THE UPPER AND THE NETHER STONES
The marsh-meeting was held at Pippin Hall, the principal farm at the
head of the bay, standing boldly on the edge of the sand and looking
strictly out to sea. From it the Lugg could be seen in all its length,
and the full sweep of the tide running between the narrow shores.
Willie Holliday held Pippin with his two sons, and for all that they
had harboured him as a child, they hadn’t a good word among them for
Cousin Brack of Thweng. Brack was always finding mares’ nests and
raising alarms, and generally trying to teach his grandmother. It
was just like Brack’s cheek to think he knew better than a couple of
Lancasters and the whole of the marsh-men put together!
A quiet little tide was washing under the Let as Lanty drew rein at the
farmyard gate. In the blurred distance the back of the Lugg rose from
the gently-heaving water like some zoological monster wading happily in
a tank. It had a drowsy air of good nature and content as the passing
wavelets slapped its side. There was no hint anywhere of tragedy or
fear. He had taken the matter far too seriously. Probably the farmers
thought him a fool for calling the meeting at all.
Certainly, the group in the yard was treating the affair as a huge
joke. Men were asking Will Holliday whether he did daily boat-drill
with his stock, and there was much laughter when the local wit, Thomas
Dennison of Lockholme, produced a life-belt, borrowed from the old Ship
Inn, and proceeded solemnly to try it on everybody in turn.
Bluecaster was there already. Lanty could see the black liveries in
front of the door. Bluecaster himself, in shabby riding-kit and any
sort of a hat, was bravely trying to dispense exactly the same amount
of attention to each tenant in turn, and chuckling appreciatively at
the trenchant wit of the older men. Yet he did not find the life-belt
quite as funny as the rest, Lancaster noticed with surprise. He had had
one or two narrow shaves out yachting, and was recounting them with
some earnestness when he caught sight of his agent, and came to meet
him with a touch of confusion. Lanty wondered a little as he handed
Blacker to Willie’s younger son.
There was about a dozen of them all told, including Wolf and Michael
from over the sand. Only Brack was missing, and even as they realised
it they heard his car on the flat road, and, a minute later, sitting
low in his seat, with his hat on one side and a cigarette at the
corner of his mouth, he swung gracefully round the stoup. It was a
very effective entrance--the pretty curve, the easy pull-up at exactly
the right point, the nod and the casual eyelids dropped in general
greeting, the flicking of ash with a ringed finger over the glossy
door--thoroughly well-staged in every detail. It was a pity that the
most important person present should have chosen that particular
moment for addressing a miserable barn-cat. Bluecaster had his own
methods of conveying his opinions, and he was certainly fronting the
right way a minute after, when Denny, carrying the belt like a floral
funeral-offering, deposited it mournfully upon Brack’s bonnet. Brack’s
temper was slightly on edge as he slid out of the car and stamped on
the cigarette.
He was a slim, dark young man, of the type glorified in tailors’
windows, and his neat suit and grey spats carried a suggestion of being
still behind plate-glass. He would have been an ordinary person of
rather vivid good looks but for his arresting eyes--of a clear, cold
gray, with the pupils very black and steady.
He lifted his hat to Bluecaster where his uncle had lifted a finger.
Bluecaster acknowledged gravely. To Lanty he nodded. Lancaster--there
is a whole code in the action--nodded back. After which they trooped
into the house.
Even there, though, settled round the kitchen table, with his lordship
at one end and the agent at the other, there was a frivolous tendency
to regard the meeting more as a friendly “crack” than a call to
business. It was some time before Bluecaster, at last allowing Brack’s
deeply-chagrined countenance to swim gently into his ken, hammered on
the table for silence. Then he got to his feet diffidently, stammering
and sticking a little, his glance travelling nervously from face to
face. He had Will Holliday on his right hand, and Dockeray on his left,
with Bownass of Moss End beyond, Bradley of Wilson Fold and old Simon
Farrer of Meadow’s Ing. They looked at each other stolidly, and said
“Ay, ay! Yon’s reet!” at intervals.
