remembered Bardon's coat, which he had brought back with him to Odiam.
If he did not take it over to Flightshot, the young Squire might call
for it at Eggs Hole. Robert was most anxious that he should not meet
Bessie again; he could not forget the admiration in his eyes, and was
consumed with fear and jealousy lest he should try to take his treasure
from him, or frighten or hurt her in any way. It is true that Bardon had
a blameless record, and also a most shy and fastidious disposition, but
Robert was no psychologist. And if anyone had said that the Squire's
gaze had merely been one of tolerant approval of a healthy
country-wench, and that he would not have taken the peerless Bessie as a
gift, and rather pitied the man who could see anything to love in that
bursting figure and broad yokelish face--then Robert would not only have
disbelieved him, but fought him into the bargain.
So he managed with an effort to pull himself together and walk a couple
of miles across the fields to the Manor. He was climbing the gate by
Chapel Barn when something fell out of the pocket of the coat. Unluckily
it fell on the far side of the gate, and Robert with many groans and
curses forced his stiff body over again, as the object was a smart
shagreen pocket-book, evidently of some value. It had dropped open in
its fall, and as he picked it up, a bank-note fluttered out and eddied
to the grass. It was a note for ten pounds, and Robert scowled as he
replaced it in the pocket-book.
It was a hemmed shame--life was crooked and unfair, in spite of the
Disposer Supreme and Judge of the Earth. For the first time he doubted
the general providence of things. Why should young Bardon with his easy
manners and roving lustful eye have a pocket full of money to spend as
he pleased, whereas he, Robert, who loved truly and wanted to marry his
love, should not have a penny towards his desires? This was the first
question he had ever asked of life, and its effect was to upset not only
the little store of maxims and truisms which made his philosophy, but
those rules of conduct which depended on them. One did not take what did
not belong to one because in church the Curate said, "Thou shalt not
steal," whereat the choristers would sing, "Lord have mercy upon us, and
incline our hearts to keep this law." Nevertheless, that bank-note spent
the last mile of the way in Robert's pocket.
The act was not really so revolutionary as might at first appear, for
up to the very steps of the Manor he kept on telling himself that he
would put it back. But somehow he did not do so--when he handed the coat
to the man-servant the pocket-book was still in his stable-smelling
corduroys.
Well, he had taken it now--it was too late to give it back. Besides, why
should he not have it? Those ten pounds probably did not mean much to
the Squire, but they meant all things to him and Bessie. He could marry
her now. He could take her away, find work on some distant farm, and
comfortably set up house. The possibilities of ten pounds were
unlimited--at all events they could give him all he asked of life.
In the middle of the night he woke up feeling quite differently. A sick
and guilty horror overwhelmed him. He must have been delirious the day
before, light-headed with pain and misery. Now he saw clearly what he
had done. He was a thief. He had committed a terrible sin--broken one of
the Ten Commandments. He might be caught and put in prison, anyhow, the
God who said, "Thou shalt not" would punish him and perhaps Bessie too.
The sweat poured down Robert's forehead and off his cheeks. The future
seemed to be closing in upon him with iron walls. He trembled, cowered,
and would have said, "Our Father" if he dared. Oh God, why had he done
this dreadful thing?
Luckily his body was so tired that even his kicking mind could not keep
it awake. Suddenly, in the midst of all his remorse and terror, he fell
asleep, and did not wake till sunshine two hours old was on his pillow.
When he woke, the nightmare had passed. Instead, he saw things as he had
seen them yesterday. He could marry Bessie--and he must do so quickly,
seize his chance for fear it should slip from him again. This time he
must not muddle things. Above all he must avoid coming into conflict
with his father--he was more afraid of Reuben than of all the police in
Sussex.
§ 13.
All that day he expected to hear that the theft had been discovered. The
Squire would be sure to remember his pocket-book and where he had put
it. However, time passed and nothing happened. It was possible that
young Bardon had not yet found out his loss. But Robert felt sure that
when, sooner or later, the money was missed, it would be traced to him.
He must act quickly. Oh Lord! how he hated having to act quickly! It was
now a race between him and fate--and Fate must have smiled....
First of all he had to see Bessie. He could not send her a letter, for
she could not read. He must somehow manage to go over to Eggs Hole. He
would not tell her how he had come by the ten pounds. A pang went into
his heart like a thorn as he realised this, but he felt that if she knew
she might refuse to go away with him. He would marry her first, and
confess to her afterwards. Perhaps some day they might be able to return
the money--meantime he would say that a friend had lent it to him. The
thought of this, his first lie to her, hurt him more than the actual
theft.
He managed to slip over to Eggs Hole that evening. Albert, whom his
father had not treated gently on the day of the choir practice, refused
to be his accomplice a second time, but Reuben, thinking his rebellion
crushed, kept a less strict watch over him, and took himself off after
supper to the Cocks, where he had weighty matters of politics and
agriculture to discuss. Robert seized his opportunity, and ran the whole
way to Eggs Hole--laid his plans before Bessie--and ran the whole way
back again.
Bessie was as surprised as she was delighted to hear that he should
suddenly have found a friend to lend him ten pounds--"a feller called
Tim Harman, lives over at Rolvenden," said Robert in a perspiring
effort to be convincing. However, it never struck her to doubt his word,
and she put down to emotion and hard running all that seemed strange in
her sweetheart's manner.
Bessie was quicker and more practical than Robert, and between them they
evolved a fairly respectable scheme. Next Thursday was Fair Day, and all
the Backfield family, including Robert, would be at the Fair. She would
meet him in Meridiana the gipsy's tent at five--it was right on the
outskirts of the Fair, and they could enter separately without
attracting attention, on the pretext of having their fortunes told. Then
they could easily steal off under cover of dusk. They would go to
Wadhurst, where there were many farms--get work together, and marry at
once. Meantime Robert was to divert suspicion by his blameless conduct,
and find out as well as he could exactly what one did to get married.
On arriving home he was uncertain as to whether it would be more
diplomatic to go straight to bed or let his father on his return from
the Cocks find him industriously working at the corn accounts. He
decided on the latter, and was soon with many groans and lickings of his
pencil crediting and debiting Odiam's wheat.
Backfield came in about nine, by which time Robert's panting had
completely subsided and his complexion lost the beetroot shade which
might have betrayed his exertions. His father was in a good temper, and
over-flowed with the Cocks' gossip--how Realf had got twenty-five pounds
for his heifer at Battle, how the mustard had mixed in with Ticehurst's
beans and spoilt his crop, how Dunk of Old Turk said he would vote
Radical at the next election, and how young Squire Bardon had been
robbed of his pocket-book, with certificates for three hundred pounds of
Canadian stock and a ten-pound bank-note in it.
