He went early to bed, and on the following morning he and Samson caught the train down to Norfolk, arriving at Castle Lancing in mid-afternoon. It was snowing lightly, and by the time they had collected provisions from Mrs Laker, lighted fires in the main rooms at the Manor, and had an al fresco supper, Mr Franklin found his spirits reviving. He felt he was back at home, and took pleasure in walking round the house, looking into the rooms, seeing that all was as he had left it, taking comfort in the familiarity of it all. And as he always did, he paused on the stairs and let his eyes dwell on the patch in the plaster at the far end of the landing, barely noticeable now after several coats of distemper, where the jagged holes left by Curry's shots had been repaired four years ago - Samson had spent a fortnight in painstaking labour, digging the battered slugs out of the wall, and out of the scarred floor planks and panelling and door jamb, and then patching and planing, plugging and plastering, varnishing and polishing, with a patience and skill that would have done credit to an articled tradesman. Now, standing on the landing, Mr Franklin could run his fingers over the door jamb and wonder where the bullet-hole had been; when he glanced down into the hall he could not be certain of the exact spot where Curry's body had bled, and they had scraped and scrubbed so laboriously; the new stair carpet which had replaced the old stained one was now itself showing signs of wear. No physical trace remained of that distant desperate battle; if its memory lingered, at least it carried no shadows of regret or guilt or fear; it was just another incident, past and done with, and by the time he had returned to the study it had vanished from his mind.
During the evening he took a turn up to the Apple Tree and stood drink for Jake and the locals; he knew all their faces now, and Christian names, and how old their children were, and who had won the prize for the best marrow at the last Oxton agricultural show, and who was getting married; he was au fait with local politics and gossip, and could take an informed interest in the news that Thetford was going to pay its mayor the princely sum of 120 per annum to defray official expenses, or that Gower Estate had purchased new land over at East Harling. Some of the Apple Tree's customers were now his own employees, for the development at Oxton had meant new jobs, and a number of labourers at Castle Lancing had been ready to leave their billets to work for their Yankee squire - it no longer seemed strange to him to be addressed by that old world title; indeed, it would have surprised him to be called anything else.
He was at last part of Castle Lancing, and well content to be so. It had been a gradual acceptance, he now realised, although there had been a moment, just over a year ago, when the seal had been set on it. Old Bessie Reeve had died, full of years, and with the rest of the village, and some of her late husband's kinsfolk from other hamlets, he had attended her funeral in the Castle Lancing churchyard. At his request the vicar had allowed her to be buried near the headstones of which Johannes Franklinus's was one. Old Jake, in his capacity of sexton's assistant, had dug the actual grave, and found old bones as well as rusted clamps and unidentifiable scraps of rubbish - but as Thornhill said, the bones might have been anyone's. On a gusty November day they had placed the coffin of Elizabeth Franklin, later Reeve, in the earth beside her kinsfolk, and the vicar conducted the service and called the deceased Reeves by mistake, and dropped his spectacles and lost the place with high-pitched apologies, while Thornhill muttered 'Old fool! He'll be christening her in a minute!' at Mr Franklin's elbow.
And afterwards the odd thing had happened. As he was turning away from the grave into which Jake was starting to shovel the warm brown earth, Mr Franklin found himself confronted by Jack Prior, who had shaken his hand and muttered condolences, and after him everyone had come up and done the same thing, the women nodding and sniffing and the men looking askance and shaking his hand briefly. It had dawned on him then: they were condoling with him as Bessie Reeve's only living blood-relative, as a Franklin of Castle Lancing, as the head of the family to which she belonged. It had shaken him, and he had had to walk away alone afterwards, to stand among the yews and look out across the rainy fields, not trusting himself to speak, while Thornhill had watched him curiously from a distance, and old Jake had gasped and muttered as he plied his shovel and finally stamped down the turf. But from that moment Mr Franklin had realised that, whatever he had felt before about his homecoming, Castle Lancing had now recognised it, too.
