BOOK VII

THE END IN SIGHT

§ 1.

The next five years were comparatively uneventful. All that stood out of

them was the steady progress of the farm. It fattened, it grew, it crept

up Boarzell as the slow tides softly flood a rock.

Reuben was now alone at Odiam with his two small children and Harry.

David and Bill, unlike their predecessors, did not start their career as

farm-hands till well past babyhood. Reuben no longer economised in

labour--he had nearly a dozen men in regular employ, to say nothing of

casuals. Sometimes he thought regretfully of the stalwart sons who were

to have worked for him, to have run the farm without any outside help

... but that dream belonged to bygone days, and he resolutely put it

from him. After all, his posse of farm-hands was the envy of the

neighbourhood; no one in Peasmarsh employed so many.

Reuben himself was still able for a great deal of work. Though over

sixty, he still had much of the vigour, as he had all the straightness,

of his youth. Work had not bent him and crippled him, as it had crippled

Beatup, his junior by several years. The furnace of his pride and

resolution seemed to have dried the damps steamed up by the earth from

her revengeful wounds, so that rheumatism--the plague of the labourer on

the soil--had done no worse for him than shooting pains in the winter

with a slight thickening of his joints.

His hair had been grey for years, and as he grew older it did not

whiten, but stayed the colour of polished iron, straight, shining, and

thick as a boy's. He had lost two back teeth, and made a tremendous fuss

about them, saying it was all the fault of the dentist in Rye, who

preferred a shilling extraction to a threepenny lotion--but the rest of

his teeth were as good as ever, though at last a trifle discoloured by

smoking.

His face was a network of wrinkles. He was not the sort of countryman

whose skin old age stretches smoothly over the bones and reddens

benignly as a sun-warmed apple. On the contrary, he had grown swarthier

with the years, the ruddy tints had been hardened into the brown, and

from everywhere, from the corners of his eyes, of his mouth, of his

nose, across his forehead, along his cheeks, under his chin, spread a

web of lines, some mere hair-tracery on the surface, others wrinkled

deep, others ploughed in like the furrows of his own fields.

Harry had not aged so successfully. He was terribly bent, and some of

his joints were swollen grotesquely, though he had not had so much truck

as Reuben with the earth and her vapours. He was so thin that he

amounted to little more than shrivelled yellow skin over some twisted

bones, and yet he was wiry and clung desperately to life. Reuben was

sorry for this--his brother annoyed him. Harry grew more irritating with

old age. He still played his fiddle, though he had now forgotten every

semblance of a tune, and if it were taken away from him by some

desperate person he would raise such an outcry that it would soon be

restored as a lesser evil. He hardly ever spoke to anyone, but muttered

to himself. "Salvation's got me!" he would croak, for his mind had been

inexplicably stamped by Pete's outrage, and he forgot all about that

perpetual wedding which had puzzled him for so many years. "Salvation's

got me!" he would yell, suddenly waking in the middle of the

night--keeping the memory of the last traitor always green.

But it was for other reasons that Reuben most wished that Harry would

die. Harry was a false note, a discord in his now harmonious scheme. He

was a continual reminder of the power of Boarzell, and would

occasionally sweep Reuben's thoughts away from those fat corn-fields

licking at the crest to that earliest little patch down by Totease,

where the Moor had drunk up its first blood. He called himself a fool,

but he could not help seeing something sinister and fateful in Harry,

scraping tunelessly at his fiddle, or repeating over and over again some

wandering echo from the outside world which had managed to reach his

dungeoned brain. Reuben wished he would die, and so did the farm-boy who

slept with him, and the dairy-woman who fed him at meals.

The only people who would have been sorry if he had died were the

children. Harry was popular with them, as he had been with baby Fanny

long ago, because he made funny faces and emitted strange, unexpected

sounds. He was unlike the accepted variety of grown-up people, who were

seldom amusing or surprising, and one could take liberties with him,

such as one could not take with fäather or Maude. Also, being blind, one

could play on him the most fascinating tricks.

These tricks were never unkind, for David and William were the most

benevolent little boys. They saw life through a golden mist, it smelt of

milk and apples, it was full of soft lowings and bleatings and

cheepings, of gentle noses to stroke and little downy things to hold.

For the first time since it became Reuben's, Odiam made children happy.

The farm which had been a galley and a prison to those before them, was

an enchanted land of adventure to these two. Old Beatup, who remembered

earlier things, would sometimes smile when he saw them trotting hand in

hand about the yard, playing long hours in the orchard, and now and

then pleading as a special favour to be allowed to feed the chickens,

or help fetch the cows home. He seemed to see the farm peopled by little

ghosts who had never dared trot about aimlessly, or had time to play,

and had fed the fowls and fetched the cows not as a treat and an

adventure, but as a dreary part of the day's grind ... he reflected that

"the mäaster had learned summat by the others, surelye."

Of course, one reason why David and Billy were so free was because of

the growing prosperity of the farm, which no longer made it necessary to

save and scrape. But on the other hand, it was a fact that the mäaster

had learned summat by the others. He was resolved that, come what might,

he would keep these boys. They should not leave him like their brothers;

and since harshness had failed to keep those at home, he would now try a

slacker rule. He was growing old, and he wanted to think that at his

death Odiam would pass into loyal and loving hands, he wanted to think

of its great traditions being carried on in all their glory. Sometimes

he would have terrible dreams of Odiam being divided at his death, split

up into allotments and small-holdings, scrapped into building plots.

Such dreams made him look with hungry tenderness at the two little

figures trotting hand in hand about the orchard and the barns.

§ 2.

It was about that time that the great Lewin case came on at the Old

Bailey. The papers were full of it, and Reuben could not suppress a glow

of pride when Maude the dairy-woman read out the name of Richard

Backfield as junior counsel for the defence. But his pride was to be

still further exalted. The senior counsel collapsed with some serious

illness on the very eve of the trial, and Richard stepped into his

shoes. The papers were now full of his name, it was on everyone's lips

throughout the kingdom, and especially in the public-houses between Rye

and the Kent border. Men stopped drinking at the Cocks when Reuben came

in, and women ran down to their garden gates when he passed by. Reuben

himself did not say much, but he now regularly took in a daily paper,

and being able to recognise the name of Backfield in print, sat chasing

the magic word through dark labyrinths of type, counting the number of

its appearances and registering them on the back of his corn accounts.

"How's the Lewin cäase gitting on?" someone would ask at the Cocks, and

Reuben would answer:

"Valiant--my näum wur sixteen times in the päaper this mornun."

He almost taught himself to read by this means, for it was the first

time he had ever studied a printed page, and he had soon picked up

several words besides Backfield. Not that he took much interest in the

case beyond Richard's--that is to say, Odiam's--share in it, but soon it

became clear that Richard was leading it to marvellous developments.

Lewin was a bank-manager accused of colossal frauds, and Richard amazed

the country by dragging a couple of hitherto respected banking knights

into the business. At one time it was thought he would get an acquittal

by this, but Richard was a barrister, not a detective, and he

brilliantly got his client acquitted on a point of law, which though it

may have baffled a little the romantic enthusiasm of his newspaper

admirers, made his name one to conjure with in legal circles, so that

briefs were no longer matters of luck and prayer.

His fortune was made by the Lewin case. He wrote home and told his

father that he had now "arrived," and was going to marry Anne Bardon.

The excitement created by his defence of Lewin was nothing to that which

now raged in Rye and Peasmarsh. Reuben was besieged by the curious, who

found relief for a slight alloy of envy by pointing out how

unaccountable well the young man had done for himself by running away.

"Reckon you dudn't think as how it 'ud turn out lik this, or you wudn't

have been in such tedious heart about it."

"I can't say as I'm pleased at his marrying Miss Bardon," Reuben would

say. "She's ten year older than he if she's a day. 'Twas she who asked

him, I reckon. He could have done better fur himself if he'd stayed at

höame."

§ 3.

Reuben had bought thirty-five more acres of Boarzell in '81, and thirty

in '84. The first piece was on the Flightshot side of the Moor, by Cheat

Land, the second stretched from the new ground by Totease over to

Burntbarns. Now only about fifty acres, including the Fair-place and the

crest, remained to be won outside the Grandturzel inclosure. Bardon

publicly announced his intention never to sell the Fair-place to

Backfield. Flightshot and Odiam had not been drawn together by Richard's

marriage. At first Reuben had feared that the Squire might take

liberties on the strength of it, and had been stiffer than ever in his

unavoidable intercourse with the Manor. But Bardon had been, if

anything, stiffer still. He thoroughly disapproved of Backfield as an

employer of labour--some of his men were housed, with their families, in

two old barns converted into cottages at the cheapest rate--and as he

was too hard up to refuse to sell him Boarzell, he could express his

disgust only by his attitude. Fine shades of manner were apt to be lost

on Reuben, but about the refusal to sell the Fair-place there could be

no mistake.

Meantime he cast covetous and hopeful eyes on the Grandturzel inclosure.

