret went to the window, opened it, and called:
“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.”
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.