Brack was about the middle, with Wolf on one side and a joyful Holliday
cousin ready with gibes on the other. Denny sat directly across, and
pretended to be rowing hard whenever he thought Bluecaster wasn’t
looking. Brack stared over him and through him, and hated the whole lot
of them, lock, stock and barrel. It was a pity they were too stuck in
the mud to recognise real merit when they ran into it head first.
Lanty listened to Bluecaster’s speech with the faint discomfort that
he always experienced under his employer’s efforts. In the landlord’s
place, and in his own present grim mood, he would have told the lot of
them to stay and be drowned or clear out and be damned, but that wasn’t
Bluecaster’s way at all. On the contrary, he was always pathetically
anxious to carry a stray leg of anybody’s donkey.
A question had been raised about the Lugg, he told them--was it really
as safe as was made out? There was an old theory just brought up again
that in flood-time the tide hadn’t enough room. Well, it always _had_
had enough room, they knew that, but of course nobody could answer
for the future. The question was--were they justified in continuing
to gamble on the point? The late Mr. Lancaster, whom they had all
known, and not only known but respected, had given as his definite
opinion that there was no gamble in the matter at all. World-famous
engineers had, after the first, backed that opinion, and so far the
Lugg had proved them all right. Mr. Lancaster had affirmed that it was
no sort of danger to the east side, while it meant a great benefit to
the north. Speaking as a landowner, he was naturally anxious to see
the estate improved and extended, but, speaking as a man, he was not
willing to risk, even upon a mere possibility, good tenants who were
also, he hoped, his very good friends. If the Lugg was really a danger,
it must go, but he felt sure that wouldn’t be necessary. He would now
call upon Mr. Bracken Holliday of Thweng to put before them his views
on the matter.
Brack was only too ready to be up, in spite of cousinly adjurations
to “Hod thy gab, an’ let yan o’ t’aald yans kick off!” Denny was now
swimming violently behind Bradley’s back, but Brack ignored him, fixing
his eyes on Bluecaster. He was nervous at first--the antagonism in
the atmosphere had the passivity but also the resistance of the yard
wall--but it ceased to embarrass him as he warmed to his subject.
His pace quickened, his words came easily. For the moment he forgot
any petty personal animosity, and the sincerity of his belief wrung
attention even from the most scathing mocker.
He knew he was a stranger, nowadays, he said, and what had been good
enough for them for so long was sure good enough for him. That was
one way of looking at it, no doubt. But--now he didn’t want to put on
frills!--he’d knocked about the world more than a bit, and he’d seen
little jokes played by Nature that here on the marsh they’d just laugh
down and out if he was fool enough to waste time telling them. But
they had set his mind’s eye jumping, and it was still jumping when he
settled down at Thweng. At first he had been content to take the word
of older men than himself, but after a while that mind’s eye of his
got jumping again, and told him right out that the Lugg had got the
cinch on the top marsh-farms. No, he didn’t believe they were safe! He
had a slap-up, cracker-jack reason for refusing to believe it, but he
meant to keep it to himself, along with the jokes in meteorology. They
had no guarantee, except an almighty run of luck, (that was probably
pretty well run out, by now), that the Lugg wasn’t throttling the bay.
They had never had a real storm to test it, not one of those storms
that could buck the roof off creation. The Lugg had never seen the real
goods. There had been an imitation, fifty or sixty years back--his
uncle would remember it--when the marsh roads were under water for a
week. There was no Let then, certainly, but he opined the Let wouldn’t
have made much difference, and anyway the flood had had full room.
That wasn’t the case, now. They had no guarantee--he struck one hand
against the other and the cousin copied him, while Denny swam harder
than ever--he didn’t mind repeating it, because it was the thing he
wanted to hammer plum into their minds--_they had no guarantee that the
Lugg wasn’t throttling the bay_! It wasn’t as if the tides were backing
off. He guessed it was the other way about. From what he could remember
before he went West, the force of the inflow was greater now than it
had been then. He wasn’t setting out to say it was much, but the mere
fact itself meant a lot. He called upon his uncle to say how close on
Pippin walls the last winter tides had brought the sea.
Avuncular love failed him, however, for Willie, disgusted at being thus
dragged in without notice, was understood to reply that he wasn’t “in
t’dock or any sic-like spot,” and Brack had to fall back once more upon
his own unsupported eloquence.