Realf was doing nothing with it, and his affairs were not so prosperous

as they used to be. His abandonment of the struggle had not changed his

luck, and a run of bad luck--the usual farmer's tale of poor harvests,

dead cows, blighted orchards, and low prices--had plunged Grandturzel

nearly as deep as Odiam had once been. Realf had shown himself without

recuperative powers; he economised, but inefficiently, and Reuben

foresaw that the day would come when he would be forced to part with

some of his land. He was in no immediate hurry for this, as he would be

all the readier to spend his money in a few years' time, but

occasionally he gave himself the treat of going up to the Grandturzel

inclosure and inspecting it from the fence, planning exactly what he

would do with it when it was his.

More than once Realf and Tilly saw him in the distance, a tall, sinister

figure, haunting their northern boundaries.

"Fäather's after our land," said Tilly, and shuddered.

§ 4.

The little boys grew big and went to school. This time it was not to the

dame's school in the village, for that had collapsed before the new

board-school which had risen to madden Reuben's eyes with the spectacle

of an educated populace. They went to Rye Grammar School and learned

Latin and Greek like gentlemen. There was something new in Reuben's

attitude towards these boys, for his indulgence had deeper roots than

expediency. Sometimes of an evening he would go to the bottom of the

Totease lane, where it joins the Peasmarsh road, and wait there for his

sons' return. They would see him afar off, and run to meet him, and they

would all three walk home together, arm-in-arm perhaps.

He would have been exceedingly indignant if in bygone days anyone had

ever hinted that he did not love the sons and daughters whom he had

beaten, kicked out of doors, frustrated, suppressed, or driven to

calamity. All the same, he acknowledged that there was a difference

between his feelings towards Rose's children and Naomi's. Though Naomi

was the wife more pleasant to remember, Rose's were the children he

loved best. They had not grown up in the least like her, and he was glad

of that, for he would have hated to confront again her careless, lovely

face, or the provoking little teeth of her smile; they were Backfields,

dark of hair and swarthy of skin, David with grey eyes, William with

brown.

When he saw them running along the lane from school, or tramping the

fields together--they were always together--or helping with the hops or

the hay, his heart would stir with a warm, unwonted sense of fatherhood,

not just the proud paternal impulse which had visited him when he held

his new-born babies in his arms, but something belonging more to the

future than the present, to the days when they should carry on Odiam

after his death. For the first time he had sons whom he looked upon not

merely as labourers to help him in his work, but as men created in his

own image to inherit that work and reap its fruits when he was gone.

He was pleased to see their evident love of the farm. They begged him

not to keep them too long at school, for they wanted to come home and

work on Odiam. So he took David away when he was sixteen, and William

when he was fifteen the next year.

Meantime it seemed as if in spite of his absorption in his new family he

was not to be entirely cut off from the old. In the summer of '87, just

after the Jubilee, he had a letter from Richard, announcing that he and

his wife were coming for a week or so to Rye. Reuben had not heard of

Richard for some years, and had not seen him since he left Odiam--he had

been asked to the wedding, but had refused to go. Now Richard expressed

the hope that he would soon see his father. His was a nature that

mellows and softens in prosperity, and though he had not forgotten the

miseries of his youth, he was too happy to let them stand between him

and Reuben now that they were only memories.

Anne was not so disposed to forgive--she had her brother's score as well

as her husband's to settle, and concealed from no one that she thought

her father-in-law a brutal and conscienceless old slave-driver whose

success was a slur on the methods of Providence. She refused to

accompany Richard on his first visit to Odiam, but spent the afternoon

at Flightshot, while he tramped with Reuben over the land that had once

been so hateful to him.

Reuben, though he would not have confessed it, was much taken with his

son's appearance. Richard looked taller, which was probably because he

held himself better, more proudly erect; his face seemed also subtly

changed; he had almost a legal profile, due partly no doubt to a

gold-rimmed pince-nez. He looked astonishingly clean-shaven, he wore

good clothes, and his hands were slim and white, not a trace of

uncongenial work remaining. He had quite lost his Sussex accent, and

Reuben vaguely felt that he was a credit to him.

Their attitude, at first constrained, soon became more cordial than

either would have thought possible in earlier days. Richard made no

tactless references to his brothers and sisters, and admired and praised

everything, even the pigsties that had used to make him sick. They went

out into the fields and inspected the late lambs, Richard showing that

he had lost every trace of shepherd-lore that had ever been his. His

remarks on shearing gave Reuben a very bad opinion of the English Bar;

however, they parted in a riot of mutual civility, and Richard asked his

father to dine with him at the Mermaid in a couple of days.

Anne was furious when she heard of the invitation.

"You know I don't want to meet your father--and I'm sure he'll disgrace

us."

"He's more likely to amuse us," said Richard; "he's a character, and I

shall enjoy studying him for the first time from an unbiassed

view-point."

"It won't be unbiassed if he disgraces us."

However, Reuben did not disgrace them. On the contrary, more than one

admiring glance drifted to the Backfields' table, and remarks were

overheard about "that picturesque old man." Reuben had dressed himself

with care in a suit of dark grey cloth and the flowered waistcoat he had

bought when he married Rose. His collar was so high and stiff that he

could hardly get his chin over it, his hair was brushed and oiled till

its grey thickness shone like the sides of a man-o'-war, and his hands

looked quite clean by artificial light.

Richard had invited his young half-brothers too, for they had been at

school when he visited Odiam. They struck him as quite ordinary-looking

boys, dressed in modern reach-me-downs, and only partially inheriting

their father's good looks. As for them, they were cowed and abashed past

all words. It seemed incredible that this resplendent being in the white

shirt-front and gold-rimmed eye-glasses was their brother, and the lady

with the hooked nose and the diamonds their sister-in-law. They scarcely

ventured to speak, and were appalled by the knives and forks and glasses

that lay between them and their dinner.

Reuben too was appalled by them, but would not for worlds have shown it.

He attacked the knives and forks with such vigour that he did not get

really involved in them till the joint, and as he refused no drink the

waiter offered he soon had all his glasses harmlessly occupied. Nor was

he at a loss for conversation. He was resolved that neither Richard nor

Anne should ignore the greatness of his farm; if only he could stir up

a spark of home-sickness in his son's white-shirted breast, his triumph

would be complete.

"I reckon I'm through wud my bad luck now--Odiam's doing valiant. I'm

shut of all the lazy-bones, Grandturzel's beat, and I've naun to stand

agäunst me."

"What about Nature?" asked Richard, readjusting his pince-nez and

thrusting forward his chin, whereby it was always known in court that he

meant to "draw out" the witness.

"Nature!" snorted Reuben--"wot's Nature, I'd lik to know?"

"The last word on most subjects," said Richard.

"Well, is it? I reckon it äun't the last word on your wife."

"I beg your pardon!"--Anne's chin came forward so like Richard's that

one might gather he had borrowed the trick from her.

"Well, 'carding to Nature, ma'am, and saving your presence, you're

forty-five year if you're a day. I remember the very 'casion you wur

born. Well, if I may be so bold, you döan't look past thirty. How's

that? Just because you know some dodges worth two of Nature's, you've a

way of gitting even wud her. Now if a lady can bust Nature at her

dressing-täable, I reckon I can bust her on my farm."

"This is most interesting," said Anne icily, raising her lorgnette and

looking at Reuben as if he were a bad smell.

"He means to be complimentary," said Richard.

"Reckon I do!" cried Reuben genially, warmed by various liquors--"naun

shall say I döan't know a fine woman when I see one. And I reckon as me

and my darter-in-law are out after the säum thing--and that's the

beating of Nature, wot you seem to set such a store by, Richard."

"Well, she'll have you both in the end, anyhow."

"She! no--she wöan't git me."

"She'll get you when you die."

"Oh, I döan't count that--that's going to good earth."

"Perhaps she'll get you before then."

Reuben banged the table with his fist.

"I'm hemmed if she does. She'd have got me long ago if she'd ever been

going to--when I wur young and my own hot blood wur lik to betray me.

But I settled her then, and I'll settle her to the end of time. Mark my

words, Richard my boy, there's always some way of gitting even wud her.

Wot's nature?--nature's a thing; and a man's a--why he's a man, and he

can always go one better than a thing. Nature mäakes potato-blight, so

man mäakes Bordeaux spray; nature mäakes calf-husk, so man mäakes

linseed oil; nature mäakes lice, so man mäakes lice-killer. Man's the

better of nature all along, and I döan't mind proving it."

Having thus delivered himself under the combined fire of the lorgnette

and the pince-nez, Reuben poured himself out half a tumblerful of _crème

de menthe_ and drank the healths of them both with their children,

whereat Anne rose quickly from the table and sought refuge in the

drawing-room.

It was after ten o'clock when her father-in-law and his two silent boys

climbed into their trap and started homewards over the clattering

cobbles of Mermaid Street. In the trap the two silent boys found their

tongues, and fell to discussing their brother Richard in awestruck

voices. They whispered about his dinner, his wife, his hands, his

eye-glasses, his voice, while old Dorrington picked his way up Playden

Hill in the white starshine. Reuben heard them as if in a dream as he

leaned forward over the reins, his eyes fixed on Capella, bright and

cold above Bannister's Town. He had drunk more liberally and more

variously than he had ever drunk in his life, but he carried his liquor

well, and all he was conscious of was a slight exaltation, a feeling of

triumph, as if all these huddled woods, lightless farms, and cold

winking stars were in some strange way his by conquest, the tokens of

his honour. The wind lapped round him, baffing at his neck--it sighed in

the woods, and rocked them gently towards the east. In the south Orion

hung above Stonelink, with Sirius at the end of his sword ... the

constellation of the Ram was high....

