THE OLD ORDER
Seated at his table in the window of the “Duke,” Lancaster could see
the farmers come jogging into Sandwath, rounding the dangerous corner
with a loose rein, and, as often as not, a head turned in the opposite
direction. There were few dreary faces among them, for the late year
had been a good one, with heavy crops and the right sort of weather,
and no disease to play havoc with stock. He watched them disappear into
the stable-yard, and from thence drift across to the Bank, presently
to drift back to the “Duke” for their receipts. It was the last of the
three January rent-audits, Bluecaster, Witham and Sandwath; the last,
the smallest, and far the most enjoyable. The others, where the numbers
ran in each case to over a hundred, were too big, too busy, too long;
but to-day there were only the marsh-men and some from nearer home,
including Wild Duck, counting barely forty, all told. Here, everybody
knew his neighbour, and the tenants were mostly of long holding, so
that the half-yearly meeting was more like a gathering of a clan than a
business convocation. He knew precisely the time-worn joke that would
herald most of them, together with the equally hoary grievance; just
as he knew the ancient answer that would spring to his lips of its own
accord. He was not bored, even if he had ceased to be much amused. The
years had not changed the audit into a mere mechanical necessity, nor
stolen one whit of its humanity. These people were part of himself by
now, with their shrewdness and simpleness, ignorance and intuition,
pungent wit, callous exteriors and sentimental hearts. He had the key
to every one of them, knew how far each was to be trusted, how far
advice would carry, how much sympathy would be wise. The breaking-up
of an old man hurt him, as did the downfall of a young one; just as
octogenarian vigour or steady success was a matter of almost personal
pride. Scarcely any life on the land but touched his own somewhere,
definitely or unconsciously working its own effect.
The last three months had passed quickly, and more happily than any
since his father’s death. It seemed as if, with the settling of the
marsh problem, the worry of years had come to a head and ceased; as
if, in playing the rôle of Fate, he had acquired something of Fate’s
serenity. The old, grinding anxiety had vanished, leaving in its place
a steady, uplifting consciousness of righteous power.
Outwardly, things were not altered. His employer, though rushed home
for the last three days, was generally, if not always postally, at
least mentally out of reach. Helwise still hampered him with her
activities, like a child pettishly dragging unwieldly toys for a walk
and expecting the grown-up to carry them. Harriet’s bicycle still
scraped his walls; the cares of the estate changed only in detail; the
county work still clamoured. But he brought to it all fresh ardour and
a new sense of peace, from what source he could not have told. Perhaps
it was the new interest over at Watters; perhaps the gathering of
strength from a big decision over-past. Just possibly it was the long
moment of calm wherewith the gods soothe a man before they strike.
He was at Watters a good deal, nowadays, more often, indeed, than he
realised, unconsciously seeking the stimulation of Hamer’s vitality and
courage. He still kept his difficulties to himself, after long habit,
yet he often came away finding them solved. Except for his weakness
for leeches, Hamer’s tram-horse philosophy was founded upon excellent
common sense, and had nothing of Bluecaster’s nervous charity. He saw
life pitifully, but never morbidly, and his remedies were for time and
not for the moment alone. Lancaster left him braced not only to work
but to feel, and to be glad of his capacity for both.
On the other hand, he was of use to the older man in many ways,
engineering him over social pitfalls, along the precipice of tradition
and through the network of county relationship; while to Mrs. Shaw
he was an everlasting support and stay. He knew the best methods of
reconciling modern grates with ancient hearths; why the newspaper
didn’t turn up, and what was wrong with the milk; how to re-tape
Venetian blinds and bottle fruit, and where to buy the best blankets
and hams; what was a tramp and what wasn’t; what you might say to your
servants, and what you certainly might not; why it was wrong to tip the
Force, and right to use steamers in apple-tarts; the neatest way of
clearing cockroaches, and what the Government was going to do.