Robert bit off the end of his pencil, which his father, who was looking
the other way, luckily did not see. The boy crouched over the fire,
trying to hide his trembling, and longing yet not daring to ask a
hundred questions. He was glad and at the same time sorry when Reuben
having explained to him the right and the wrong way of sowing beans, and
enlarged on the wickedness of Radicals in general and Gladstone in
particular, returned to Bardon's loss.
"Of course he äun't sure as it wur stolen--he may have dropped it. But
policeman döan't think that's likely."
"Then policeman's bin töald about it?" came faintly from Robert.
"Surelye! I wur spikking to him over at the Cocks. I said to him as I
wur sartain as one of those lousy Workman's Institute lads of his had
done it. That's wot comes of trying to help labourers and cowmen and
such--there's naun lik helping the poor fur putting them above
themselves, and in these times when everyone's fur giving 'em votes and
eddicating them free, why----" and Reuben launched into politics again.
That night was another Hell. Robert lay wakeful in a rigor of despair.
It was all over now. The constable would be at Odiam the first thing
next morning. Bardon was bound to remember that his pocket-book was in
the coat he had lent Bessie. He might even think that Bessie had taken
it! This fresh horror nearly sent Robert out of the window and over the
fields to the Manor to confess his crime. But he was kept back by the
glimmerings of hope which, like a summer lightning, played fitfully over
his mental landscape. He dared not stake everything. Perhaps after all
young Bardon could not remember where he had put the pocket-book; he
must have forgotten where it was when he offered the coat to Bessie, and
it was possible that he would not remember till the lovers had
escaped--after which he might remember as much as he liked, for Robert
never thought for a moment that he could be traced once he had left
Peasmarsh.
As a matter of fact his simplicity had done much for him in this matter.
A man with a readier cunning would have taken out the money and restored
the pocket-book exactly as he had found it. Robert had blunderingly
grabbed the whole thing--and to that he owed his safety. If Bardon had
found the pocket-book in his great-coat, he would at once have
reconstructed the whole incident. As things were, he scarcely remembered
lending the coat to Bessie, and it had certainly never occurred to him
that his pocket-book was in it. Being rather a careless and
absent-minded young man, he had no recollection of putting it there
after some discussion with Sir Miles about his certificates. He
generally kept it in his drawer, and thought that it must have been
taken out of that.
So no constable called at Odiam the next morning, and at breakfast the
whole Backfield family discussed the Squire's loss, with the general tag
of "serve him right!"
The following day was market-day at Rye, and Robert and Peter were to
take over the cart. Robert was glad of this, for he had made up his mind
that he must change the bank-note. If he tried to change it at the Fair
or after he had gone away with Bessie it might arouse suspicion; but no
one would think anything of his father having so large a sum, and he
could offer it when he went to pay the harness bill at the saddler's. As
for the pocket-book, he threw that into the horse-pond when no one was
looking; it was best out of the way, and the three hundred pounds' worth
of certificates it contained meant nothing to him.
Fate, having thus generously given him a start, continued to encourage
him in the race he was running against her. On the way to Rye he fell in
with Bertie Ditch. Bertie was going to marry a girl up at Brightling,
and Robert found that there was nothing easier than to discuss with him
the ways and means of marriage. From his ravings on his marriage in
particular precious information with regard to marriage in general could
be extracted. Oh, yes, he had heard of fellows who got married by
licence, but banns were more genteel, and he didn't doubt but that a
marriage by banns was altogether a better and more religious sort. He
and Nellie, etc., etc.... Oh, he didn't think a licence cost much--two
or three pounds, and an ordinary wedding by banns would cost quite as
much as that; when one had paid for the choir and the ringers and the
breakfast. Now he and Nellie ... oh, of course, if you were in a
hurry--yes; but anyhow he thought one of the parties must live a week or
so in the parish where the marriage was to take place.
Robert, after some considering, decided to go with Bessie to Wadhurst,
and ask the clergyman there exactly what they ought to do. He could
easily find a room for her where she could stay till the law had been
complied with. They would travel by the new railway. It would be rather
alarming, but Jenny Vennal had once been to Brighton by train and said
that the only thing against it was the dirt.
So gradually the difficult future was being settled. When they came to
Rye Robert left Peter to unpack the cart and went to pay the harness
bill at the saddler's. Reuben had given him five pounds, but he handed
over the terrible bank-note, which was accepted without comment.
Fate still allowed him to run ahead.
§ 14.
Thursday broke clear and windy--little curls of cloud flew high against
spreads of watery blue, and the wind raced over Boarzell, smelling of
wet furrows. As usual everyone at Odiam was going to the Fair--even
Mrs. Backfield, for Reuben said that he would not let the girls go
without her. Caro and Tilly were now fifteen and sixteen, and their
father began to have fears lest they should marry and leave him. Tilly
especially, with her creamy complexion like Naomi's, and her little
tip-tilted nose, freckled over the bridge, gave him anxious times. He
sternly discouraged any of the neighbouring farmers' sons who seemed
inclined to call; he was not going to lose his daughters just when Mrs.
Backfield's poor health made them indispensable. It could not be long
before his mother died--already her bouts of rheumatism were so severe
that she was practically crippled each winter--and when she died Tilly
and Caro must take her place.
Robert had not slept at all that night. Already sleeplessness,
excitement, and anxiety had put their mark on him, giving a certain
waxiness to his complexion and dullness to his eyes; but this morning he
had curled and oiled his hair and put on his best clothes, which
diverted the family attention, and in some way accounted for his altered
looks. Everyone at the breakfast-table wore Sunday-best, except Beatup,
who was to mind the farm in the morning, Richard taking his place in the
afternoon.
Peter's strong frame and broad shoulders were shown off in all their
glory by his tight blue coat--he was spoiling for the fight, every now
and then clenching his fists under the table, and dreaming of smart cuts
and irresistible bashes. Albert thought of the pretty girls he would
dance with, and the one he would choose to lead away into the rustling
solitude of Boarzell when his father was not looking ... to lie where
the gorse flowers would scatter on their faces, and her dress smell of
the dead heather as he clasped her to him. Richard was inclined to sneer
at these rustic flings, and to regret the westward pastures where Greek
syntax and Anne Bardon exalted life. Jemmy and George thought of
nothing but the swings and merry-go-rounds; Tilly and Caro did not think
at all, but wondered. Reuben watched their big eyes, so different from
the boys', Tilly's very blue, Caro's very brown, and felt relieved when
he looked from them to their grandmother, sitting stiffly in a patched
survival of the widow's dress, her knotted hands before her on the
table, at once too indifferent and too devoted to pity the questing
youth of these two girls.
Reuben himself, in his grey cloth suit, starched shirt, and spotted tie,
was perhaps the most striking of the company. Albert, the only one who
had more than a vague appreciation of his father's looks, realised how
utterly he had beaten his sons in their young men's game before cracked
mirrors, showing up completely the failure of their waistcoats, ties,
and hair oils in comparison with his. As was usual on festive occasions,
his hair was sleeked out of its accustomed roughness, lying in
blue-black masses of extraordinary shininess and thickness on his
temples; his tight-fitting trousers displayed his splendid legs, and
when he spoke he showed finer teeth than any of the youngsters. Albert
scowled as he admired, for he knew that no girl would take him if she
had a chance of his father.