Then suddenly his sons' voices floated up to him in his dream.

"I wish I could be like Richard, Bill."

"So do I--but I reckon we never shall."

"Not if we stick to the farm. Did you notice that ring on his little

finger?"

"Yes, quite a plain one, but it looked justabout fine."

"And he had a gold watch-chain across his waistcoat."

"I reckon he's done well fur himself by running away."

"Yes, if he'd stayed he'd never have married Miss Bardon and had his

name in all the papers."

"We'll never do anything fur ourselves if we stay at Odiam."

"No--but we'll have to stay. Fäather will make us."

"He couldn't make Richard stay."

Reuben listened as if in a nightmare--the blood in his veins seemed to

turn to ice. He could hardly believe his ears.

"Richard's made his fortune by quitting Odiam. 'Tis a good place, but

he'd never have done half so valiant for himself if he'd stayed."

Reuben pulled himself together, and swinging round cuffed both speakers

unaccustomedly.

"Döan't let me hear another word of that hemmed nonsense. If you think

as Richard's bettered himself by running away from Odiam, you're

unaccountable mistaken. Wot's a dirty lawyer compared wud a farmer as

farms three hundred acres, and owns 'em into the bargain? All my boys

have busted and ruined them selves by running away--Richard's the only

one that's done anything wotsumdever ... and if he's done well, there's

one as has done better, and that's his fäather wot stayed at home."

§ 5.

About three years later Sir Ralph Bardon died. He died of typhus caught

on one of Reuben's insanitary cottages, where he had been nursing a sick

boy. The village was inclined to look upon him as a martyr and Reuben as

his murderer, but Reuben himself preserved a contemptuous attitude. "If

I'd wanted anything as much as he wanted them houses o' mine, I'm hemmed

if I wudn't have had 'em," he said, "and all he could do wur to die of

'em"--and he spat.

Sir Ralph had never married and there was no direct heir; Anne was about

as likely to produce offspring as a Latin grammar, and the property went

to a distant cousin, Eustace Fleet. The very name of Bardon was now

extinct. For two hundred years it had been coupled with Flightshot and

Whig politics and the idea of a gentleman, till the last had finally

been the downfall of the other two. The race of Bardon had died of its

own virtues.

Reuben's hopes of the Fair-place now revived, and he at once approached

the new Squire with a view to purchase; but Sir Eustace turned out to be

quite as wrong-headed as Sir Ralph on the matter of popular rights.

"Of course I know the Fair has no legal title to this ground, but one

must respect public feeling. I will sell you the forty acres adjoining

the crest with pleasure, Mr. Backfield, they are no use to me, and you

certainly seem to do wonders with the land when you get it--but the

Place itself must be preserved for the people. I'm sure you understand."

Reuben didn't, nor pretended that he did.

He started licking his forty acres into shape, with many inward vows

that he would have the rest of them soon, he was hemmed if he didn't. He

was on the high ground now, he could throw a stone into the clump of

firs which still mocked his endeavours. The soil was all hard and

flinty, matted with heather roots and the fibres of gorse. Reuben's men

grumbled and cursed as the earth crumbled and rattled against their

spades, which sometimes broke on the big flints and bits of limestone.

They scoffed incredulously when old Beatup told them that the lower

pastures and the Totease oatfields had once been like this.

Boarzell was almost unrecognisable now. When one climbed the Forstal

Hill behind Peasmarsh and looked southward, one no longer saw a great

roughness of Moor couching like something wild and untrapped in the

midst of the tame fields and domestic cottages. The fields had licked up

its sides till all they had left was the brown and golden crest with its

central clump of firs. Behind this to the north was the Grandturzel

inclosure, but Reuben's land was nibbling round the edge of it, and

everyone knew that Grandturzel would not be able to hold out much

longer.

Opinion in Peasmarsh was divided. There was a general grudging

admiration of the man who seemed able, in defiance of the Scriptures, to

make Leviathan his servant. No one could deny that Backfield had

performed a job which the neighbourhood from the first had declared to

be impossible. He was disliked--not because anyone particularly envied

him the land he bought so eagerly and so strenuously shaped, but because

of his utter disregard of what other men prized and his willingness to

sacrifice it for the sake of what they did not prize at all. He was a

living insult to their hearths, their homes, their wives, their

children, their harmless recreations, the delights of their flesh, all

those things which he had so readily set aside to win his great

ambition. It was not for what he wanted that they hated him so much as

for the things he did not want.

However, everyone viewed with dislike and suspicion his covetous eye

cast on the Fair-place. He might have the rest of Boarzell and welcome,

for no other man had any use for flints, but the Fair was sacred to them

through the generations, and they gauged his sacrilegious desire to rob

them of it for his own ends. He might have the Grandturzel inclosure,

though all the village sympathised with the beaten Realf--beaten, they

said, because he hadn't it in him to be as hard-hearted as the old

Gorilla, and sacrifice his wife and children to his farm--but they would

far rather see Grandturzel swallowed up than Boarzell Fair.

When his failure to buy the crest became known there were great

rejoicings throughout Peasmarsh. The Fair that year was more than

usually crowded, and the merriment was increased by the sight of Reuben

stalking among the booths, and glaring at them as if he wished them all

at blazes.

§ 6.

The boys were now sixteen and eighteen, fine, manly young fellows,

working cheerfully on Odiam and rejoicing their father's heart. Reuben

watched over them sometimes with an odd kind of anxiety--they were so

satisfactory that he felt it could not last. He remembered that

conversation he had overheard in the trap on the way home from Rye, and

though nothing had happened since to remind him of it or cause him fresh

alarm, he could never quite shake off the cold thrills it had given him.

Besides, David and William had come to a dangerous age, they were

beginning to form opinions and ideas of their own, they were beginning

to choose their own friends and pastimes. But what Reuben distrusted

most was their affection for each other, it was more fundamental to his

anxieties than any outside independence. From childhood they had been

inseparable, but in past years he had put this down to the common

interests of their play, for there were few boys of their own age on the

neighbouring farms. But now they were grown up the devotion

persisted--they still did everything together, work or play. Reuben knew

that they had secrets from him, their union gave him a sense of

isolation. They were fond of him, but he was not to them what they were

to each other, and his remoteness seemed to grow with the years.

In his alarm he made plans to separate them. He discovered that the big

attic they slept in was not healthy, and moved their beds to two rooms

divided by his own. He now felt that he had put an end to those bedtime

conferences which must have done so much to unite the brothers and set

him at a distance.

His vigilance increased when their first love affairs began. At first

they would gabble innocently to him about pretty girls they had seen in

Rye, but they soon found out such conversation was most unwelcome.

Reuben looked upon love as the biggest curse and snare of life; if David

and William fell in love they would lose interest in Odiam, they would

do something silly like Robert, or mad like Caro, or bad like Rose. Love

was the enemy of Odiam, and Reuben having trodden it down himself was

not going to see it rise and stamp on his boys. He gave them the benefit

of his experience in no measured terms:

"If you fall in love wud a gal you can't say no to her, and she'll find

it out lamentable soon. When either of you boys finds a nice strong,

sensible gal, wud a bit o' money, and not self-willed, such as 'ull be a

good darter-in-law' to me, I shan't have nothing to say agäunst it. But

döan't you go running after petticoats and mäake fools of yourselves and

disgrace Odiam, and call it being in love. Love mäakes you soft, and if

you're soft you might just as well be buried fur all the good you're

likely to do yourself."

David and William seemed much impressed, and Reuben congratulated

himself. Two days later he went into the dairy to give an order, and saw

one of the dairy girls bending over a pan of cream. Something in her

attitude and in the soft curly down on the nape of her neck reminded him

of Naomi and that early courting scene, now nearly fifty years ago; but

before he had time to recall it, David came in by another door, not

seeing his father, and running lightly up to the dairymaid suddenly

kissed the back of her neck and ran away. She turned round with a

scream, just in time to see him disappearing through one door, while in

the other stood Reuben with grimly folded arms. He gave her a week's

wages and sent her away.

"Where's Agnes?" asked David with laboured carelessness a day or two

later.

"She wasted her time," said Reuben, "so I got shut of her."

"She's gone!"

"Yes--back to her parents at Tonbridge"--and Reuben grinned.

David said no more, but for the rest of the day he seemed glum and

abstracted. In the evening Reuben found him sitting at the corn

accounts, staring through the open window into the dusk.

"Wot's fretting you, boy?" he asked.

"Naun--I'm thinking."

Once or twice Reuben caught him in the same mood, and questioned him.

But David still answered:

"I'm thinking."

§ 7.

That autumn David and William went to Newhaven to see the Rye Football

Club play the West Sussex United. They had more than once gone on such

jaunts together, and on this occasion, trains being difficult, they put

up for the night at a small hotel near the port. It was the first time

they had spent a night away from Odiam, and a certain thrill attached to

it.