But with Dandy he seemed to get very little further. He was often
so absorbed that he forgot to speak to her, though he seldom
forgot--unconsciously, perhaps--to look at her. He knew vaguely that he
liked her, found her presence pleasing, and was grateful for her kindly
acts; and sometimes, in some hour magnetised by Wiggie’s singing, he
turned to her as to the woman of his dreams. But always he came back
doggedly to his first impression of her in the Lane. She was not of his
world--the world of the soul, where it walks alone until the silver
fingers of its eternal mate make music on the thrilling door. She did
not speak his language, or love his loves; and sometimes he would leave
the beauty of Watters with a queer relief, to talk shop with Harriet
under a shippon wall.
The latter drove in now, in her smart, new milk-float, affecting the
farmer’s jog-trot which would soon ruin the brisk little cob he had
bought for her, he reflected, with a shrug. She had Wiggie with her,
and threw him the reins while she made the pilgrimage from the Bank to
the “Duke.” Wiggie knew nothing about horses, but he would have held a
megalosaurus if Harriet had commanded, so hung on and murmured all the
horse songs he could think of, from “The Tin Gee-Gee” to “The Arab’s
Farewell to his Favourite Steed.”
She scowled when Lancaster and the clerk got up as she entered, and
the former offered her a chair. She resented their reception of her as
a lady rather than as a rent-paying tenant, and her ploughboy manner
was particularly evident upon these occasions. Perhaps, in spite of
her strenuous pose, the pilgrimage, ending at Lancaster’s table, hurt
something of her hidden woman’s pride. In any case she needed to carry
a high head for Stubbs, who marked the day with a white stone. He
always insisted upon attending the dinner with Harriet’s ticket, and
the result, if customary, was none the less galling.
She refused the seat, flipping the bank voucher across the table, and
thrusting the estate receipt into an important-looking pocket-book;
then, remembering her part, sat down sideways and dug her hands into
her pockets.
“What about that pig-hull you promised me?” she demanded, in a Judge
Jeffreys tone that made the clerk jump.
Lanty temporised solemnly, with the tactful evasiveness of custom. He
knew quite well that she had only said it to impress his subordinate,
because the pig-hull had been granted at least a week before, but he
wouldn’t for worlds have denied her the traditional privilege of the
punctual tenant, which was in this case no more than just a little bit
of side.
“I see you’ve Wigmore with you,” he added, looking out to where that
unhappy gentleman, to the tune of “Come, pretty bird, and live with
me!” was trying to persuade the cob that the bar-parlour of the “Duke”
was not the mouth of his private stable.
“We’ve been to see the Vicar--Bluecaster, I mean--so I brought him
on. The choral has been asked to oblige with ‘Elijah,’ sometime in
March, in aid of missions over the seas and kindred objects. Would you
consider Stubbs, half-seas-over, a kindred object? Wiggie happened to
say he knew something about the music, so I told him he could sing. He
hung back a bit at first, but I wasn’t standing any nonsense. Mind you
turn up with plenty of cash. By the way, there’s that match with Bortun
to-morrow.” (Hockey understood.) “You’ll be pig-and-whistle as usual,
of course? I’ve got some sort of a team scratched together, but I’m
still short of a centre-half. I expect I’ll have to play there myself,
unless _you_’ll take it on?”
“Too old!” Lanty shook his head. “Is Wigmore training for a circus, by
any chance?”
Harriet rose and came to the window, to behold the cob threading a
Ladies’ Chain with half-a-dozen vehicles at the “Duke’s” kerb. Poor
Wiggie, utterly at its mercy, chirrupped, sang and apologised in a
breath.
“Why not get _him_ to play?” Lancaster added.
“Much use!” Harriet laughed contemptuously. “_He_ can’t do anything
but _sing_! By the way, he wants to know if you’ll do him the favour
to ask him to the dinner? I offered him my ticket, but Stubbs went out
and threw bricks at the hens until I withdrew, so I had to come to you.