It was strange, he thought as he walked back from the Apple Tree, that now, more than a year after Bessie's death, he was the one link left in Castle Lancing to those Franklins of the past. And it was possible that when Peggy settled down - he sighed and corrected the `when' to an 'if, to be on the safe side - there would be other Franklins in the countryside, and all because he had come home after two and three quarter centuries.
Strangely enough, it was a topic which came up on the following day, when he drove over to Oxton to see Sir Charles, and view the progress of the Oxton stud. They watched the horses being exercised in the paddock, there was a new foal since his last visit, to be admired, a piece of field-drainage work to be examined, and time spent over the blueprints of the new stable buildings and grooms' accommodation which, when completed in the following year, would make Oxton the most up-to-date establishment of its kind in that part of the county. It was as they were walking back to the Hall for lunch that Sir Charles suddenly said:
`It's a great work; a very big business altogether. I like to think that it's going to be a splendid going concern for your descendants - our descendants - long after we're gone. I think it's an enterprise they'll have cause to be very proud of, Mark.'
Mr Franklin murmured some commonplace of agreement, and found the keen, thin face turned towards him with what seemed to be a look of inquiry. Then he realised that what he had said was: 'Oh, we'll see, I guess,' and that Sir Charles had caught the note of resignation in his voice.
They walked on a few steps, and then the baronet said drily:
'Do I detect no great enthusiasm - should I say optimism? - at the thought of children and grandchildren? It's probably no business of mine . . . on second thoughts, it's very much business of mine, and we know each other well enough by now ... am I right in thinking that Peggy has shown no inclination for a family?'
It was the first time he had ever mentioned the subject openly, and Mr Franklin considered how to answer. 'We haven't discussed it a great deal.'
`But I take it you'd like a family?'
Again Mr Franklin hesitated. `Yes. When the time comes, there's nothing I'd like better.'
`Which means when Peggy wishes it,' said Sir Charles. `And unless I mistake your tone, you have some doubts if she ever will. She has a tendency to follow her own course - always has.' He mused for a moment `And she's still young, and taken up with that smart set of hers. But she'll grow out of it, you know, in a year or two. And once you have a son and heir - or a daughter - you'll be astonished at the change it brings. I confess I'm an extremely interested party.' He smiled and shook his head. 'If I have an ambition left in life it's to lead a grandson's first pony along that bridle path yonder. That's where I was led, and my father in his time. Didn't know you had a sentimental father-in-law, did you? Seriously, though, Mark - I think I can guess some of the worries you've had where Peggy is concerned. But they'll pass, if you have patience - and I rather think patience is your long suit.
Over lunch Sir Charles continued to talk of his daughter, and reassuringly of the future, with particular reference to the heritage of Oxton Hall.
`These last few years I've reposed my hopes in Peggy and you -and your children - more than in Arthur. If he'd fallen heir to the place - well, it would have gone, and that would have been that. The days are past when a soldier can keep up a place like this, and Arthur'll be a soldier and nothing else, as long as he draws breath.'
At this, Mr Franklin drew breath himself, rather sharply, while Sir Charles continued:
`But that's all right as long as you and Peggy are here. You'll make this place go as Arthur nev
er could.' He smiled whimsically. 'I can content myself with the thought that he can devote himself to becoming a mutton-headed general.'
Mr Franklin was not taking him in, however. He was reflecting that something, somewhere, was badly wrong, and for an instant he nearly blurted out the question which would either have led to a disturbing revelation, or to the elucidation of some astonishing misunderstanding, and until he had decided which was more likely it seemed best to go slowly.
'You think Arthur will stay in the Army?' he asked casually.