When the match was over they went for a stroll on the parade. There was

not much daylight left, but the evening was warm, and the parade was

crowded with saunterers. The young men were glad to think that there was

no homeward train to be caught, or account of the day's doings to be

given to their father. He always asked minutely how they spent their

time, and it annoyed them a little.

To-night they would walk and sit on the parade till supper time, then go

to some coffee-house, and wind up at a music-hall. It was a gay

programme and they discussed it happily, glanced at the passers-by,

inspected the empty bandstand, and finally sat down on one of the seats

to watch the fishing-boats trim their lamps in the amethyst fog of the

sea. For some time they talked about the terrible licking the United had

given Rye, arguing about this or that player, and speculating as to what

would be the Club's fate at Hythe next week.

It was David who drew William's attention to the woman sitting at the

other end of their seat. David piqued himself on his knowledge of the

world.

"She's a--you know," he said.

William peeped round his brother's shoulder.

"How can you tell?"

"Why, you kid, it's as plain as the nose on your face--look at her

paint."

Bill looked, his eyes opening wider than ever. She certainly was a

disreputable female, or there was no judging by appearances. She wore a

big frowsy hat trimmed with roses and ears of corn, under which her

thick black hair was held up by several tawdry pins; her face was more

lavishly than artistically adorned with rouge and _blanc de perle_, and

she pulled a cape of lavender velvet closely round her shoulders as if

she were cold--which might well have been, for, as far as they could

see, her bodice consisted almost entirely of lace.

"It's early for her to be prowling," said the man of the world. "I

reckon she's having just a breath of fresh air before she starts work."

"Where'll she go then?" asked Billy.

"Oh, to the more crowded streets, round about the pubs and that."

"I wonder how much she mäakes at it."

"Not much, I reckon. She's a very low-class sort, and not at all young."

"Täake care--she might hear you."

"Oh, don't you worry," said the lady blandly; "I like listening to you,

and I was only waiting till you'd stopped before I introduced myself."

Bill gasped, and David forgot that he was a man of the world, and sidled

against his brother.

"Don't you know me?" continued the siren, tilting her hat back from her

face.

"No-o-o."

"Ever heard of your sister Caro?"

Both boys started, and stared at her in utter blankness.

"Well, it wasn't to be expected as you'd recognise me. You were only

little boys, and I've changed a bit. Maybe I shouldn't have spoken to

you--got no decent feelings, some people would say; but I justabout

couldn't help it. I heard you call each other David and Bill, and talk

about Odiam and that, so I'd have known you even if you hadn't been the

dead spit of your father."

The boys still didn't seem to have much to say, so she continued:

"I heard of your brother Pete the other day--never knew he'd left home

till I saw his name down to preach at Piddinghoe Mission Hall last

month. He's called Salvation Pete now, as I daresay you know, and I half

thought of going to hear him, only times are so bad I couldn't afford an

evening off. When did he leave Odiam?--I should like some news of home."

"He quitted years ago, when we were little chaps. Salvation got him."

"I reckon that must have come hard on fäather--he always was

unaccountable set on Pete. Heard anything of Tilly lately?"

"No, nothing particular. But fäather's going to buy the Grandturzel

inclosure."

"And Rose?"

"Who's Rose?"

"Your mother, my precious innocents. But look here, you shall ask me to

supper--it'll only be doing the decent thing by me--and you shall tell

me about them all at Odiam--as used to be at Odiam, rather, for I reckon

there's nobody but yourselves there now."

David and William looked at each other uneasily; however, there was

nothing else to be done, and also a certain excitement and curiosity

inspired them. So they set out with Caro to an eating-house chosen by

herself in a small fish-smelling back street. They were much too

embarrassed to order supper, so Caro good-naturedly did this for

them--fish and chips, and three bottles of six ale.

"I don't often come here," she said--"this is a bit too classy for me. I

go mostly to the coffee stalls down by the harbour. You mustn't think as

I'm coining money at this, you know. I work mostly among the fishermen,

and they're a seedy lot. I started up town, but I'm not so young as I

was, and sometimes even at the harbour I find it unaccountable hard to

git off."

With the gas-light flaring on her raddled face, showing up mercilessly

the tawdriness and shoddiness of her clothes, which reeked of a cheap

scent, the boys did not find it hard to believe that she often had a

struggle to "git off "--indeed, it was a mystery how any man, however

unfastidious, however fuddled, could kiss or take kisses from this

bundle of rags and bones and paint. Caro seemed to notice the

disparaging look.

"Oh, I'm a bit off colour to-night, but I can tell you I was a fine girl

when I went away with Joe--and all the time I lived with him, too, first

at the Camber and then at New Romney; there was many as 'ud have been

proud to git me from him. But I stuck to him faithful, I did, till one

morning I woke up and found him gone, off on a voyage to

Australia--wonder if he met Robert--having given me over to a pal of his

for five pounds and a set of oilskins. Oh, I can tell you I took on

something awful--I wasn't used to men in those days. But Joe's pal he

was a decent chap--there was nothing the matter with him save that he

wasn't Joe. He was unaccountable good to me, and I stayed with him three

years--and then I hooked it, scarcely knew why. I got a post as barmaid

in Seaford, but the landlord took up with me and his missus chucked me

out. And now I'm here."

"Have--have you been here long?" stammered David, feeling he must say

something.

"Three year or so. I started up town. But we've spoken enough about me.

Let's hear about you, and the farm. How's Richard?"

The boys told her; they described their prosperous brother with his

white shirt-front, his pince-nez, his ring, and his high-born wife. As

they talked they grew more at their ease.

"Well," said Caro, "I reckon he got away in time."

"From what?"

"From Odiam, of course. I stayed too long. I stayed till I was half

killed by the place. If I'd gone off as a young girl I reckon I'd have

done well by myself, but I waited on till I was ready to take anything

that was going, and when you're like that it's too late."

"I shouldn't think Richard was sorry he left."

"No--and mark you, nor am I. It 'ud have been worse for me if I'd

stayed. I'm miserable in a different way from what I was there--somehow

the life's easier. I'm not happy, but I'm jolly. I'm not good, but I'm

pleasant-like. It's all a change for the better. See?"

"Then you don't wish as you wur back again?"

"Back! Back with fäather! Not me! Now let's hear some more about

him--does he ever speak to you of your mother?"

For the rest of the meal they discussed the absent ones--Rose, Robert,

Albert, Benjamin, Tilly, the boys hearing a great deal that had never

come to their ears before. Caro ordered two more bottles of six, and in

the end the party became quite convivial, and David and William,

forgetting the strangeness of it all, were sorry when their sister at

last stood up and announced that she must wobble off or she'd be late.

"You'll tell father you met me?" she said as they left the eating-house.

David and William looked at each other, and hesitated.

"You've no call to be ashamed of me," said Caro rather irritably.

"We--we äun't ashamed of you."

"That's right--for you've no call to be. I was driven to this, couldn't

help myself. Besides, I'm no worse than a lot of women wot you call

respectable--at least, I put some sort of a price on myself, if it's

only five shillings. Now good night, young men, and thank you for a

very pleasant evening. I don't suppose as you'll ever see me again. And

mind--you tell father as, no matter the life I lead and the knocks I

get, I've never once, not once, regretted the day I ran off from his old

farm. Now mind--you tell him that."

§ 8.

The boys told him. Reuben listened in silence save for one ejaculation

of "the dirty bitch!"

David nudged William.

"And she asked us particular to say as she'd never regretted the day she

left Odiam, or wished herself back there, nuther."

"She wur purty säafe to say that--for who'd have her back, I'd lik to

know? Larmentable creature she always wur, spanneling around lik a mangy

cat. Always thin and always miserable--I'm glad to be shut of her. But

she seemed cheery when you saw her?"

"Unaccountable cheery--and she drank three bottles of six ale."

"Um," said Reuben.

The boys had one or two secret talks about Caro. She also stimulated

that habit of "thinking" which their father so thoroughly disapproved

of. Somehow their encounter with her, combined with their encounter with

Richard, seemed to have modified their enthusiasm for Odiam. They could

not help comparing that supper at Newhaven with that dinner at Rye, and

wondering if it was true what she had said about Richard having got away

in time, whereas she had been too late.

"And yet she was glad she'd gone--she'd rather be free too late than not

at all."

"Bill, do you think that if we stay here, Odiam 'ull' do for us wot it

did for Caro?"

"I döan't think so. Fäather was much harder on Caro than he is on us."

"He's not hard on us--but he's unaccountable interfering; it maddens me

sometimes."

"Seems as if he didn't trust us--seems sometimes as if he was afraid

we'd go off like the others."

"Reckon he is--he saw how we envied Richard."

"Davy, it 'ud be cruel of us to go and leave him."

"I döan't say as I want to do that."

"Besides, it äun't likely as we'd do as well fur ourselves as Richard.

We've no Miss Bardon to trouble about us--reckon we'd come to grief like

Albert."

"Maybe we would."

§ 9.

Four years later Reuben bought the farmstead of Totease. Brazier died,

and the Manor, anxious as usual for ready money, put up his farm for

sale. It was a good place of about sixty acres, with some beautiful hop

gardens and plenty of water. Reuben felt that it would be unwise to

neglect such an opportunity for enlarging the boundaries of Odiam. He

outbid one or two small farmers, put the place under repair, engaged

more hands, and set to work to develop a large business in hops.