Dandy wants to know what it’s like, so of course Wiggie’s ready to
break his neck over it. He’d do anything for her--crawl into the boiler
and come out with the steam!”
She did not look at him--she was too sporting for that--but she felt
as if in herself the sudden twinge of jealousy that for a moment held
him still. Then he said “Of course!” and handed her the ticket; and she
turned to the door with a rough-and-ready greeting for the next comer.
Lanty’s voice followed her.
“Two o’clock--and you’d better tell him to pass the punch! It’ll just
about finish him if he isn’t used to that sort of thing, and he doesn’t
look over-sturdy. The atmosphere will be pretty dangerous, too. You
might mention in passing that there’s no need to make a martyr of
himself. I can tell Miss Shaw anything she wants to know.”
Harriet said “Right-o!” with a queer smile, adding,--“you’ll think on
about that pig-hull?” for the benefit of her successor, and went out
with the ticket burning in her pocket. It was Dandy’s ticket all right,
no matter who passed the punch or coughed in the smoke.
Lanty came back to business haunted by the smile and an irritating
conviction that he had somehow made a fool of himself. They stayed with
him all morning, marring his real contentment; for it was pleasant to
have no difficult points to tackle after the good year. Not that the
tenants were at pains to emphasise the luck. On the contrary, scarcely
one of them would own to any special favouring of Providence. Hay
might have done well, but it had been slow weather, if fine, and that
meant labour at an exorbitant wage. “Why, a man could bare lig his
head on t’pillow fur thinkin’ he sud be out an’ about, puttin’ the
wark through!” Harvest might have been fair to middlin’, “Ay, but look
at t’last two crops! What, we’ve not pulled up on _that_ lot, yet!
It’s one year wi’ another i’ farmin’, an’ like as not t’bad year’s
t’yan as gits t’job! ’Tisn’t as if crops was all, neyther. Stock’s gey
ticklish stuff to manish, breet as a button ya minnit, an’ deein’ off
like flees t’next. Why, t’whole countryside knaas what luck I’ve had
wi’ my coves!” And then would follow the usual wheedling demand for
midden-steads, lime, shippon-repairs in their degree, or anything else
that “Mr. Lancaster, sir” looked good for. It was all part of the game,
and there was little goodwill going missing as they came and went in
the wintry sun. What bitter struggle the past could show, what grinding
fear the future might hold, were alike forgotten as they stood about in
little groups, weather-beaten faces and ageing backs, ready to enjoy
their pillgill now that the pang of “parting” was over; for though the
Westmorland farmer must have a grievance even at the wonder-point of
prosperity, he must also, on the very verge of ruin, crack his joke.
Brack’s beautiful entry in the S.-F.--an elaborate =S= bend round his
Uncle Holliday and old Simon Farrer, violently exchanging views in
the middle of the road--was spoilt by a large mangold at the end of a
rope, attached to his back axle by Denny, somewhere _en route_. The
mangold, not being accomplished in =S= bends, knocked Simon’s feet from
under him and caught Uncle Willie on the knee; and while they were busy
asking Brack what he meant by it, Denny himself ramped in with his
high-stepper and the expression of a lily-white hen.
Taken altogether, it was a gay enough morning but for one solitary
episode, when Wolf came in for the last time as tenant of Ninekyrkes.
The little interview was one of those that Fate stamps with a fiery
thumb.
He drove in alone, acknowledging no greeting, and, when some one came
forward to take his horse, climbing down without a word. It seemed a
long time before he came out of the Bank, and when at last he crossed
the road it was with bitter reluctance, his head bent, ignoring
salutation and outstretched hand.
Lanty met him as cheerfully as he could with his usual--“Well, Wolf,
how’s yourself?” but the time-hallowed reply--“A long way on to
ploughin’ over Jordan!” drew but a ghost of the old smile from both;
and when business was through with, the shaky old figure still sat in
the chair, saying nothing and staring at the floor. Lancaster made a
movement with his hand, and the clerk got up and went out. The agent
waited, sorry and patient.