Next to Reuben sat Harry--the other man whom Boarzell had made. He
slouched forward over his plate, in terror lest the food which dropped
continually out of his mouth should fall on the tablecloth, and he
should be scolded. He looked at least ten years older than Reuben, for
his face was covered with wrinkles, and there were streaks of grey in
his hair. As he sat and ate he muttered to himself. No one took any
notice of him, for the children had been brought up to look upon Uncle
Harry as a sort of animal, to whom one must be kind, but with whom it
was impossible to hold any rational conversation. Tilly was the most
attentive to him, and would cut up his food and sometimes even put it
in his mouth.
After breakfast the whole family set out for the Moor. Odiam looked
unnatural with its empty yard, where the discouraged Beatup mouched,
gazing longingly and chewing a straw. But every farm round Boarzell
looked the same, for Boarzell Fair emptied the neighbourhood as
completely as a pilgrimage would empty a Breton hamlet--only the beasts
and unwilling house-keepers were left behind.
Though it was not yet ten o'clock the Fair was crowded. A shout greeted
Harry's appearance with his fiddle, for it was never too early to dance.
Blind Harry climbed on his tub, flourished his bow with many horrible
smiles--for he loved his treats of popularity and attention--and started
the new tune "My Decided Decision," which Caro and Tilly had taught him
the day before. Albert immediately caught a pretty girl by the waist,
and spun round with her on the grass while Pete vanished into the
sparring-booth, his shoulders already out of his coat. Mrs. Backfield
led off Caro and Tilly, looking sidelong at the dancers, to the more
staid entertainment of the stalls. Jemmy and George ran straight to the
merry-go-round, which now worked by steam, and hooted shrilly as it
swung. Robert and Richard stood with their arms folded, watching the
dancing with very different expressions on their faces.
At last Robert decided to lead out Emily Ditch, thinking that it might
lull his father's suspicions if he had any. As a matter of fact the son
Reuben watched most closely was Albert. He looked upon Robert's affair
as settled, for the present at any rate, and credited him--perhaps
rightly--with so poor a cunning that an occasional glance would serve;
whereas Albert's oiled hair, stiff shirt-front, and clean white
handkerchief roused all his fears and carefulness together.
After the dance, which did not last long, as poor Robert trod so
heavily on his partner's feet that she soon begged him to stop, they
strolled off round the Fair. Robert thought that if he made it a custom
to roam among the booths his father would not notice his final
disappearance so quickly. Lord! he was getting a hemmed crafty fellow.
All the boys were allowed a shilling or two to spend at the Fair, so
Robert treated Emily to a ride on the merry-go-round and five sea-sick
minutes in the swings. Then he took Mrs. Button--Realf's married
daughter, who had come over from Hove, to see the Panorama and a new
attraction in the shape of a fat lady, which struck him as disgusting,
but made her laugh tremendously.
He clung to Mrs. Button for most of the morning and afternoon, for he
felt that she drove away suspicion, and at the same time had not the
disadvantage of Emily Ditch, who had once or twice alarmed him by
affectionately squeezing his hand. He did not take her to the fighting
booth, as public opinion had shut that to ladies during the years that
had passed since Reuben had sat with Naomi in the heat and sawdust--but
she stood behind him in the shooting gallery, whilst he impartially
scored bulls in the mouths of Disraeli, Gladstone, and the Emperor of
France.
"Let's go and dance now," she said as he pocketed his bag of nuts.
Robert wondered anxiously what time it was; already a faint blear of red
was creeping into the cold, twinkling afternoon. The moon rose at a
quarter to five--when he saw it come up into the sky out of Iden Wood he
must go to Meridiana's tent. He led Mrs. Button to where the dancers
jigged to Harry's unending tune. Reuben stood on the outskirts, among
the spectators, watching with a stern eye Albert snatch kisses off a
Winchelsea girl's brown neck as he swung her round. Luckily for Robert
his brother was behaving outrageously--his misdeeds were as usual
flagrant; just at that moment he pulled down his partner's hair, and
they whirled about together, laughing in the coarse mesh that blinded
them both. Reuben's mouth was a hard, straight line, and his eyes like
steel. He scarcely noticed Robert and Mrs. Button hopping about
together, and he did not see when half an hour later the boy stole away
alone.
Robert felt warm and glowing--he had enjoyed that dance, and wished he
could have danced with Bessie. Perhaps he would dance with her some
day.... Behind him, the creak of Harry's fiddle sounded plaintively,
with every now and then a hoot from the merry-go-round. The dusk was
falling quickly. Yellow flares sprang up from the stalls, casting a
strange web of light and darkness over the Fair. Gideon Teazel looked
like some carved Colossus as he stood by the roundabout, his great beard
glowing on his breast like flames ... behind, in the smeeth of twilight,
with the wriggling flare of the lamps, the lump of dancers did not seem
to dance, but to writhe like some monster on the green, sending out
tentacles, shooting up spines, emitting strange grunts and squalls--and
at the back of it all the jig, jig, jig of Harry's tune.
Further on, in the secrecy of the tents and caravans, the dusk became
full of cowering shapes, sometimes slipping and sliding about apart,
sometimes blotted together ... there were whispers, rustlings,
strugglings, low cries of "döan't" and "adone do!"--the sound of kisses
... kisses ... they followed Robert all the way to Meridiana's tent,
where, standing in the brazier glow, and flushed besides with crimson of
her own, stood Bessie.
Their eyes met over the flames, then Robert remembered the need for
keeping up appearances, and said he wanted his fortune told. He could
scarcely wait while Meridiana muttered about a fair young lady and a
heap of money coming to him in a year or two. Bessie slipped round the
brazier and stood beside him, their hands impudently locked, each finger
of the boy's clinging round a finger of the girl's.
Meridiana's low sing-song continued:
"It's a gorgeous time I see before you, dear; riches and a carriage and
servants in livery, and a beautiful wife decked over with jewels and
gold as bright as her hair--success and a fair name, honour and a ripe
old age--and remember the poor gipsy woman, won't you, darling?"
But he had already forgotten her. He stood with his arm round Bessie,
stooping under the canvas roof, half choking in the brazier reek, while
his lips came closer and closer to her face....
"Hir me duval!" said Meridiana to herself, "but they've forgotten the
poor person's child."
She saw them go out of the tent, still linked and in their dream, then
watched their dark shapes stoop against the sky.
They clung together panting and trembling, for she was really his at
last, and he was hers. Before them lay the darkness, but they would go
into it hand in hand. She was his, and he was hers.
At last they dropped their arms and stood apart. The dusk was full of
rustlings, flittings, scuttlings, kisses....