His enthusiasm was immense; he saw quicker returns from hops than from

anything else, and the sheltered position of Totease made it possible to

cover the whole of it with goldings and fuggles. He built a couple of

new oasts with concrete roofs, and announced his intention of engaging

London pickers that autumn. There was great perturbation at the

Rectory--the Manor had long since abandoned social crusades--because

Reuben housed these pickers indiscriminately in a barn. It was also said

that he underpaid them. The rector was quite insensible to his argument

that if a man were fool enough to work for two shillings a day, why

should wise men lose money by preventing him? Also he compelled no one

to come, so the indiscriminate sleepers were only, so to speak,

volunteers--and when the rector persisted he became coarse on the

subject.

His temper had grown a little difficult of late years--it had never been

a particularly pleasant one, but it had been fierce rather than quick.

His sons felt uneasily that they were partly responsible for this--they

irritated him by asserting their independence. Also he suspected them of

a lack of enthusiasm. He had tried to arrange a marriage for David with

the daughter of the new farmer at Kitchenhour. She was ten years older

than he, and not strikingly beautiful, but she satisfied Reuben's

requirements by being as strong as a horse and having a hundred a year

of her own. His indignation was immense when David refused this prize.

"I can't abear the sight of her."

"You'll git used to her, lad."

"Well, I want something better than that."

"She's got a hundred a year, and that 'ud mäake our fortunes at Odiam."

"Odiam's doing splendid--you don't want no more."

"I justabout do. I shan't be satisfied till I've bought up Grandturzel

säum as I've bought Totease."

"Well, I'm not going to sacrifice myself for Odiam, and you've no right

to ask me, dad."

"If I haven't got a right to ask you that, wot have I, I'd lik to know?"

§ 10.

In the spring of '99 old Jury died over at Cheat Land. His wife had died

a year or two earlier--Reuben had meant to go over and see Alice, but

the untimely calving of a new Alderney had put the idea entirely out of

his head. On this occasion, however, he attended the funeral, with the

other farmers of the district, and at the churchyard gate had a few

words with Alice before she went home.

She was a middle-aged woman now, but her eyes were as bright as ever,

which made her look strangely young. Her hair had turned very prettily

grey, she was fatter in the face, and on the whole looked well and

happy, in spite of her father's death. She told him she was going to

live at Rye--she had a tiny income, derived from Jury's life insurance,

and she meant to do art needlework for an ecclesiastical firm. Reuben

experienced a vague sense of annoyance--not that he wanted her to be

unhappy, but he felt that she had no right to happiness, going out into

the world, poor and alone, her parents dead, her life's love missed....

That summer the country was shaken by rumours of war, Reuben; having

more leisure on his hands, spent it in the study of his daily paper. He

could now read simple sentences, and considered himself quite an

educated man. When war at last broke out in South Africa he was

delighted. It was the best of all possible wars, organised by the best

of all possible Governments, under the best of all possible ministers.

Chamberlain became his hero--not that he understood or sympathised with

his Imperialism, but he admired him for his attitude towards the small

nations. He hated all talk about preserving the weak--such was not

nature's way, the way of farms; there the weakest always went to the

wall, and he could not see why different methods should obtain in the

world at large. If Reuben had been a politician he would have kept alive

no sick man of Europe, protected no down-trodden Balkan States. One of

the chief reasons why he wanted to see the Boers wiped out was because

they had muddled their colonisation, failed to establish themselves, or

to make of the arid veldt what he had made of Boarzell.

"They're no good, them Boers," he announced at the Cocks; "there they've

bin fur years and years, and they say as how that Transvaal's lik a

desert. They've got mizzling liddle farms such as I wudn't give sixpence

for--and all that gurt veldt's lik the palm of my hand, naun growing.

They döan't deserve to have a country."

He expressed himself so eloquently in this fashion that the member for

the Rye division of Sussex--the borough had been disenfranchised in

'85--asked him to speak at a recruiting meeting at the Court Hall.

Unluckily Reuben's views on recruiting were peculiar.

"Now's your chance," he announced to the assembled yokels; "corn prices

is going up, and every man who wants to do well by himself had better

grub his pastures and sow grain. Suppose we wur ever to fight the

French--who are looking justabout as ugly at us now as they did in

Boney's time--think wot it 'ud be if we had grain-stocks in the country,

and cud settle our own prices. My advice to the men of Rye is the same

as wot I gave in this very hall thirty-five years ago--sow grain, and

grain, and more grain."

The member, the colonel of the volunteers, and others present, pointed

out to Reuben afterwards that the situation was military, not

agricultural; but it was characteristic of him to see all situations

from the agricultural point of view. His old ideas of an agricultural

combine, which had fallen miserably to pieces in '65, now revived in all

their strength. He saw East Sussex as a country of organised

corn-growing, Odiam at the head. His rather eclectic newspaper reading

had impressed him with the idea that England was on the verge of war

with one or two European Powers, notably the French, whose ribald

gloatings over British disasters stirred up all the fury of the man who

had been born within range of the Napoleonic wars and bred on tales of

Boney and his atrocities.

He was dismayed by the lack of local enthusiasm. He dug up one or two of

his own pastures and planted wheat; he even sacrificed ten acres of his

precious hops, but nobody seemed inclined to follow his example. The

neighbourhood was ornately patriotic, flags flew from the oast-houses at

Socknersh, Union Jacks washed to delicate pastel shades by the

chastening rain--while the Standard misleadingly proclaimed that the

Royal Family was in residence at Burntbarns. On Odiam the boys sang:

"Goodbye, Dolly, I must leave you

Though it breaks my heart to go--

Something tells me I am wanted

At the Front to drive away the foe."

Some of them in fact did go. Others remained, and sang:

"Good-bye, my Bluebell, farewell to you,

One last long look into your eyes of blue--

'Mid camp-fires gleaming, 'mid shot and shell,

I will be dreaming of my own Bluebell."

§ 11.

Quite early in the war David and William walked home in silence after

seeing a troop-train off from Rye, then suddenly, when they came to

Odiam, shook hands.

"It's our chance," said Bill.

"We've waited for it long enough."

"I couldn't have stood much more, and this will be a good excuse."

"The old man 'ull take on no end--wot with his corn-growing plans and

that."

"Funny how he never seems to think of anything but Odiam."

"Strikes me as he's mad--got what you call a fixed idea, same as mad

people have."

"He's sensible enough--but he's unaccountable hard to live with."

"Yes--he's fair made me hate Odiam. I liked the place well enough when I

was a little lad, but he's made me sick of it. It's all very well

living on a farm and working on it, but when you're supposed to give up

your whole life to it and think of nothing else, well, it's too much."

"We won't tell him that, though, Davy--we'll make out as it's pure

patriotic feeling on our part."

"Yes; I don't want him to think we're set on getting away--but, by gum,

Bill! we are."

"If this war hadn't happened we'd have had to have thought of something

else."

So they went and broke their news to Reuben. They were careful and

considerate--but he was knocked out by the blow.

"Going!--both of you!" he cried.

"We feel we've got to. They want all the young men."

"But you could help your country just as well by staying at höame and

growing corn."

"You can grow corn without us--we're wanted out there."

"But you're all I've got--one go, and t'other stay."

"No, we must stick together."

"Oh, I know, I know--you've always thought more of each other than of

your father or of Odiam."

"Don't say that, dad--we care for you very much, and we're coming back."

"There's no one gone from here as has ever come back."

For the first time they noticed something of the cracked falsetto of old

age in his voice, generally so firm and ringing. Their hearts smote

them, but the instinct of self-preservation was stronger than pity. They

knew now for certain that if they stayed Odiam would devour them, or at

best they would escape maimed and only half alive. Either they must go

at once--in time, like Richard, or go in a few years--too late, like

Caro. Besides, the war called to their young blood; they thought of

guns and bayonets, camp-fires and battlefields, glory and victory. Their

youth called them, and even their father's game and militant old age

could not silence its bugles and fifes.

The next day they left Odiam for the recruiting station at Rye. Reuben

and the farm-hands watched them as they marched off whistling "Good-bye,

Dolly, I must leave you," shaking their shoulders in all the delight of

their new freedom. They had gone--as Albert had gone, as Robert, as

Richard, as Tilly, as Benjamin, as Caro, as Pete had gone. Reuben stood

erect and stiff, his eyes following them as they turned out of the drive

and disappeared down the Peasmarsh road.

When they were out of sight he walked slowly to the new ground near the

crest of Boarzell, which was being prepared for the winter wheat. He

made a sign to the man who was guiding the plough, and taking the

handles himself, shouted to the team. The plough went forward, the red

earth turned, sprinkled, creamed into long furrows, and soothed Reuben's

aching fatherhood with its moist fertile smell. It was the faithful

earth, which was his enemy and yet his comforter--which was always

there, though his children forsook him--the good earth to which he would

go at last.

§ 12.

Reuben was now alone at Odiam--for the first time. Of course Harry was

with him still, but Harry did not count. There was an extraordinary

vitality in him, none the less; it was as if the energies unused by his

brain were diverted to keep together his crumbled body. He grew more

shrivelled, more ape-like every day, and yet he persisted in life. He

still scraped at his fiddle, and would often sit for hours at a time

mumbling--"Only a poor old man--a poor old man--old man--old man," over

and over again, sometimes with a sudden shrill cry of "Salvation's got

me!" or "Another wedding!--we're always having weddings in this house."