“How’s your missis?” he asked at last, when the silence grew
unbearable, trying to keep the same brisk, commonplace tone. Wolf
raised his eyes.
“She’s a deal better, thank you kindly, sir. She’s not like the same
woman since things was fixed. She never fashes herself over the water,
nowadays. I can’t rightly make her out, though--but it’s no matter.
It’ll not be for long.”
“You’ll be getting into the Pride soon, I suppose?”
“Ay. In a few weeks.”
“You’ll not think better of it?”
“Yon’s over an’ by with, sir. I reckon we can let it bide.”
Lancaster nodded, and there was a second silence. Wolf sat still, as
if unable to make the move which would mean the end of all the former
things. Unspoken, between them was the memory of many other days
when he had sat thus, first with the father, and later with the son.
Reminiscences surged upward of kindnesses on either side, of mutual
sympathy and encouragement. There had been bad years when the farmer
had needed help, but on the other hand the agent had had in return
many a piece of rough advice, worth its weight in gold. Looking back
to his early struggle, Lancaster knew that, both to Michael’s tolerant
handling of a problem and Wolf’s fierce cutting at the root, he had
owed much. And Wolf was a link between himself and his father. The
younger men, even loyal partisans like Denny, did not count the same.
Again, as months before in his own office, he felt old, seeing the
strong man of his father’s time tottering on the last steep slope. This
was the end of Wolf’s real life, whether he went to his grave a year
later or ten. The situation wrung his heart, fretting him with his own
helplessness. He could do nothing except attempt, by some recurring
instinct, to turn him from the one last boon he craved.
They sat on while the clerk, kicking his heels on the mat, wondered at
the silence. This was their real good-bye, without thanks or spoken
sorrow, the last speechless God-be-with-you! of two troubled men of the
North.
The clerk’s attention was distracted by a dog in the bar-parlour--a
dog that had a fluffy-haired damsel as background--and into the
death-chamber of a passing relationship Brack stepped, unchecked.
Looking up, Lanty saw him at the door, running his curious eyes over
the pair at the table. In spite of what came after, he never in all his
life quite forgave Brack for his intrusion at that moment.
Wolf pulled himself up, and was for leaving with the usual unemotional
jerk, but Lanty stood up, too, and held out his hand. Still, neither
said anything, until the old man, going, spoke up suddenly, playing the
game to the last, even as Harriet had tried to play it, posing to hide
a wounded heart.
“Yon fodder-gang, sir, as I mentioned? The old one’s as near done as
may be. You’ll happen think it over----?” He broke off then, reality
gripping him, and Lanty, biting his lip, said “I’ll see to it, Wolf!”
and turned to the window. Brack laughed callously as the door closed.
“What’s the old boy so almighty stuck about? He’s through with
Ninekyrkes to-day, isn’t he? Mighty sick, I should say, and feeling
kind of ‘’Way down upon the Swanee River’! A bit lost, too, from his
talk. He’ll want precious little with fodder-gangs out at the Pride!”
Lancaster said--“Grand weather for the time of year,” and handed
him his receipt. The eyes of the two men met, Brack’s in a smiling
half-sneer; and then he said “Champ!” turning, still smiling, to leave.
“I’m not going to hustle you with ‘wants,’” he added kindly, “though I
guess that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to ask! I reckon the only thing
that would mend Thweng is a keg of gunpowder. But I’d just like to warn
you to keep your boots well strutted. There’ll be powerful cold feet
for somebody in March!”
He swung out with his insolent smile, the last word successfully
arresting an impulse that would have sent him spinning into the road.
“March!” So Brack had evidently been behind Ezekiel, as conjectured.
But why March? What was at the back of it all? And what did he think
was coming?