"God bless you, gorgeous lady and gentleman," cried Meridiana shrilly
from the tent--"the dukkerin dukk tells me that you shall always wear
satin and velvet, and have honour wherever you go."
Then suddenly a heavy hand fell on Robert's shoulder, and a voice said:
"Robert Backfield, I arrest you on the charge of stealing a pocket-book
containing bonds and money from Squire Ralph Bardon of Flightshot."
§ 15.
With many tears, and the help of the kindly farmer's daughter at Eggs
Hole, who acted as penwoman, Bessie wrote a letter to Robert in the
Battery gaol:
"You must not think, my dearest lad, that anything what you have
done can separate you and me. We belong to each other as it seems,
and what you have done I forgive as you would if I had done it. I
shall always be yours, Robby, no matter how long you are in prison,
I shall be waiting, and thinking of you always. And I forgive you
for not telling me you had taken the money, but that a friend had
lent it to you, because you thought I would not have gone away with
you, but I would have, surely. Be brave and do not fret. I wish it
was all over, but we must not fret.
"From your loving
"BESSIE."
The proceedings before the Rye magistrates had been brief, and ended in
Robert's committal for trial at Quarter Sessions. He had made no attempt
to deny his guilt--it would have been useless. He was almost dumb in the
dock, for his soul was struck with wonder at the cruel circumstances
which had betrayed him.
He had been tracked by the number on the note--it was the first time he
realised that notes had numbers. This particular note had been given by
Sir Miles Bardon to his son as a part of his quarterly allowance, and
though Ralph was far too unpractical to notice the number himself, his
father had a habit of marking such things, and had written it down.
The saddler at Rye had not heard of the theft when young Backfield
handed over the note in payment of the harness bill. He had at the time
remarked to his wife that old Ben seemed pretty flush with his money,
but had thought no more of it till the matter was cried by the Town
Crier that evening, after Robert and Pete had gone home. Then out of
mere curiosity he had looked at the number on his note, and found it was
the same as the Crier had announced. Early the next day he went to the
Police Station, and as young Bardon now remembered lending his coat to
Robert Backfield it was fairly easy to guess how the theft had been
committed.
The Squire regretted the matter profoundly, but it was too late now not
to proceed with it, so he made it a hundred times worse by writing an
apologetic letter to Reuben, and asking the magistrate to deal gently
with the offender. Robert's pathetic story, and the tearful evidence of
his sweetheart, gave him at once all the public sympathy; the blame was
divided pretty equally between the Bardons and Backfield.
Richard bitterly abused his father to Anne, as they met in the midst of
the strife of their two families:
"It's always the same, he keeps us under, and makes our lives a misery
till we do something mad. He's only got himself to thank for this. We're
all the slaves of his tedious farm----"
"I should rather say 'abominable,'" Anne interrupted gently.
"His abominable farm--he gets every bit of work out of us he can, till
we're justabout desperate----"
"Till we're absolutely desperate."
"And he expects us to care for nothing but his vulgar ambitions. Oh
Lord! I wish I was out of it!"
"Perhaps you will be out of it some day."
He shrugged.
"How should I get free?"
"Perhaps a friend might help you."
He looked into her face, then suddenly crimsoned--then paled, to flush
again:
"Oh, ma'am, ma'am--if ever you cud help me get free--if ever ... oh,
I--I'd sarve you all my life--I'd----"
"Hush," she said gently--"that's still in the future--and remember not
to say 'sarve.'"
The Quarter Sessions were held early in December, and Robert's case came
wedged between the too hopeful finances of a journeyman butcher and the
woes of a farmer from Guldeford who had tried to drown himself and his
little boy off the Midrips. Robert was sentenced to three years'
imprisonment.
There was nothing remarkable about the trial, and nothing to be said
against the sentence from the point of either justice or humanity. Ten
years ago the boy would have been transported to Van Diemen's Land. The
Bardons took it upon themselves to be outrageously sorry, and were
rather mystified by Reuben's contemptuous attitude towards them and
their regrets.
The evidence had been merely a repetition of that which had been given
before the magistrate, though Bessie did not cry this time in the
witness-box, and Robert in the dock was not dumb--on the contrary, he
tried to explain to the Recorder what it felt like to have absolutely no
money of one's own.
Reuben was present at the trial, and sitting erect, in his good town
clothes, drew the public glance away both from the prisoner and the
Recorder. Feeling was against him, and when in his summing-up Mr. Reeve
remarked on the strangeness of a young man of Backfield's age having no
money and being compelled to work without wages, a low murmur went round
the court, which Reuben did not seem to hear. He sat very stiffly while
the sentence was pronounced, and afterwards refused to see his son
before he was taken away to Lewes.
"Poor feller, this 'ull be the breaking of him," said Vennal outside the
Court-house.
"No more'n he deserves. He's a hard man," said Ditch.
"Thinks only of his farm and nothing of his flesh and blood," said old
Realf.
"It sarves un right," said Ginner.
So it was throughout the crowd. Some said "poor man," others muttered
"his own fault." But all words, either of pity or blame, were silenced
when Backfield came out of the Court-house and walked through the
people, his head high, his step firm, his back straight.
§ 16.
The next few weeks were for Reuben full of bitter, secret humiliation.
He might show a proud face and a straight back to the world, but his
heart was full of miserable madness. It was not so much his son's
disgrace that afflicted him as the attitude of people towards it--the
Bardons with their regrets and apologies, the small fry with their
wonder and cheap blame. What filled him with rage and disgust beyond all
else was the thought that some people imagined that Robert had disgraced
Odiam--as if a fool like Robert, with his tinpot misdoings, had it in
his power to disgrace a farm like Odiam! This idea maddened him at
times, and he went to absurd lengths to show men how little he cared.
Yet everywhere he seemed to see pity leering out of eyes, he seemed to
see lips inaudibly forming the words: "poor fellow"--"what a blow for
his schemes!"--"how about the farm?--now he'll lie low for a bit."
This was all the worse to bear, as now, for the first time, he began
seriously to dread a rival. The only farm in the district which could
compete with Odiam was Grandturzel, but that had been held back by the
indifference of its owner, old Realf. Early in the March of '65 old
Realf died, and was succeeded by his son, Henry Realf, whom rumour spoke
of as a promising and ambitious young man. Skill and ambition could do
even more with Grandturzel than they could with Odiam, for the former
had the freehold of forty acres of Boarzell. Reuben had always counted
on being able to buy these some day from old Realf, but now he expected
his son to cling to them. There would be two farms fighting for
Boarzell, and Grandturzel would have the start.
All the more reason, therefore, that Odiam should stand high in men's
respect. Now, of all times, Reuben could not afford to be looked upon
with contempt or pity. He must show everyone how little he cared about
his family disgrace, and do everything he could to bring himself more
prominently into the social and agricultural life of the district.