His brother avoided him, and did his best to ignore him--he was the scar

of an old wound.

His loneliness seemed to drive Reuben closer to the earth. He still had

that divine sense of the earth being at once his enemy and his only

friend. Just as the gorse which murders the soil with its woody fibres

sweetens all the air with its fragrance, so Reuben when he fought the

harsh strangling powers of the ground also drank up its sweetness like

honey. He did not work so hard as formerly, though he could still dig

his furrow with the best of them--he knew that the days had come when he

must spare himself. But he maintained his intercourse with the earth by

means of long walks in the surrounding country.

Hitherto he had not gone much afield. If affairs had called him to

Battle, Robertsbridge, or Cranbrook, he had driven or ridden there as a

matter of business--he had seldom walked in the more distant bye-lanes,

or followed the field-paths beyond the marshes. Now he tramped over

nearly the whole country within a radius of ten miles--he was a tireless

walker, and when he came home knew only the healthy fatigue which is

more delight than pain and had rewarded his dripping exertions as a

young man.

He would walk southwards to Eggs Hole and Dinglesden, then across the

Tillingham marshes to Coldblow and Pound House, then over the Brede

River to Snailham, and turning up by Guestling Thorn, look down on

Hastings from the mill by Batchelor's Bump. Or he would go northwards to

strange ways in Kent, down to the Rother Marshes by Methersham and

Moon's Green, then over to Lambstand, and by side-tracks and bostals to

Benenden--back by Scullsgate and Nineveh, and the lonely Furnace road.

He learned to love the moving shadows of clouds travelling over a

sunlit view--to love ridged distances fading from dark bice, through

blue, to misty grey. He used to watch for the sparkle of light on far

cottage windows, the white sheen of farmhouse walls and the capped

turrets of oasts. But he loved best of all to feel the earth under his

cheek when he cast himself down, the smell of her teeming sap, the

sensation that he lay on a kind breast, generous and faithful. It was

strange that the result of all his battles should be this sense of

perfect union, this comfort in his loneliness. Reuben was not ashamed at

eighty years old to lie full length in some sun-hazed field, and stretch

his body over the grass, the better to feel that fertile quietness and

moist freshness which is the comfort of those who make the ground their

bed.

He never let anyone see him in these moments--somehow they were almost

sacred to him, the religion of his godless old age. But soon the more

distant cottagers came to know him by sight, and watch for the tall old

man who so often tramped past their doors. He always walked quickly, his

head erect, a stout ash stick in his hand. He was always alone--not even

a dog accompanied him. He wore dark corduroys, and either a wide-brimmed

felt hat, or no hat at all, proud of the luxuriance of his iron-grey

hair. They soon came to know who he was.

"'Tis old Mus' Backfield from Odiam farm by Peasmarsh. They say as he's

a hard man."

"They say as he's got the purtiest farm in Sussex--he's done wäonders

fur Odiam, surelye."

"But his wife and children's run away."

"They say he's a hard man."

"And he's allus alöan."

"He döan't seem to care for nobody--never gives you the good marnun."

"It's larmentäable to see an old feller lik that all alöan, wudout

friend nor kin."

"He's straight enough in spite of it all--game as a youngster he is."

§ 13.

Meanwhile the South African War dragged its muddled length from

Stormberg to Magersfontein, through Colenso to Spion Kop. It meant more

to Reuben than any earlier war--more than the Crimea, for then there

were no newspaper correspondents, more than the Indian Mutiny, for that

was with blacks, or the Franco-Prussian, for that was between furriners.

Besides, there were two additional factors of tremendous importance--he

could now spell out a good deal of his daily paper, and his sons were

both fighting. They had gone out early in November, and were very good

about writing to him.

They could afford to be generous now they were free, so they sent him

long letters, carefully printed out, as he could not read running hand.

They told him wonderful stories of camps and bivouacs, of skirmishes and

snipings. They enlarged on the grilling fierceness of the December sun

which had burnt their faces brick-red and peeled their noses--on the

flies which swarmed thicker by far than over Odiam midden--on the awful

dysentery that grabbed at half their pals--on the hypocritical Boers,

who read the Bible and used dum-dum bullets.

They came safely through Magersfontein, the only big encounter in which

they were both engaged. David was made a sergeant soon afterwards.

Reuben sent them out tobacco and chocolate, and contributed to funds for

supplying the troops with woollen comforts. He felt himself something of

a patriot, and would talk eagerly about "My son the Sergeant," or "My

boys out at the Front."

He was very busy over his new corn scheme, and as time went on came to

resent the attitude of the European Powers in not attacking England and

forcing her to subsist on her own grain supplies. All Europe hated

Britain, so his newspapers said, so why did not all Europe attack

Britain with its armies as well as with its Press? We would beat it, of

course--what was all Europe but a set of furriners?--meantime our

foreign wheat supplies would be cut off by the prowling navies of

France, Germany, Russia and everywhere else, which Reuben imagined

crowding the seas, while the true-born sons of Britain, sustaining

themselves for the first time on British-grown corn, and getting drunk

for the first time on beer innocent of foreign hop-substitutes, would

drive upstart Europe to its grave, and start a millennium of high prices

and heavy grain duties.

However, Europe was disobliging; corn prices hardly rose at all, and

Reuben was driven to the unwelcome thought that the only hope of the

British farmer was milk--at least, that was not likely ever to be

imported from abroad.

The year wore on. Kimberley and Ladysmith were relieved. Rye hung out

its flags, and sang "Dolly Grey" louder than ever. Then Mafeking was

saved, and a bonfire was lit up at Leasan House, in which a couple of

barns and some stables were accidentally involved. Everyone wore penny

medallion portraits of officers--Roberts and Baden-Powell were the

favourites at Odiam, which nearly came to blows with Burntbarns over the

rival merits of French. While Reuben himself bought a photograph of

Kitchener in a red, white, and blue frame.

Then suddenly an honour fell on Odiam. The War Office itself sent it a

telegram. But the honour was taken sadly, for the telegram announced

that Sergeant David Backfield had been killed in action at Laing's Nek.

§ 14.

It was not the first time death had visited Reuben, but it was the first

time death had touched him. His father's death, his mother's, George's,

Albert's, had all somehow seemed much more distant than this very

distant death in Africa. Even Naomi's had not impressed him so much with

sorrow for her loss as sorrow for the inadequacy of her life.

But David's death struck home. David and William were the only two

children whom he had really loved. They were his hope, his future. Once

again he tasted the agonies of bereaved fatherhood, with the added

tincture of hopelessness. He would never again see David's brown,

strong, merry face, hear his voice, build plans for him. For some days

the paternal feeling was so strong that he craved for his boy quite

apart from Odiam, just for himself. It had taken eighty years and his

son's death to make a father of him.

An added grief was the absence of a funeral. Reuben did not feel this as

the relief it would have been to some. He had given handsome and

expensive funerals to those not half so dear as this young man who had

been hurried into his soldier's grave on the lonely veldt. In course of

time William sent him a snapshot of the place, with its little wooden

cross. Reuben dictated a tremendously long letter through Maude the

dairy-woman, in which he said he wanted a marble head-stone put up, and

"of Odiam, Sussex," added to the inscription.

The neighbourhood pitied him in his loss. There was indeed something

rather pathetic about this old man of eighty, who had lost nearly all

his kith and kin, yet now tasted bereavement for the first time. They

noticed that he lost some of the erectness which had distinguished him,

the corners of his mouth drooped, and his hair, though persistently

thick, passed from iron grey to a dusty white.

One day when he was walking through the village he heard a woman say as

he passed--"There he goes! I pity un, poor old man!" The insult went

into him like a knife. He turned round and gave the woman his fiercest

scowl. Old indeed! Had one ever heard of such a thing! old!--and he

could guide the plough and dig furrows in the marl, and stack, and reap

with any of 'em. Old!--why, he was only--

--He was eighty. He suddenly realised that, after all, he _was_ old. He

did not carry himself as erectly as he had used; there were pains and

stiffness in his limbs and rheumatic swellings in his joints. His hair

was white, and his once lusty arms were now all shrivelled skin and

sinew, with the ossified veins standing out hard and grey. He was what

Harry was always calling himself--"only a poor old man"--a poor old man

who had lost his son, whom cottage women pitied from their

doorsteps--and be hemmed to them, the sluts!

§ 15.

Meantime affairs at Grandturzel were going from bad to worse. Reuben did

not speak much about Grandturzel, but he watched it all the same, and as

time wore on a look of quiet satisfaction would overspread his face when

it was mentioned at the Cocks. He watched the tiles drip gradually off

its barn roofs, he watched the thatch of its haggards peel and moult, he

watched the oasts lose their black coats of tar, while the wind battered

off their caps, and the skeleton poles stuck up forlornly from their

turrets. Holes wore in the neat house-front, windows were broken and not

mended, torn curtains waved signals of distress. It was only a question

of waiting.