It wasn’t as if the Lugg protected the north farms. It hadn’t even that
excuse. Ninekyrkes and Ladyford were safe enough, W.P. and G.W., with
the Let to guard them. But all the Lugg protected was land clean robbed
from the sea, while it threatened other land that the sea had given
them of its own accord. So far, the sea hadn’t fired them out, but it
would do it some day. He was dead sure the estate was crowding its
luck! As tenant of a marsh-farm, sharing what he reckoned a very real
danger, he asked his lordship right now to give the matter his earnest
attention.
He sat down abruptly, and the cousin patted him violently on the back,
disarranging the set of his coat. There was a pause, during which
everybody looked at the agent, and after a glance at Bluecaster he
slowly obeyed the unspoken call.
Brack’s virulent letter in mind, he had been surprised by the temperate
tone of his speech. Perhaps he was reserving his private knowledge of
the Almighty’s intentions for a peroration to be appended later. But
thus far he was behaving well enough, and deserved a temperate reply.
They all knew that marsh-farms had their drawbacks, he said plainly.
The land had belonged to the sea once. There was always a remote
chance that the sea might claim it again. In this case he was prepared
to say that it was very remote indeed. The farms were certainly not
death-traps, as had been very largely suggested, and he was quite
unable to see why the Lugg, after a trial of over fifteen years, should
not be allowed to continue its existence. There was a big stretch of
land behind it, which might one day be very valuable. It ought not to
be sacrificed in a moment’s panic. His father had taken great pride
in the sea-walls, particularly in the Lugg, and, as his son, he was
naturally averse to hearing its reliability questioned; but if any real
evidence could be brought against it he need not say he should be the
first to listen. He did not consider, however, that it had been brought
as yet. The increase of pressure also he took leave to doubt. In fact,
he was ready to maintain that the danger referred to was practically
non-existent, but he would be glad to hear what the older men had to
say, men who had known his father, and the Lugg when it was first
framed.
Holliday was still upset at being treated as a witness for the
prosecution, and couldn’t be got to speak, and Bownass and Bradley
started to rise at the same moment, and fell back, glowering at each
other. Finally, Wolf stirred, taking his time about getting to his
feet, and leaning heavily on his stick as he looked round the table.
There was curious weight in his slow gaze, curious strength in his slow
speech.
“There’s them as is born to _do_ things,” he began deliberately, “an’
them as is born to find fault! I knew Mr. Lancaster’s father a sight o’
years, and he was always a-doing, and it was always the right things
he did. He was a grand man, the grandest man I ever clapped eyes
on! His word was his bond. If you’d his word, there was no call for
inkhorn-stuff and such-like--nay, nor a postage-stamp ontilt, neither!”
(He looked at Brack, and a smile went pleasantly round.) “He was a
just man. He had fair treatment for everybody. There’s folks, likely,
as think he favoured me, being over at our place a deal, seeing to the
Lugg, but they can just put this in their pipes and smoke it. There
was a year after I first took hold as Mr. Lancaster give me notice to
quit--said I wasn’t doing well by the farm, and wouldn’t take telling.
Ay, and he was right an’ all! I was young and a bit above myself, I
reckon, but that fetched me up sharp. The missis begged us on again
with a deal o’ trouble, and I never looked back after. I’d learned my
lesson. Ay, he was a just man!
“And he was a good man. If a farmer got behind, he knew he could go
to Mr. Lancaster for help; and if he meant fair an’ square, he’d _be_
helped, right enough. And we all know he was a man wi’ _brains_.
There’s proof on every mile of the estate. He could see twice as far
ahead as most folk, and twice an’ a half farther round. Bluecaster
knows best what it owes him, though there was always a-plenty folks in
his road, same as there was with the Lugg. An’ now, just look ye here
a minute! Would a just man favour one bit of land over another? Would
a good man let traps to folk as trusted him? And would a clever man--a
man o’ _business_”--this went home quickest, and he knew it--“risk good
farms for a bit of a show-off? Mr. Lancaster give us his word the Lugg
would do us no harm, and his word has a fifteen years’ stamp to it as
never come out of no government office. There’s young Mr. Lancaster
saying the same, an’ that’s all there is about it. I tell you what it
is again--there’s them as _does_ things, an’ them as finds fault. It’s
easy choosing, I reckon, for folk as has eyes in their head and a bit
o’ good hoss-sense!”