For the first time since his father's death he gave suppers at Odiam;
once more he spent money on French wines which nobody wanted to drink,
and worked his mother and daughters to tears making puddings and pies.
He bought a new gig--a smart turnout, with a sleek, well-bred horse
between the shafts--and he refused to let Harry fiddle any more at Fairs
and weddings; it was prestige rather than profit that he wanted now.
In May people began to talk of a general election; the death of
Palmerston and the defeat of Gladstone's Reform Bill made it inevitable.
Early in June Parliament was dissolved, and Rye electors were confronted
with the postered virtues and vices of Captain MacKinnon (Radical) and
Colonel MacDonald (Conservative).
Reuben had not hitherto had much truck with politics. He had played the
part of a convinced and conscientious Tory, both at home and in the
public-house; and every evening his daughter Tilly had read him the
paper, as Naomi had used to do. But he had never done more at an
election than record his vote, he had never openly identified himself
with the political life of the district. Now it struck him that if he
took a prominent part in this election it would do much to show his
indifference to the recent catastrophe, besides giving him a certain
standing as a politician, and thus bestowing glory and dignity on Odiam.
The local Tories would be glad enough of his support, for he was
important, if not popular, in the neighbourhood, and had always been
known as a man who took an intelligent interest in his country's
affairs.
Not that Rye elections had ever been much concerned with national
events. Borough had always been a bigger word than country on those
occasions. It was the question of the Harbour rather than the Ballot
which had sent up Captain Curteis in 1832, while later contests had
centred round the navigation of the Brede River, the new Sluice at
Scott's Float, or the Landgate clock. Reuben, however, cared little for
these petty town affairs. His chief concern was the restoration of the
tax on wheat, and he also favoured the taxing of imported malt and hops.
He hated and dreaded Gladstone's "free breakfast table," which he felt
would mean the ruin of agriculture in England. He would like to
concentrate country Toryism into an organised opposition of Free Trade,
and his wounded pride found balm in the thought of founding a local
agricultural party of which he would be the inspirer and head.
§ 17.
Reuben began to attend the Tory candidate's meetings. Colonel MacDonald
was not a local man, any more than Captain MacKinnon, but he had some
property in the neighbourhood, down on the marsh by Becket's House. Like
the other candidate, he had spent the last month or so in posting
himself in local affairs, and came to Rye prepared, as he said, "to
fight the election on herrings and sprats."
However, at his first meeting, held at Guldeford Barn, he was surprised
to find a strong agricultural element in the audience. He was questioned
on his attitude towards the wheat tax and towards the enfranchisement of
six-pound householders. The fact was that for a fortnight previously
Reuben had been working up public opinion in the Cocks, and also in the
London Trader, the Rye tavern he used on market-days. He had managed to
convince the two bars that their salvation lay in taxing wheat, malt,
and hops, and in suppressing with a heavy hand those upstarts whom
Radical sentimentalists wanted at all costs to educate and enfranchise.
Reuben could speak convincingly, and his extraordinary agricultural
success gave weight to his words. If not liked, he was admired and
envied. He was "a fellow who knew what he was doing," and could be
trusted in important matters of welfare. In a word, he achieved his
object and made himself head of an Agricultural Party, large enough to
be of importance to either candidate.
It was not long before he had overtures from Captain MacKinnon. The
Captain had expected an easy triumph; never since it became a free
borough had Rye sent a Tory to Parliament. Now he was surprised and a
little alarmed to see signs of definite Tory enterprise, banded under
one of the most important and successful farmers in the district. It is
true that he had the Bardons on his side, but the Bardons were too
gentlemanly to be useful. He would have given much to corrupt Reuben,
but Flightshot, which held the only bribe that could have made him so
much as turn his head, insisted on keeping pure. He tried to hold his
own by appealing to the fishermen and sailors against the
agriculturists--but as these in the past had made little fortunes by
smuggling grain, they joined the farmers in demanding a wheat-tax.
He then turned to the small householders and shop-keepers, dazzling
them with visions of Gladstone's free breakfast table--he even invited
the more prominent ones to an untaxed breakfast in the Town Hall;
whereat the Colonel, at Reuben's instigation, retaliated with a
sumptuous dinner, which he said would be within the reach of every
farmer when a moderate wheat-tax no longer forced him to undersell his
harvests.
Rye platforms, instead of being confined to arguments on herrings and
sprats, rang unusually with matters of national import. The free
education of the poor was then a vital question, which Reuben and his
party opposed with all their might. Educated labourers meant higher
wages and a loss of that submissive temper which resulted in so many
hours' ill-paid work. Here the Bardons waxed eloquent, but Backfield,
helped by Ditch of Totease, who could speak quite well if put through
his paces beforehand, drew such a picture of the ruin which would attend
an educated democracy, that the voice of Flightshot, always too
carefully modulated to be effective, was silenced.
As usual the local printing-presses worked hard over pamphlets and
posters, and as a Rye election was nothing if not personal, Reuben was
soon enlightened as to the Radical opinion of him. Posters of a
startlingly intimate and insulting nature began to appear about the
town; a few were displayed in Peasmarsh, and some were actually found on
the walls of his own barns.
"Bribed, stolen, or strayed, an Ugly Gorilla, answering to the name
of Ben. The animal may be distinguished by his filthy habits,
associates frequently with swine and like hogs, delights in rolling
in manure, and is often to be found in Ditches. Is remarkable for
his unnatural cruelty towards his own young, whom he treats with
shocking unkindness. The animal has likewise a propensity for
boasting and lies. The Gorilla's temper is dreadfully bad,
horribly vicious, and fearfully vindictive. A reward of Five Pounds
will be given by Jothan True Blue, chairman of the Poor Man's Big
Loaf Association, to any Blue Lamb who may find this Odious
Creature, as his one object while at large is to steal the Poor
Man's Loaf. He would also take, if he could, the Poor Man's Vote,
and confine the Poor Man's Children to the dirt and ignorance in
which he himself wallows, being unable to read or write, and was
once heard to ask the Cringing Colonel, his keeper, what was the
meaning of Tory Principle and Purity' on his election banners. We
too would like to know."
Reuben tore the posters down whenever he found them, but this kind of
attack did not humiliate him as the old pitying curiosity had done. He
was not lowered in his own esteem. On the contrary, he enjoyed the fame
which Radical hate conferred on him. There was no doubt about Odiam's
importance now.
The Tories were not to be beaten in invective, and posted Rye with
enquiries after the Rabid Hybrid or Crazy Captain:
"The habits of this loathsome creature are so revolting that all
who have beheld them turn from them in horror and disgust. It is
afflicted with a dirty disease called Gladstone Fever, and in its
delirium barks horribly 'Educate! Educate!'"
Much more was written in this strain on both sides, and Colonel
MacDonald hired a band of youths to parade the streets singing:
"Conservatives, 'tis all serene--
MacDonald for ever! Long live the Queen!"
or:
"The people of Rye now they all seem to say
That MacDonald's the man who will carry the sway,
Triumphant he'll drive old MacKinnon away--
For MacDonald's the man for the people!"