Denny burst in just afterwards and dispelled his wonderings, full of
joy about the mangold, and anxious to know if Mr. Lancaster had seen
it. His rollicking vitality swept the air clean both of regret and
apprehension, so that, by the time Lanty took his seat at dinner, the
surprising touch of jealousy evoked by Wiggie’s request was his only
aftermath of the morning.
The singer was on his left, with a very well-brushed Stubbs beside
him, and Michael Dockeray opposite. At the head, Bluecaster, not quite
certain that he wasn’t still in Cairo, had Willie Holliday, as chief
tenant, on one hand, and Wolf on the other. The last was Dockeray’s
place by right, but Bluecaster had contrived to remember the special
circumstances and to whisper a word in Michael’s ear. The right waived,
he called to Wolf, and the little attention brightened the old man
considerably. It was by acts like these that Bluecaster kept his hold
on his people in spite of his long absences. His larger generosity came
to them, tempered by reason, through his agent, but his little touches
of consideration had the charm of personal courtesy, and were thereby
kept in mind. Lancaster was the strong arm upon which they leaned, but
his lordship had his own place in their hearts.
Wiggie had a bad time with the enormous meal, but while he tried to
disguise his primary plate of beef as turkey and various other dishes,
his mind was busy with his surroundings. He knew that he had before him
an ancient system working at its best under the most ideal conditions,
a triangular relationship which needed the right men in each department
to keep the bearings smooth. Just such a state of things might never
come his way again. Men said the system was getting played out,
becoming extinct as the dodo; but here at least it seemed as if change,
however well-intentioned, could mean little but disintegration. The
fascination of that most claiming of problems, the interdependence
of human beings, not only for things of the body but of the spirit,
took him as he looked round the ring of faces, after staving off a
too-attentive plum-pudding. The townsman knew many employers of
labour, men of large hearts and high standards, who had their thousands
at a nod in the morning, and could play “smack-at-back-o’-t’lug” with
them of an evening without the faintest troubling of authority. But
here was something altogether different, reaching back into far years
that had, even then, given each man present his place. Here were ease
and understanding, but no forcing of either. The invisible silken
strings between the three elements yielded this way and that to the
need of the moment, but readjusted themselves immediately. You could
shake hands across them, hail flesh and blood on the other side and
hear the beating of good human hearts, but you could not climb them.
They were always there, stretched by long custom and spun on many
graves.
Brack alone was out of place, with his over-smart good looks and
jarring mannerisms. If he could not scale the strings he could snip
them, and you heard the click of the scissors. Even Stubbs, already
well on the way to becoming a “kindred object,” and talking as broad
Westmorland as anybody present, was to be preferred to Brack. Later,
however, he began to get really warmed-up and quarrelsome, and it took
pounds of Rotifer Magic to keep him quiet. Wiggie had spent the whole
of the previous evening with a weary eye glued to the microscope, so
that he was in a position to be fluent, and if he made bad breaks at
times, the kindred object was not in a condition to point them out.
Wiggie had a knack of acquiring information that was of no earthly
use to himself, but smoothed the way for other people; and if the
opportunity did not always turn up immediately, that did not prevent
him getting ready for it. Sitting on stiles waiting for lame dogs was
constitutional with Wiggie.
He had early found his way into Lancaster’s good graces, so that he was
rather troubled by his touch of stiffness at the beginning of the meal.
He thawed him, however, with one of his quaint questions, and Lancaster
soon found himself pointing out characters and fixing labels,
supplying histories and opening his treasury of tales. He forgot that
“Dandy wants to know” was the driving-power behind Wigmore’s interest,
remembering only that he was being given a clear run for the hobby of
his heart.
“You know my neighbour here, I suppose--Mr. Dockeray of Ladyford?
Oh, well, he’s a pillar of the county--Justice of the Peace, R.D.C.,
Guardian, etc., so we have to behave ourselves at this end of the
room! Mr. Wigmore’s stopping at Watters, Michael--you’ve met Mr.