'I'd be surprised if he didn't,' said Sir Charles, and poured Madeira into Mr Franklin's glass. `He's had an excellent start - thanks largely to you. I've never mentioned it to you, and you've never said anything to me - there really isn't anything to say, I suppose. But just because we have observed a ponderous delicacy on both sides is no reason why we should go on doing so for the rest of our lives. I know all about Peggy's ridiculous fund, as she calls it, and while one can subscribe to the fiction that it is she who has supported her brother - and so save ourselves the embarrassment of expressions of gratitude which would have been as painful to you as to me - well, talking as we have done today, on a more candid basis than hitherto, I can say it at last. You've done for me and mine something which I'd never have allowed any other man to do - couldn't ever have conceived of any other man doing. It's something that can't be repaid, so there's no point in discussing it further. But you know what I feel.' Having delivered himself, Sir Charles sipped his Madeira critically and added: 'No - I expect Arthur to do well in the Army. When the war comes - and it will, sometime in the next five years - he'll be able to show what he's made of. That will be his repayment - and his opportunity. I rose as high as colonel of a regiment, but I'll be surprised if he doesn't do better than that. He'll make a fighting soldier, and in war they leapfrog over the others.'
This had given Mr Franklin time to phrase his next tentative inquiry. `You don't think there's any likelihood of his resigning then? - Peggy was saying the other day that you'd mentioned in a letter that Arthur had been thinking about it.'
Sir Charles shook his head emphatically. 'No. That's true enough, that he did talk of it - but it's pure politics. Between ourselves, I have it from friends in the War Office that there's going to be a storm in the military teacup in Ireland. You know Carson and the Ulstermen are getting ready to fight against Home Rule, and since Home Rule is government policy, it follows that government are going to have to do something about them. If Carson won't see reason - and reason is about the last thing you can look for in a Scotch-Irish Protestant, although frankly I'm all for him in this instance - then the Army will have to make him. In other words, British troops will have to disarm the Ulster Volunteers.'
'That's what Peggy said was in your letter - something like that, anyway.'
'Quite so. But the Army won't do it, you see. It's officered by Protestants, mainly, who are dead against Ulster being coerced into Home Rule. They sympathise with Carson, and they'll tell the government politely to go to the devil before they'll take up arms against the Loyalists. Mutiny, in fact -'
'But no British government would be that crazy - '
'Right you are,' said Sir Charles. 'They'll stick a toe in the water first. Very shortly, officers serving in Ireland will be asked if they are prepared to serve in Ulster for reasons to be specified later. They'll say "no", to a man -that's certain. And then ... they'll have to resign their commissions.'
'So Arthur could be leaving the Army?' said Mr Franklin with an inward hope. Sir Charles smiled and shook his head.
'It might appear so - but no, he won't. You see what will happen when he and the others send in their papers, will be an almighty row - consternation in Whitehall, cries of "Mutiny", leaders in The Times, questions in the House, all the usual rubbish - and then placatory sounds will emerge from Whitehall, there will be talk of a misunderstanding, perhaps even a hint of apology that such a question was put to honourable men - and the resignations will be withdrawn. So if Arthur resigns, it'll be for a few days at most.'
'And just what,' asked Mr Franklin, 'will the government have gained by that? It sounds a damned dangerous game, for no good reason.'
'There's an excellent reason. The Irish Nationalists will have been given public warning that the Army won't oppose Carson. If there's to be fighting to set up an independent Ireland, the Army won't do it for them. That will cause 'em to think - possibly moderate their present attitude, give a better chance of a peaceful negotiated settlement. That's what Asquith is counting on, I imagine - a
convincing demonstration to put the fear of death into the Irish extremists. I don't doubt he'll get it.'
'Do the officers know about this - charade?'
'Certainly not. They'll resign without anyone telling 'em - that's predictable. And withdraw their resignations when the proper diplomatic apologies are made. No, the majority will be acting in perfect good faith.' Sir Charles smiled. 'But I daresay the more intelligent - among whom I count Arthur - will know exactly what's going on. He knows what's in the wind - so he talks loudly of resignation, even to me. But he knows it's just window-dressing, to show his superiors his heart's in the right place. No, you can count on one thing - Arthur will still be in the Army this time next year.'