Reuben often went to the Cocks, for he had heard it said that one's

beer-drinking capacities diminished with old age, and he was afraid that

if he stayed away, men would think it was on that account. So he went

frequently, particularly if the weather was of a kind to keep old people

at home. He did not talk much, preferring to listen to what was said,

sitting quietly at his table in the corner, with the quart of Barclay

and Perkins's mild which had been his evening drink from a boy.

It was at the Cocks that he learned most of Grandturzel's straits,

though he occasionally made visits of inspection. Realf had messed his

hops that autumn, and the popular verdict was that he could not possibly

hold out much longer.

"Wot'll become of him, I wäonder?" asked Hilder, the new man at

Socknersh.

"Someone 'ull buy him up, I reckon," and young Coalbran, who had

succeeded his father at Doozes, winked at the rest of the bar, and the

bar to a man turned round and stared at old Reuben, who drew himself up,

but said nothing.

"Wot d'you think of Grandturzel, Mus' Backfield?" someone asked

waggishly.

"Naun," said Reuben; "I'm waiting."

He did not have to wait long. A few days later he was told that somebody

wanted to see him, and in the parlour found his daughter Tilly.

He had seen Tilly at intervals through the years, but as he had never

allowed himself to give her more than a withering glance, he had not a

very definite idea of her. She was now nearly fifty-five, and more than

inclined to stoutness--indeed, her comfortable figure was almost

ludicrous compared with her haggard, anxious face, scored with lines and

patched with shadows. Her grey hair was thin, and straggled on her

forehead, her eyes had lost their brightness; yet there was nothing wild

or terrible about her face, it was just domesticity in desperation.

"Fäather," she said as Reuben came into the room.

"Well?"

"Henry döan't know I've come," she murmured helplessly.

"Wot have you come fur?"

"To ask you--to ask you--Oh, fäather!" she burst into tears, her broad

bosom heaved under her faded gown, and she pressed her hands against it

as if to keep it still.

"Döan't täake on lik that," said Reuben, "tell me wot you've come fur."

"I dursn't now--it's no use--you're a hard man."

"Then döan't come sobbing and howling in my parlour. You can go if

you've naun more to say."

She pulled herself together with an effort.

"I thought you might--perhaps you might help us ..."

Reuben said nothing:

"We're in a larmentable way up at Grandturzel."

Her father still said nothing.

"I döan't know how we shall pull through another year."

"Nor do I."

"Oh, fäather, döan't be so hard!"

"You said I wur a hard man."

"But you'll--you'll help us jest this once. I know you're angry wud me,

and maybe I've treated you badly. But after all, I'm your daughter, and

my children are your grandchildren."

"How many have you got?"

"Five--the youngest's rising ten."

There was a pause. Reuben walked over to the window and looked out.

Tilly stared at his back imploringly. If only he would help her with

some word or sign of understanding! But he would not--he had not

changed; she had forsaken him and married his rival, and he would never

forget or forgive.

She had been a fool to come, and she moved a step or two towards the

door. Then suddenly she remembered the anguish which had driven her to

Odiam. She had been frantic with grief for her husband and children;

only the thought of their need had made it possible for her to override

her inbred fear and dislike of Reuben and beg him to help them. She had

come, and since she had come it must not be in vain; the worst was over

now that she was actually here, that she had actually pleaded. She would

face it out.

"Fäather!" she called sharply.

He turned round.

"I thought maybe you'd lend us some money--just fur a time--till we're

straight agäun."

"You'd better ask somebody else."

"There's no one round here as can lend us wot we need--it's--it's a good

deal as we'll want to see us through."

"Can't you mortgage?"

"We are mortgaged--the last foot"--and she burst into tears again.

Reuben watched her for a minute or two in silence.

"You've bin a bad daughter," he said at last, "and you've got no right

to call on me. But I've had my plans for Grandturzel this long while."

She shuddered.

"This mortgage business alters 'em a bit. I'll have to think it over.

Maybe I'll let you hear to-morrow mornun."

"Oh, fäather, if only you'll do anything fur us, we'll bless you all our

lives."

"I döan't want you to bless me--and maybe you wöan't täake my terms."

"I reckon we haven't much choice," she said sorrowfully.

"Well, you've only got wot you desarve," said Reuben, turning to the

door.

Tilly opened her mouth to say something, but was wise, and held her

tongue.

§ 16.

The next morning Reuben sent his ultimatum to Grandturzel. He would pay

off Realf's mortgage and put the farm into thorough repair, on condition

that Grandturzel was made over to him, root, stock, crop, and inclosure,

as his own property--the Realfs to live in the dwelling-house rent free

and work the place for a monthly wage.

These rather strange terms had been the result of much thought on his

part. His original plan had been simply to buy the farm for as little

money as Realf would take, but Tilly's visit had inspired him with the

happy thought of getting it for nothing. As the land was mortgaged it

would be very difficult for Realf to find buyers, who would also be

discouraged by the farm's ruinous state of disrepair. Indeed, Reuben

thought himself rather generous to offer what he did. He might have

stipulated for Realf to pay him back in a given time part of the money

disbursed on his account. After all, mortgage and repairs would amount

to over a thousand pounds, so when he talked of getting the place for

nothing it was merely because the mortgage and the repairs would have to

be tackled anyhow. He had little fear of Realf's refusing his terms--not

only was he very unlikely to find another purchaser, but no one else

would let him stay on, still less pay him for doing so. Reuben had

thought of keeping him on as tenant, but had come to the conclusion that

such a position would make him too independent. He preferred rather to

have him as a kind of bailiff--the monthly, instead of the weekly, wage

making acceptance just possible for his pride.

Of course Reuben himself would rather have wandered roofless for the

rest of his life than live as a hireling on the farm which had once been

his own. But he hardly thought Realf would take such a stand--he would

consider his wife and children, and accept for their sakes. "If he's got

the sperrit to refuse I'll think better of him than I've ever thought in

my life, and offer him a thousand fur the pläace--but I reckon I'm purty

safe."

He was right. Realf accepted his offer, partly persuaded by Tilly. His

mortgage foreclosed in a couple of months, and he had no hopes of

renewing it. If he rejected Reuben's terms, he would probably soon find

himself worse off than ever--his farm gone with nothing to show for it,

and himself a penniless exile. On the other hand, his position as

bailiff, though ignominious, would at least leave him Grandturzel as his

home and a certain share in its management. He might be able to save

some money, and perhaps at last buy a small place of his own, and start

afresh.... He primed himself with such ideas to help drug his pride.

After all, he could not sacrifice his wife and children to make a

holiday for his self-respect. Tilly was past her prime, and not able for

much hard work, and though his eldest boys had enlisted, like Reuben's,

and were thus no longer on his mind, he had two marriageable girls at

home besides his youngest boy of ten. One's wife and children were more

to one than one's farm or one's position as a farmer--and if they were

not, they ought to be.

So a polite if rather cold letter was written accepting Odiam's

conditions, and Tilly thanked heaven that she had sacrificed herself and

gone to plead with her father.

§ 17.

The whole of Boarzell now belonged to Odiam, except the Fair-place at

the top. Reuben would stare covetously at the fir and gorse clump which

still defied him; but he had reached that point in a successful man's

development when he comes to believe in his own success; bit by bit he

had wrested Boarzell from the forces that held it, and he could not

think that one patch would withstand him to the end.

As luck would have it, the only piece that was not his was the Moor's

most characteristic feature, the knob of firs that made it a landmark

for miles round. While they still stood men could still talk of and

point at Boarzell, but when he had cut them down, grubbed up the gorse

at their roots, ploughed over their place--then Boarzell would be lost,

swallowed up in Odiam; it would be at most only a name, perhaps not even

that. Sometimes Reuben shook his fist at the fir clump and muttered,

"I'll have you yet, you see if I döan't, surelye."

Meantime he devoted his attention to the land he had just acquired. The

Grandturzel inclosure was put under cultivation like the rest of

Boarzell, and a stiff, tough, stony ground it proved, reviving all

Reuben's love of a fight. He was glad to have once more, as he put it, a

piece of land he could get his teeth into. Realf could not help a half

resentful admiration when he saw his father-in-law's ploughs tearing

through the flints, tumbling into long chocolate furrows what he had

always looked upon as an irreclaimable wilderness.

He accepted his position with a fairly good grace--to complain would

have made things worse for Tilly and the children. He was inclined

privately to scoff at some of Reuben's ideas on farming, but even as he

did so he realised the irony of it. He might have done otherwise, yes,

but he was kicked out of his farm, the servant of the man whose methods

he thought ridiculous.

Reuben on his side thought Realf a fool. He despised him for failing to

lift Grandturzel out of adversity, as he had lifted Odiam. He would not

have kept him on as bailiff if he had thought there would have

otherwise been any chance of his accepting Odiam's terms. He disliked

seeing him about the place, and did not find--as the neighbourhood

pictured he must--any satisfaction in watching his once triumphant rival

humbly performing the duties of a servant on the farm that used to be

his own. Reuben's hatreds were not personal, they were merely a question

of roods and acres, and when that side of them was appeased, nothing

remained. They were, like almost everything else of his, a question of

agriculture, and having now settled Realf agriculturally he had no

grudge against him personally.