Shaw, of course. Brought him over one day, didn’t I? Michael’s
going to give us a song, after a bit. By the way, I hope you’ll be
kind enough to do something in that line, too. We fancy our singing
here, but I don’t exactly imagine we’ve anything to beat you! Brack
Holliday?--yes--that’s the man you gave a lesson in carburettors in
the middle of Leighton Mosses. He offered you a cigarette--one of his
Turks--and you took it just to oblige him and coughed for ten minutes
after he’d cleared out. How do I know? Because I was on the far side of
the hedge, working out valuations, and I was pressed for time, or I’d
have come over and held your hand or patted you on the back. The shy,
thin man between the big cattle-dealer and Belt-End Gibson is Bownass
of Moss End. He’s one of your musical people. Been in Sandwath Church
choir for years and years, and can’t read a part to save his life. Best
ploughman in the district, too--barring, perhaps, Lup Whinnerah, but
Lup doesn’t count now, worse luck! You must come to a ploughing-match,
one of these days. They’re a bit tedious, though, if you’re a stranger.
The masters curse them like anything, beforehand, because the men are
so keen practising that they plough like snails, stopping all the time
to look behind and admire. It’s a slow job anyway, of course. Still,
Miss Shaw might like to know.”
He couldn’t resist the sentence, and saw the blood rise in Wiggie’s
face. Rather ashamed, he went on hurriedly--
“That’s Thomas Cuthbert Dennison with the twinkle. He’s asking Brack
if he means to start classes for restoring respiration. Brack thinks
they’re all going to be drowned on the marsh, you know, and Denny wants
to be in practice. He’s a great chap! Bit too fond of a joke, that’s
all. Did you see the mangold? No? Well, that cob _does_ take a bit
of holding!” He met Wigmore’s eye in polite sympathy, and they both
laughed.
“There’s a tale against Denny that never quite goes out of fashion.
When he was a lad he was out with a pretty cousin from Lancaster. After
a long while of saying nothing at all, he gives a great sigh. ‘Why,
whatever’s the matter?’ says the cousin, alarmed. ‘Nay, I was nobbut
thinking,’ says Denny, very dismal. Well, then, the cousin offers him a
penny for his thoughts, but Denny was terribly shy-like, and wouldn’t
out with them. ‘Eh, well,’ he says at last, ‘I was just thinking as
I’d never furgit this here walk with thee!’ Cousin fluttered, of
course. ‘Why, I’m sure you’re very kind, but you sound terribly serious
about it!’ ‘Ay,’ says Denny, ‘I reckon I is. I’se gitten on a paar o’
Brother Steve’s boots, an’ they’ve scratted aw t’ skin off my heels!’ I
say--can’t you smother Knewstubb with another microbe or two?”
(The boot story made him think of Brack’s parting speech. He wondered
what had brought the tale to mind.)
“Yes, Denny’s a laddie! He’s framed a bit differently with the lasses,
since then! But he’s a right good sort, taken all round. His lordship’s
making ready for the Loyal Toast, so you’d better be getting something
into that glass of yours. You don’t happen to be a parson, do you?
That’s all right--we can skip the Bishop and Clergy and get ahead.
There’ll be a deuce of a smoke before long--do you think you ought to
sing in it? If you find you can’t stick it, there’s a door here, just
behind my chair.”
And Wiggie nodded his head gratefully, and began to repeat a mental
list as long as the Shorter Catechism, beginning with beef and mutton
and silken threads and mangolds and ploughing-matches, and ending with
Brother Steve’s boots.
