“Ah! Well, under the special circumstances, shall we decide to side-track—I learnt that word from dear Lionel—the parochial part. If you like you can tell me.”
“Father wanted so much to know about the chancel repairs. He believes that the roof may fall in.”
The Pomfret family pew happened to be in the chancel, another bone of contention between parson and squire. Lady Pomfret’s kind eyes perceived that Joyce was ill at ease, unhappy at mentioning one of many things left undone. She tapped her cheek.
“How nice of your father to be thinking of me. He, brave man, would stand erect if the heavens fell. Now, I promise you that the roof shall be put in order.”
Joyce thanked her, much relieved. Lady Pomfret continued gaily:
“Fortified by you, I feel encouraged to spy upon the Squire. Walk with me to Fishpingle’s room. I will bet you a pair of gloves that we shall find those two wicked men drinking port as well as decanting it.”
“And when I think what I went through at Harrogate last year!”
They strolled along so leisurely that we will take the liberty of preceding them.
The information that pigsties in his village had been condemned by some Jack in-Office had reached the Squire overnight. And the vials of his wrath had been poured upon Bonsor before breakfast. At breakfast Sir Geoffrey heard from his son. Straightway woes and tribulations melted like snowflakes in front of a roaring fire. The boy affirmed that he was hard as nails, and ready for the time of his life. He should have it, b’ Jove! His leave would last over the cubbing and possibly the opening meet in November. And the buck-hounds would be hunting in August. Why had that damned mare lamed herself? Lionel was just the weight for her. But the boy should be mounted if his father went afoot. Would it be a decent fishing season? Of course they must entertain, fill the old house with the right sort, do the thing well. Girls, too, the pick of the county, with a sparkler or two from Mayfair?
Thus the Squire, giving tongue to a breast-high scent.
From his wife, the Squire hurried to Fishpingle. All that he had said to his wife he repeated, with additions, to his dear old Ben. And then, together, they went “down cellar.”
The cellars at Pomfret Court were holy ground, entered taper in hand, a sanctuary, where none save the elect might wander. The Squire believed, of course, in laying down wine. And, oddly enough, what the unthinking might have indicted as extravagance and superfluity had turned out a sound investment. The Squire had a palate, and he bought his wine from first-rate people. He boasted that his port and champagne cost him nothing. He laid down double the quantity he needed and sold half when the wine matured. He had been not so successful with claret.