This was serious news to Mr Franklin, with his depleted cheque book in his pocket. Of course, Sir Charles might be wrong - Arthur might be serious about resigning. On the other hand, Sir Charles presumably knew his own son. In which case Arthur was either imposing on his sister, or Peggy was imposing ... no, that was unthinkable. He spoke casually.
'Well, that's good news. From what Peggy said I thought Arthur was practically a civilian - in fact, I gathered he'd already made some plans for going into business - '
'Who, Arthur?' Sir Charles laughed outright. 'Oh, that's coming it bit strong, even for him! If he told Peggy that, he's indulging in some brotherly leg-pulling! Business? I'd hate to invest in any commercial venture of his!'
You and me both, Sir Charles, thought Mr Franklin grimly. Should he tell his father-in-law about the cheque? No - there must be an explanation, the obvious one being that Arthur was going to leave the Army. He couldn't swindle his sister out of ten thousand pounds - or Mr Franklin, and hope to get away with it. Equally impossible that Peggy had solicited the money in anything but perfect good faith. No, it must be genuine, and Sir Charles was being too clever by half in imputing Machiavellian motives to his son. Arthur would certainly be resigning - he might, indeed, be genuinely quitting so that there could be no possibility of his ever having to bear arms against his conscience. That made sense - but there was no point in sharing his conclusions with Sir Charles.
In the meantime, was there anything to be done? Should he write to Arthur, and find out exactly what was going on? No - he had given the money to Peggy, it was for her to handle any discussion there might be about it with her brother. He ought to get in touch with ` Peggy, then - should he go to Switzerland and see her? For a moment he was tempted, for more reasons than one - but he quickly put the thought aside. It must look as though he was tearing overseas out of alarm for his ten thousand pounds, and he wasn't going to have Peggy thinking that. He might mention it in a letter - but it wasn't the sort of thing that could easily be explained in writing. The best thing was to wait until she got back in three weeks' time, and discuss it then - if there was anything to discuss. For the more he thought about it the clearer it seemed that Arthur was going to resign, and that Sir Charles had been at fault in not taking him seriously.
On that thought he succeeded, if not in putting the matter from his mind (it is difficult to dismiss any problem with a ten thousand pound price tag attached to it), at least in subduing it for the time being. It was a casual train of coincidence and reminiscence, later that evening, that was to distract him entirely on to another subject, and that one to which he had barely given a thought in years.
He stayed to dine at Oxton, in company with a few of Sir C
harles's neighbours who were now among Mr Franklin's closest acquaintances as well - Sir Peter ('Colonel Dammit') Stringer, Major Aldridge, and Mr Plowright, a retired Indian civil servant. It was, as always, a companionable occasion, with talk of farming and politics, and inevitably, since it was the depth of winter, of cricket - and for the hundredth time Mr Franklin gave up trying to understand the difference between a green wicket and a plumb wicket and a turning wicket and a sticky wicket and a fiery wicket, arcane matters which he knew had to be thrashed out before they actually got round to discussing the game itself But they obviously knew what they were talking about, and as he watched them lazily through the haze of cigar smoke - Stringer puce and emphatic, Aldridge amiably reminiscent, Sir Charles precise and knowledgeable, Plowright aglow with enthusiasm - he reflected on the fascination there was in listening to experts on their chosen subject; even if one felt the sense of being an outside observer who understood only about half of what they were saying, there was something reassuring about listening to familiar voices, being admitted and accepted in their private world .. .
Starshine on the hill beneath them as they sat or crouched in the brush, looking down at the distant lights of the town, listening to the faint drift of music from the Number Ten saloon; the tiny, dimly-seen figures moving on the main street between the brightly-lit buildings, the occasional raucous voice of a reveller raised in drunken song. The five of them huddled in their coats against the night cold - Cassidy, Longbaugh, Carter, Kid Curry, and himself, waiting, whispering in the bitter dark.