Reuben did not care much for these doings; they were, he thought, a
mere appeal to scum, and he preferred to give his mind to weightier
things. He organised meetings in the furthest hamlets of the district,
and managed to stir up the interest of the farmers to such a pitch that
it soon looked as if the Tory candidate would carry all before him.
MacKinnon could not open his mouth on the platform without shouts of:
"Wheat at seventy shillings a quarter!" or "What's the use of a big loaf
if we've got no money to buy it with?"
The Radicals began to quake for their victory. Speakers were sent for
from London, but could not even get a hearing, owing to the enemy's
supplies of bad eggs. Meetings were everywhere broken up in disorder,
and the Captain was reported to have said that the Liberal party ought
to offer a knighthood to anyone who would poison Backfield's beer.
§ 18.
So time passed till within a week of polling day. The feeling in the
district grew more and more tense--no prominent member of either party
could appear in Rye streets without being insulted by somebody on the
opposite side. Meetings were orgies of abuse and violence, but whereas
the Radical meetings were invariably broken up in disorder by their
opponents, interruptions at Tory meetings resulted only in the
interrupters themselves being kicked out. For the first time it looked
as if a Conservative would be returned for Rye, and the Colonel knew he
owed his success to Backfield's agricultural party.
Then suddenly the unexpected happened. At the end of one of Reuben's
most successful meetings in Iden Schoolhouse, a mild sandy-haired
person, whom nobody knew, rose up and asked meekly whether it was true
that the Scott's Float toll-gate was on Colonel MacDonald's estate, and
if so, what use did he make of the tolls? He was answered by being flung
into the street, but afterwards the Conservative tenant of Loose Farm on
the Marsh remarked to Reuben that it was "a hemmed ark'ard question."
Reuben, however, absorbed by his enthusiasm for Protection and a
restricted franchise, scarcely thought twice about the toll-gate, till
the next day a huge poster appeared all over the district:
"MACDONALD'S GATE"
"Sing ye who will of Love, or War, or Wine,
Of mantling Cups, Bright Eyes, or deeds of Might--
A theme unsung by other harps is mine--
I sing a Gate--a novel subject quite.
O Tolls! ye do afflict us all--a bore!
E'en when by Law imposed on evil slight!
Who has not loaded ye with curses sore
When in this Coat of Proof enveloped tight?
Therefore to what is Law I say 'content'--
But for a Private Man to raise a toll,
To stop the public, tax them, circumvent,
Moves me to passion I can scarce control,
Makes boil the rushing blood and thrills my very soul."
Hitherto any verse that had been written in the controversy had been
meant for street singing, and turned out in the less serious moments of
politicians who certainly were not poets. But "MacDonald's Gate"
impressed the multitude as something altogether different. The sounding
periods and the number of capitals proclaimed it poetry of the very
highest order, and its prominent position throughout the town soon
resulted in the collection of excited groups all discussing the Scott's
Float toll-gate, which nobody hitherto had thought much about.
The Tories were a little disconcerted--the toll-gate did not fit into
their campaign. Tolls had always been unpopular in the neighbourhood,
even though Government-owned, and it was catastrophic that the enemy
should suddenly have swooped down on the Colonel's private venture and
rhymed it so effectively.
Of course a counter-attack was made, but it had the drawback of being
made in prose, none of the Tory pamphleteers feeling equal to meeting
the enemy on his own ground. Also there was not very much to be said, as
it was impossible to deny the Scott's Float toll-gate. So the writers
confined themselves to sneering at the Radical poet's versification, and
hinting that Captain MacKinnon had done many worse things than own a
toll-gate, and that all the money the Colonel had from his went to the
upkeep of his land, a statement which deceived nobody.
The next day a fresh poster appeared, printed this time in flaming red
letters:
"If you'd know what the Colonel is, pray travel over
The Sluice at Scott's Float--and then drive on to Dover--
You'll find yourself quickly brought up by a Gate
Where a Toll they will charge at no moderate rate.
Oh why is a Gate stuck across at this Spot?
Is the Colonel so poor or so grasping--or what?
'Tis that he may gain some more hundreds this way in,
To swell out the purse where his Thousands are laying.
Awake, oh, for shame, ye electors of Rye!
Let the banner of freedom float gaily on high,
Throw your bonds to the winds, ye Electors--for know
That he who'd be free must himself strike the Blow."
Thenceforward the whole character of the election was changed. The Poor
Man's Loaf was forgotten as completely as the wheat-tax which should
make the farmer rich. Six-pound householders became as uninteresting as
anybody else who had not a vote. Nobody cared a damn whether the poor
were educated at the nation's expense or not. The conflict raged
blindly, furiously, degradingly round the Scott's Float toll-gate.
No one thought or spoke or wrote of anything else. If at meetings
Reuben tried to introduce Protection or the Franchise, he was silenced
even by his own party. The Scott's Float toll-gate became as important
as the Sluice or the Brede River or the Landgate Clock had been in other
elections, and nothing, no matter of what national importance, could
stand against it.
Reuben cursed the base trucksters who had brought it forward, and he
cursed the scummy versifier who was its laureate--whose verses appeared
daily on six-foot hoardings, and were sung by drunken Radicals to drown
his speeches. No one knew who the Radical poet was, for his party kept
him a mystery, fearful, no doubt, lest he should be bribed by the other
side. Some said that he was a London journalist, sent down in despair by
the Liberals at head-quarters. If so they must have congratulated
themselves on their forlorn hope, for the tide of events changed
completely.
The worst of that toll-gate was that the Conservatives could never
explain it away. They printed posters, they printed handbills, they
attempted verse, they made speeches, they protested their
disinterestedness, they even tried to represent the abomination as a
philanthropic concern, but all their efforts failed. They quickly began
to lose ground. It was the Conservative instead of the Liberal meetings
that were broken up in disorder. Colonel MacDonald was howled down, and
Reuben came home every evening his clothes spattered with rotten eggs.
§ 19.
Polling day broke gloomily on Rye Tories. The country voters were
brought into town at the Candidates' expense, having received according
to custom printed notices that the Colonel, or the Captain, "would
endeavour to ensure to every elector access to the poll free from every
sort of insult."
In Rye bells were ringing and bands were playing, and the town looked
quite strange with huge crowds surging through its grass-grown streets,
which were, moreover, blocked with every kind of trap, gig, cart, and
wain. About three hundred special constables had been enrolled for the
occasion, and it was likely that they would be needed, for all the
public-houses had been thrown open by the candidates.
In the market-place, where the hustings stood, a dense throng was
packing itself, jostling and shoving, and--Reuben saw to his dismay as
he drove up to the London Trader--showing strong Radical tendencies.