The funny little gruff salvos of applause that had punctuated this
speech ended in a regular fusillade of commendation. Lanty said
“Thanks, Wolf!” quite simply, and looked round for the next speaker.
There were two or three ready by now, and they said much the same as
Wolf, though they did not handle Brack quite so delicately. Brack had
a rare lot of names pinned to his jacket before they were through, and
had to sit passive while the conservative farmers followed the track
like so many sheep. He was aching to be up again, and had difficulty
in restraining himself when Denny, having anxiously awaited his turn,
plunged into public speaking.
Denny thought it was time somebody cracked a bit about the present Mr.
Lancaster. He himself was a younger man who hadn’t farmed under the
former agent, but at least he could say he wasn’t wanting any better
sort than he’d got! If the present Mr. Lancaster said the Lugg was all
right, that was full stop and a lick for Thomas Cuthbert Dennison. As
for the duke who was shaping to farm Thweng in a Trilby, he’d likely
hit upon a thing or two he didn’t know if he lived long enough and
looked hard. Even he, Denny, could happen learn him a bit about sowing
corn an’ such-like, and there was more than one of them on the spot who
could give him a leg-up over pigs. There was a roar at this, for Brack
had a patent drill that sowed each seed separately--so separately that,
when the grain came up, you could walk between the stems; and there was
also a tale that he had given his pigs water used for boiling hams,
with horrible results. Even Bluecaster’s presence could not restrain
the general joy, and there was not much of Brack’s moderation left when
he rose to his final effort.
“You’ve only one argument in your whole outfit!” he raged at
them bitterly, “and that’s the old, threadbare wheeze that
because your fathers did a thing you’re bound to follow their
trail. It makes me tired to see the lot of you--narrow, ignorant
stick-in-the-ditchers--sitting round with your mouths and ears open for
any old thing a Lancaster may choose to pour in! You’ve got that durned
Lugg fixed in your minds as a kind of monument to your late agent.
Well, I guess you’re right in one way. It _is_ a monument, sure--a
monument to the biggest piece of swank, the rankest self-conceit I ever
struck! Look at the Pride! You’ll say it’s as safe as Bytham Knott, and
yet there’s nobody will live in it. They try, but they can’t stand it
out--and why? Because they know the man that built it laughed in the
Face of God! You say he was a good man, a just man, but _I_ say he was
a theatrical guy, with an eye on the gallery and swank fit to jump the
earth! I tell you I’ve my own reasons for knowing what’s coming--coming
on the hop--and there’s somebody sure going to get left. Right now’s
the time to pull out, if you’d only listen! But you won’t. You’re too
deep in your dusty old beliefs for that. But you’ll listen, you may bet
your life, and _remember_, in the night when the sea comes knocking at
your door!”
There had been silence through his speech, the silence of outrage,
and there was still silence when he stopped. His strange eyes looked
singularly bright and compelling. Lanty stared curiously at him during
the pause, and followed his glance, the men round him doing the same.
Brack was looking at Bluecaster.
To a very timid, sensitive nature there is, in the forcing of a
decision, something of the inhuman terror of being hunted down. The
young man was between two fires. If he stood by the Lugg, he carried
the lives of men. If he stood by Brack, the Lancasters went to the
wall. The first responsibility had been another’s; this was his. Brack
was thrusting it upon him with keen eyes that held and coerced him and
would not let him go.
“His lordship agrees with me!” the latter cried suddenly, so sharply
that more than one man jumped. “His lordship is on my side--sure! Ask
him if his conscience isn’t hustling him! Ask him what he thinks away
down in his heart of Lancaster’s Lugg!”
Bluecaster moved in his chair and opened his lips. There was breeding
in the way he mastered his inward shrinking, and tried to smooth the
warring elements into courtesy.
“You are making things a little difficult, Mr. Holliday!” he said
gently. “Won’t you sit down and allow us to finish the discussion
quietly? You will gain nothing by vilifying an honourable gentleman
whom all here remember with affection and regret.”
“I’ll sit down when I’m through!” Brack said insolently. “I’m asking
your lordship for a straight answer. Are you on my side or are you not?”