About this time old Beatup died. He was Odiam's first hand, and had seen

the farm rise from sixty acres and a patch on Boarzell to two hundred

acres and nearly the whole Moor. Reuben was sorry to lose him, for he

was an old-fashioned servant--which meant that he gave much in the way

of work and asked little in the way of wages or rest. The young men

impudently demanded twenty shillings a week, wanted afternoons in the

town, and complained if he worked them overtime--there had never been

such a thing as overtime till board schools were started.

However, of late Beatup had been of very little use. He was some years

younger than Reuben, but he looked quite ten years older, and his figure

was almost exactly like an S. The earth had used him hardly, steaming

his bones into strange shapes and swellings, parching his skin to

something dark and crackled like burnt paper, filling him with stiffness

and pains. Reuben had straightened his shoulders, which had drooped a

little after David's death, and once more carried his old age proudly,

as the crown of a hale and strenuous life.

He looked forward to William coming back and settling down at Odiam. It

would be good to have companionship again. The end of the war was in

sight--only a guerilla campaign was being waged among the kopjes,

Kruger had fled from Pretoria, and everyone talked of Peace.

At last Peace became an accomplished fact. Reuben could not help a few

disloyal regrets that his corn-growing had been in vain, but he consoled

himself with the thought that now he would have William back in a few

weeks. He expected a letter from him, and grew irritable when none came.

Billy had not been so good about writing since David's death, but his

father thought that he at least might have written to announce his

return. As things were, he did not know when to expect him. He supposed

he was bound to get his discharge, and he would have heard if anything

had happened to him. Why did not William hurry home to share Odiam's

greatness with his old father?

At last the letter came. Reuben took it into the oast-barn to read it.

His hands trembled as he tore the envelope, and there was a dimness in

his eyes, so that he could scarcely make out the big printing hand. But

it was not the dimness of his eyes which was responsible for the

impossible thing he saw; at first he thought it must be, and rubbed

them--yet the unthinkable was still there. William was not coming back

at all.

"This place suits me, and I think I could do well for myself out

here. I feel I should get on better if I was my own master.... She

was good and sensible-like, and looked as if she could manage

things. So I married her.... We're starting up on a little farm

near Jo'burg ... I can't see it matters her being Dutch ... fifty

acres of pasture ... ten head of cattle ... niggers to work ..."

... The words danced and swam before Reuben, with black heaving spaces

between that grew wider and wider, till at last they swallowed him up.

For the first time in his life he had fainted.

§ 18.

Reuben's last hope was now gone--for his family, at least. He was forced

regretfully to the conclusion that he was not a successful family man.

Whatever methods he tried with his children, severity or indulgence, he

seemed bound to fail. He had had great expectations of David and

William, brought up, metaphorically, on cakes and ale, and they had

turned out as badly as Albert, Richard--Reuben still looked upon Richard

as a failure--Tilly, or Caro, who had been brought up, literally, on

cuffs and kicks.

And the moral of it all was--not to trust anyone but yourself to carry

on with you or after you the work of your life. Your ambition is

another's afterthought, your afterthought his ambition. He would not

give a halfpenny for that for which you would give your life. If you

have many little loves, you have always a comrade; if you have one great

love, you are always alone. This is the Law.

His pride would not let him give way to his grief. He was not going to

have any more of "Pity the poor old man." He mentioned William's

decision almost casually at the Cocks. However, he need not have been

afraid. "No more'n he desarves," was the universal comment ... "shameful

the way he treated Grandturzel" ... "no feeling fur his own kin" ...

"the young feller was wise not to come back." Indeed, locally the matter

was looked upon as a case of poetic justice, and the rector's sermon on

Sunday, treating of the wonderful sagacity of Providence, was taken,

rightly or wrongly, to have a personal application.

Meantime, in Reuben's heart was darkness. As was usual when any fear or

despair laid hold of him, he became obsessed by a terror of his old age.

Generally he felt so well and vigorous that he scarcely realised he was

eighty-two; but now he felt an old man, alone and childless. Harry's

reiterated "only a poor old man ... a poor old man," rang like a knell

in his ears. It was likely that he would not live much longer--he would

probably die with the crest of Boarzell yet unconquered. He made a new

will, leaving his property to William on condition that he came home to

take charge of it, and did not sell a single acre. If he refused these

conditions, he left it to Robert under similar ones, and failing him to

Richard. It was a sorry set of heirs, but there was no help for it, and

he signed his last will and testament with a grimace.

Fair day was to be a special holiday that year because of the

Coronation. Reuben at first thought that he would not go--it was always

maddening to see the booths and shows crowding over his Canaan, and

circumstances would make his feelings on this occasion ten times more

bitter. But he had never missed the Fair except for some special reason,

such as a funeral or an auction, and he felt that if he stayed away it

might be put down to low spirits at his son's desertion, or, worse

still, to his old age.

So he came, dressed in his best, as usual, with corduroy breeches,

leggings, wide soft hat, and the flowered waistcoat and tail-coat he had

refused to discard. He was no longer the centre of a group of farmers

discussing crops and weather and the latest improvements in

machinery--he stood and walked alone, inspecting the booths and

side-shows with a contemptuous eye, while the crowd stared at him

furtively and whispered when he passed ... "There he goes" ... "old Ben

Backfield up at Odiam." Reuben wondered if this was fame.

The Fair had moved still further with the times. The merry--go-round

organ played "Bluebell," "Dolly Grey," and "The Absent-Minded Beggar,"

the chief target in the shooting-gallery was Kruger, with Cronje and De

Wet as subordinates, and the Panorama showed Queen Victoria's funeral.

The fighting booth was hidden away still further, and dancing now only

started at nightfall. There were some new shows, too. The old-fashioned

thimble-rigging had given place to a modern swindle with tickets and a

dial; instead of the bearded woman or the pig-faced boy, one put a penny

in the slot and saw a lady undress--to a certain point. There was a

nigger in a fur-lined coat lecturing on a patent medicine, while the

stalls themselves were of a more utilitarian nature, selling whips and

trousers and balls of string, instead of the ribbon and gingerbread

fairings bought by lovers in days of old.

Reuben prowled up and down the streets of booths, grinned scornfully at

the efforts in the shooting gallery, watched a very poor fight in the

boxing tent, had a drink of beer and a meat pie, and came to the

conclusion that the Fair had gone terribly to pieces since his young

days.

He found his most congenial occupation in examining the soil on the

outskirts, and trying to gauge its possibilities. The top of Boarzell

was almost entirely lime--the region of the marl scarcely came beyond

the outskirts of the Fair. Of course the whole place was tangled and

matted with the roots of the gorse, and below them the spreading

toughness of the firs; Reuben fairly ached to have his spade in it. He

was kneeling down, crumbling some of the surface mould between his

fingers, when he suddenly noticed a clamour in the Fair behind him. The

vague continuous roar was punctuated by shrill screams, shouts, and an

occasional crash. He rose to his feet, and at the same moment a bunch of

women rushed out between the two nearest stalls, shrieking at the pitch

of their lungs.

They ran down towards the thickset hedge which divided the Fair-place

from Odiam's land, and to his horror began to try to force their way

through it, screaming piercingly the while. Reuben shouted to them:

"Stop--you're spoiling my hëadge!"

"He's after us--he'll catch us--O-o-oh!"

"Who's after you?"

But before they had time to answer, something burst from between the

stalls and ran down the darkling slope, brandishing a knife. It was

Mexico Bill, running amok, as he had sometimes run before, but on less

crowded occasions. The women sent up an ear-splitting yell, and made a

fresh onslaught on the hedge. Someone grabbed the half-breed from

behind, but his knife flashed, and the next moment he was free, dashing

through the gorse towards his victims.

Reuben was paralysed with horror. In another minute they would break

down his hedge--a good young hedge that had cost him a pretty penny--and

be all over his roots. For a moment he stood as if fixed to the spot,

then suddenly he pulled himself together. At all costs he must save his

roots. He could not tackle the women single-handed, so he must go for

the madman.

"Backfield's after him!"

The cry rose from the mass up at the stalls, as the big dark figure with

flapping hat-brim suddenly sprang out of the dusk and ran to meet Mexico

Bill. Reuben was an old man, and his arm had lost its cunning, but he

carried a stout ash stick and the maniac saw no one but the women at the

hedge. The next moment Reuben's stick had come against his forehead with

a terrific crack, and he had tumbled head over heels into a gorse-bush.

In another minute half the young men of the Fair were sitting on him,

and everyone else was crowding round Backfield, thanking him, praising

him, and shaking him by the hand. The women could hardly speak for

gratitude--he became a hero in their eyes, a knight at arms.... "To

think as how when all them young tellers up at the Fair wur no use, he

shud risk his life to save us--he's a präaper valiant man."

But Reuben hardly enjoyed his position as a hero. He succeeded in

breaking free from the crowd, now beginning to busy itself once more

with Mexico Bill, who was showing signs of returning consciousness, and

plunged into the mists that spread their frost-smelling curds over the

lower slopes of Boarzell.

"Thank heaven I saved them rootses!" he muttered as he walked.

Then suddenly his manner quickened; a kind of exaltation came into his

look, and he proudly jerked up his head:

"I'm not so old, then, after all."