Several Conservative banners waved from the windows of the
public-house--"MacDonald the Farmer's Friend"--"MacDonald and
Protection"--"Wheat at seventy shillings a quarter"--"Ratepayers! beware
of Radical pickpockets." These had all been prepared at the beginning of
the contest. The Radical banners bore but one device--"The Scott's Float
Toll-gate." It waved everywhere, and any other banner which appeared in
the streets was immediately seized and broken, the bearer being made to
suffer so horribly for his convictions, that soon nobody could be found
to carry one.
Every now and then the crowd would break into the latest rhymings of
MacKinnon's poet:
"Who fill their pockets at Scott's Float,
And on their private Toll-gate doat,
While o'er our hard-earned pence they gloat?
The Tories."
Reuben felt his heart sink, and his beer nearly choked him. Soon a vast
struggle was raging round the hustings, as the voters fought their way
through fists and sticks, often emerging--especially the
Conservatives--with their clothes half torn off their backs and quite
ruined by garbage. The special constables were useless, for their own
feelings betrayed them, and unluckily even in their ranks the Radicals
predominated. The state of the poll at ten-thirty was twenty-seven for
Captain MacKinnon and only eleven for Colonel MacDonald.
Speeches were made from time to time, but were lost in the general
hubbub. One of the local butchers had delivered over his entire stock of
entrails, skin and hoof cuttings, and old blood-puddings to the Radical
cause, and Conservative Speakers were soon a sight to behold. When
Reuben stood up his voice was drowned in shouts of "Ben the Gorilla!
Stop the dirty animal!" while a bleeding sheep's head caught him full on
the chest. Too proud to take his dismissal from the mob, he spoke
unheard for five minutes, at the end of which he was silenced by half a
brick, which hit his temple and stunned him sufficiently for Ditch and
MacDonald to pull him away.
At twelve the poll stood at a hundred and one for the Captain and
sixty-five for the Colonel. The Tories were getting desperate--they
threw into the crowd handbills wet from the printers, declaring that
MacDonald's toll-gate should not stand an hour after he was elected. But
the crowd only sang derisively:
"Who fill their pockets at Scott's Float,
And on their private Toll-gate doat,
While o'er our hard-earned pence they gloat?
The Tories."
At three o'clock the poll stood at two hundred and twelve and
eighty-three. Then came the close--Captain MacKinnon elected by a
majority of sixty-nine.
Loud cheers rose up from the struggling, drunken mass in the
market-place.
"Hurray for MacKinnon!--Down with the Tollkeepers!"
In the Court-house the beaten Conservatives heard the shouts and turned
fiercely--on one another.
"It's that hemmed gëate of yourn--lost everything!" cried Reuben.
"By God, it's not my gate--it's your wheat."
"My wheat!--wot d'you mean, sir?"
"I mean that, thanks to you, we wasted about three weeks talking to
those damned fools about a matter they don't care twopence about. You
worked up a false interest, and the result is, that when anything that
really touches them is brought forward, the whole campaign drops to
pieces."
"It's unaccountable easy to put the blame on me, when it's your hemmed
gëate----"
"I tell you, sir, it's your damned wheat----"
"And your damned son!" furiously cried Ditch of Totease.
"My son!"--Reuben swung round on the men who had once rallied under his
leadership, but now stood scowling at him and muttering to themselves.
"My son!"
"Yes," said Coalbran of Doozes, "you know as well as us as how it wur
your Albert wrote them verses about the gëate, wot have bust up
everything."
"You're a liar!" cried Reuben.
"You dare miscall me," and the two men, mad with private hate and public
humiliation, flew at each other's throats.
Ditch and the Colonel pulled them apart.
"Hang it all, Coalbran, we don't know it's his son. But we do know it's
his wheat. Good God, sir--if only you'd kept your confounded self out of
politics----"
Reuben did not wait to hear more. He pushed his way out of the room and
downstairs to where his trap was waiting. The crowd surged round him as
he climbed into it. An egg burst against his ear, and the filthy yolk
ran down his cheek to mingle with the spatter of blood on his neck and
shirt-front.
"Ben the Gorilla! Ben the Gorilla! Give him tar and feathers!"
Reuben struck his horse with the whip, and the animal sprang forward. A
man who had been trying to climb into the gig, fell off, and was nearly
trampled on. Reuben flogged his way through the pack, a shower of
missiles hurtling round him, while his ears burned with the abuse which
had once been his badge of pride, but now in the hour of defeat smote
him with a sick sense of impotence and degradation. "Ben the Gorilla!
Ben the Gorilla!"
He was free of them at last, galloping down the Landgate hill towards
Rye Foreign.
"I'm hemmed," he muttered, grinding his teeth, "if I ever touch their
dirty politics again--from this day forward--so help me God!"
§ 20.
On reaching Odiam, Reuben did not go into the kitchen where his children
were gathered, expectant and curious. He went straight upstairs. Caro,
who caught a glimpse of him in the passage, ran away in terror--he
looked so dreadful, his face all dabbled with blood and yolk of egg.
He went up to Albert's room. He had furiously given Ditch the lie in the
Courthouse, but he had never trusted his son, and the accusation had
poured over him a flood of shame which could be quelled only by its
proof or its refutation. If Albert's guilt were proved--which Reuben,
now bathing in this luminous shame, saw was quite probable--then he knew
what to do to clean the smirch off Odiam; if, on the other hand, his
innocence were established, then he would punish those swine who threw
mud at him and his farm.
Albert slept in one of the attics with Jemmy and Pete. Reuben had no
intention of meeting him till he had something to confront him with, for
he was pretty sure that the boy would lie to him. He began turning the
room topsy-turvy, and had soon found in a drawer a heap of papers
scrawled over with writing. It was unlucky that he could not read, for
he could not even tell whether the handwriting were Albert's--these
might be some letters he had received. Suddenly, however, a word caught
his eye which he had seen a hundred times on hoardings, letters, bills,
and other documents--MacKinnon. He could trace it out quite clearly.
What had Albert to do with MacKinnon? Reuben clenched the papers
together in his fist, and went downstairs to the kitchen.
Albert was not there. All the better! Reuben strode up to Tilly, unaware
of how terrible he looked with the traces of his battle not yet washed
from his face, and banged the papers down in front of her.
"Wot's all this?"
Tilly was frightened.
"It's--it's only poetry, fäather."
"Read me some of it."
"It's only Albert's."
"That's why I want to hear wot it's about. You read it."
Tilly began to read in a faltering voice:
"If you'd know what the Colonel is, pray travel over
The Sluice at Scott's Float--and then drive on to Dover--
You'll find yourself quickly brought up by a Gate...."
Reuben struck his fist on the table, and she dropped the paper with a
little cry.
"It's true, then! Oh Lard! it's true!"
"Wot, fäather?"
"Them's Albert's verses right enough?"
"Yes, fäather, but----"
"Fetch him here."