Bluecaster looked down the table. There was no staving it off. He must
act if he could get no other to act for him. In his extremity he did
what he had always done--dropped his burden for Lanty to pick up.
“I am on the Lancasters’ side always,” he answered Brack. “You have
produced no conclusive arguments, and naturally I put their word before
yours. If Mr. Lancaster thinks the Lugg should stand, I think so, too.
That is all I have to say.”
It was cowardice, and it sounded like courtesy--flight and fear,
though it seemed like standing shoulder to shoulder; and only two men
present guessed it for what it was. Bluecaster was shirking, and for
the moment Lancaster filled with passionate revolt; but out of the
wrath and clamour at the injustice something nobler rose and conquered.
He heard the call to help that no true fighter ever denies; he saw the
young man caught in a trap too cruel for his hesitant soul, and he put
out his hand to him at once. He looked up the table with a smile and
nodded, and as Bluecaster’s face lost its strain, and the trusting
dog-look came back into his eyes, he yielded to the old rush of keen
affection. Of course, you did things for Bluecaster, though you damned
yourself to all eternity!
The decision was left to him, the one person in the world who could not
possibly see the problem unbiassed. Even if he had not believed, there
could scarcely have been but one answer. And he _did_ believe. He did
trust the Lugg. The fear that dogged him was not of his own heart, but
put into him from outside. Brack could talk a clock into stopping. But
there was only one answer.
“I stand by my father’s work, of course!” he said cheerfully, and with
a passionate exclamation Brack sank into his seat. And then old Wolf
spoke again.
“And now you’ll let me the Pride, Mr. Lancaster!”
He turned to the other question with a start. Wolf and his worries had
been out of his mind for the moment. Now they wove a thread in the weft
of his father’s warp. He hedged, trying to put the point aside.
“Come, Wolf, I’d hopes you’d change your mind! It isn’t fair to your
wife--I tell you that plainly.”
Wolf set his mouth.
“That’s neither here nor there!” he said doggedly. “It’s betwixt her
an’ me. I’m asking for the Pride. I’d a reason for wanting it afore.
I’ve a double reason now. You an’ me an’ the old master, we’ve passed
our word for the Lugg. I’ll fly that flag for the whole marsh to lift
its hat! Let me the Pride!”
He leaned forward, holding out his hand in his desire, and Brack
leaned, too.
“You’d better go the whole hog!” he sneered. “Here’s the proof of your
trusting. Give him the Pride!”
The agent hesitated, cornered and distressed. Before his troubled
vision rose a fearful old woman, terrified to madness when the tide
came in.
“His wife----” he began again, and Brack leaped down his throat with a
second jeer.
“Oh, put it on the missis! I guess a bad excuse is better than none.
Come, man, own out that you’re not honest, or else--let him the Pride!”
“He’s all in!” he added, turning to Wolf with a laugh. “Look at him!
He’s chilled right through. He’ll not give it you--not on your life!”
“Ay, but he will!” Wolf said quietly, his hand outstretched. “It’s to
be yes, sir, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Mr. Lancaster?”
And Lanty said yes.
* * * * *
Out in the yard, by Bluecaster’s wheel, revulsion swept over him. The
weight he had lifted pressed hard. He looked up sharply.
“You trust me too much! Will you never see a thing with your own eyes?
Suppose I’m wrong, after all?”
Bluecaster, reins in hand, looked down at him with a shamed bitterness
in his face.
“It’s better to be wrong and a sportsman than a cur that won’t face the
drain! I wish to God, Lancaster, you were my elder brother!”
Lanty rode after him across the marsh, his foreboding heart in his
stirrups. But as he began to climb at last, and the whole panorama of
eastern hills came into view, his burden dropped from him. The die was
cast. None but a coward would wish it back. What would come, must. He
would rest content.
He could see the Whygills curled asleep on the horizon, like giant
elephants cuddled trunk to trunk, their soft, velvet, wrinkled backs
hunched into the tender sky. Below them the heather glowed pink and
rich on the dark ridges of moor. He drew a deep breath as he rode
forward, his heart eased. Yet he had taken not only the whole of the
marsh, but Bluecaster himself into his hands.