Tilly was more frightened than ever. She had never heard anything about
the great Gate controversy, and could not understand why Reuben was so
angry with Albert. The verses seemed to her quite harmless, they were
not even about love. However, she could not disobey her father, so she
ran and fetched Albert out of the corn-chamber, begging him to be
careful what he said, "fur fäather's unaccountable vrothered to-night
about something."
"How did the Election go?"
"I never asked."
"Oh, you gals! Well, I expect that's wot's the matter. The Liberal's got
in."
"But why should that mäake fäather angry wud you?"
Albert stuck out his chest and looked important, as he invariably did
before an encounter with Reuben, in spite of the fact that these always
ended most ingloriously as far as he was concerned.
"He's bin reading some poetry of yours, Bertie," continued his sister,
"and he's justabout dreadful, all his clöathes tore about, and a nasty
mess of blood and yaller stuff on his face."
Albert suddenly began to look uneasy.
"Oh Lard! perhaps I'd better bolt fur it.--No, I'll square him out.
You'll stand by me, Tilly?"
"Yes, but döan't mäake him angry--he might beat you."
Bertie's pride was wounded by this suggestion, which was, however,
soundly based on precedent, and he entered the kitchen with something
very like a swagger.
Reuben was standing by the table, erect, and somehow dignified in spite
of the mess he was in.
"Well," he said slowly, "well--MacKinnon's hound!"
Albert saw the heap of scribbled paper on the table, and blenched.
Reuben walked up to him, took him by the shoulders, and shook him as a
dog might shake a rabbit.
"You hemmed, scummy, lousy Radical!"
Albert could not speak, for he felt as if his brains and teeth were
rattling about inside his head. The rest of the family hunched together
by the door, the boys gaping idiotically, the girls in tears.
"Well, wot've you got to say fur yourself before I kick you round the
table?"
"I'll write wot I please, surelye," growled Albert, trying rather
unsuccessfully to resume his swagger.
"Oh, will you! Well, there'll be naun to prevent you when you're out of
this house--and out you go to-night; I'll have no Radical hogs on my
farm. I'm shut of you!"
"Fäather!" cried Tilly.
"Hold your tongue! Does anyone here think I'm going to have a Radical
fur my son?--and a tedious lying traitor, too, wot helps his fäather's
enemies, and busts up the purtiest election that wur ever fought at Rye.
Do you say you didn't write those lousy verses wot have lost us
everything?"
"No--I döan't say it. I did write 'em. But it's all your fault that I
did--so you've no right to miscall me."
"My fault!"--Reuben's jaw dropped as he faced the upstart.
"Yes. You've allus treated me lik a dog, and laughed at my writing and
all I wanted to do. Then chaps came along as didn't laugh, and promised
me all sorts o' things if I'd write fur them."
"Wot sort o' things?"
"Mr. Hedges, the Liberal agent, promised that if I'd write fur him, he'd
git me work on a London paper, and I could mäake my fortune and be free
of all this."
"All wot?"
"Odiam!" shrieked Albert.
Reuben faced him with straight lips and dilated nostrils; the boy was
now quivering with passion, hatred seemed to have purged him of terror.
"Yes--Odiam!" he continued, clenching his fists--"that blasted farm of
yourn wot's the curse of us all. Here we're made to work, and never
given a penny fur our labour--we're treated worse than the lowest
farm-hands, like dogs, we are. Robert stole money to git away, and can
you wonder that when I see my chance I should täake it. I'm no
Radical--I döan't care one way or t'other--but when the Radicals offered
me money to write verses fur 'em, I wurn't going to say 'no.' They
promised to mäake my fortun, and save me from you and your old farm,
which I wish was in hell."
"Stop your ranting and tell me how the hogs got you."
"I met Mr. Hedges at the pub----"
"Wur it you or him wot thought of the Scott's Float Gëate?"
"I heard of it from old Pitcher down at Loose, and I töald Hedges. I
justabout----"
A terrific blow from Reuben cut him short.
§ 21.
The rest of the family had gone to bed, though scarcely to sleep. Reuben
had washed the blood and filth off his face, and had stripped to his
shirt, but he felt too sick and restless to lie down. He sat at his
window, staring out into the dark gulf of the night.
His skin burned, his pulses throbbed, in his head was a buzzing and
humming.
"Wished my farm wur in hell, dud he? He cursed my farm, dud he? The
young whelp!"
He peered out into the blackness. Was that something he saw moving
against the sky on the shoulder of Boarzell? It was too dark for him to
make sure. Where had Albert gone? To his Radical friends, of course.
They had offered to make his fortune--well, let them make it, and durn
them!
Two sons were gone now. Life was hitting him hard. But he would have no
traitors in his camp. Albert was his son no longer.
He bowed his head on the sill, and his throbbing brain revisualised the
whole horrible day. He owed the humiliation and defeat of it all to
Albert, who for the sake of money and a milk-and-water career, had
betrayed Odiam's glory, and foully smirched its name.
There was no denying it--he had been basely dealt with by his elder
children. Robert was in prison, Albert existed no longer except in the
memory of a bitter disgrace, Richard was contemptuous, and, his father
suspected, up to nothing good.... And he had looked to them all to stand
and fight by his side, to feel his ambition, and share his conquest.
Pete was a good lad, but what was one where there should have been four?
He could not deny it--his elder children had failed him.
Something almost like a sob shook Reuben. Then, ashamed of his weakness,
he raised his head, and saw that behind Boarzell the night had lifted,
and a cowslip paleness was creeping into the sky. The great dark hump of
the Moor showed clearly against it with its tuft of firs. A faint thrill
stole through Reuben's tired limbs. Boarzell was always there to be
loved and fought for, even if he had no heart or arm but his own.
Gradually hope stirred as the dawn crept among the clouds. The wind came
rustling and whiffling to him over the heather, bringing him the rich
damp smell of the earth he loved.
Oh, Boarzell, Boarzell!... his love, his dream, his promised land, lying
there in the cold white hope of morning! No degenerate sons could rob
him of his Moor, though they might leave him terribly alone on it. After
all, better be alone with his ambition, than share it with their
defiling thoughts, their sordid, humdrum, milk-and-water schemes. In
future he would try no more to interest his children in Boarzell. He had
tried to thrill Robert and Albert and Richard with his glorious
enterprise, and they had all forsaken him--one for love, one for fame,
and one for some still unknown unworthiness. He would not trouble about
the others; they should serve him for no other reason but that he was a
hard master. He had been hard with the three boys, but he had been
exciting and confiding too. Now he would drop all that. He would cease
to look for comradeship in his children, as years ago he had ceased to
look for it in his wife. It would be enough if they were just slaves
working under his whip. He had been a fool to expect sympathy....
Boarzell, looming blacker and blacker against the glowing pinks and
purples of the sky, seemed to mock at sympathy and its cheap colours,
seemed to bid him Be Hard, Be Strong, Be Remorseless--Be Alone.