After that, the business of the evening began. The cloths cleared, and
dessert on the table, together with the long, white churchwardens,
Bluecaster rose to propose “The King!” This having been honoured with
fervour, the hands went out to the pipes, and Uncle Willie got to his
feet to have his say about the landlord. You could see Bluecaster
wriggle until his health was safely through the wine, and the cheers
and musical honours safely off the feudal chest. His speech in reply
was a mixture of Cairo and crops, recognition, New Year wishes and
shy little jokes, haltingly delivered, but it was well intended and
very well received; and always the hint of breeding crept out in some
graceful thought, however poorly spoken,--regret for a sick man’s
absence, sympathy in bereavement, congratulation upon some particular
success. Towards the end, he stumbled and stuck with half a sentence on
his lips, and Lancaster knew that he wanted to say something about the
Whinnerahs, but he was barely through the introductory words before the
old man reached out a hand, begging: “Don’t, my lord! Don’t now!” and
the master huddled up his speech in a last blanket of acknowledgment
and sat down.
Michael had the agent’s health in trust, and when Lancaster stood up to
answer, the faces grew interested, for his was the only serious speech
of the evening. He looked at Wiggie first, though, firmly taking from
him the pipe with which he was meekly struggling. He jerked his head
towards the door.
“This is going to be dull, so clear off out for a breath of fresh air,
and stop putting chimneys down that precious throat of yours. It’s
going to be dull, I tell you, and I ought to know! You’re not missing
anything. As for Miss Shaw, she can read it in the papers, if she
wants!”
That sent the faithful Wiggie flying, as he expected, to cool his
aching head in the drawing-in afternoon; and with the tail of his eye
on Stubbs and his behaviour, Lancaster got to work.
His speech was technical, concentrated, rigidly pinned down to the
main interest, but dull it was not, so clearly did the plain words
round and emphasise each situation, salting hard facts with the short,
dry wit that stimulates the Northerner like his own first frosts.
Drifting outside to an uncurtained window, Wiggie was fascinated by
the picture within. Through the mist of smoke he saw the faces at the
table turned with the stillness of complete attention to the forceful
figure at the end. Lancaster was at his best when speaking. The whole
man braced and strengthened, and the almost dour look, so often seen
in those who come early into big responsibilities, relaxed as some apt
finish sent a slow ripple round the ring, setting its final seal on
his own mouth. There came to Wigmore, of the town, a sense of the wide
qualifications that go to the making of the ideal steward. A well-known
member of this “easy” profession has said that the land agent must be
“a keen judge of character, of a genial and sympathetic disposition
and energetic nature, must know when to be firm, when yielding, the
many times when he must lead, the few when he must drive, whom to
trust and whom to suspect, what to notice and what to ignore, where to
command and where merely to suggest, whom to praise and whom censure.
Forethought, vigilance, courtesy, reticence are qualities which will
carry him far.... He has duties to perform on behalf of tenants as well
as landlord. He is a human buffer between his employer and the farmers,
and must shield the former from annoyance, and uphold the just claims
of the latter, even to the sacrifice of his own popularity. He must be
as reticent as the lawyer, as upright as the parson, as firm as the
policeman. He must be well informed on every subject, whether it be
Bradshaw or the debenture stocks of a company--the pedigree of a cow or
that of a peer; the price of a Scotch moor, or the vintage of a claret.”
The “easy” profession carries with it the immense penalty of an
influence reaching forward into the future long after death, in a
fashion characteristic of scarcely any other. There are some of us
whose chief honour and glory is to find men of humble station still
appraising right and wrong by the standards taught them of our fathers.
Wiggie’s eye ran along the dark heads etched on the yellow light,
from Stubbs, somnolently fixing Lanty to the punctuation of a
spasmodic “Hear, hear!” to Dockeray, thoughtful and quiet, Brack,
supercilious but attentive, Wolf, quiveringly interested and yet
outside, and finally to Bluecaster in his big chair at the head. He
wondered afterwards why, of all the tragedies at the table--and there
was more than one plain to the eye--Bluecaster’s had seemed to him
the most helpless and complete. There is something terrible in the
relentlessness with which inheritance may force a man into a position
he is not framed to fill, thrusting power into his hands and judgment
into his mouth whether he desire their fiery splendours or no. He may,
of course, pluck the joys of heritage and leave its duties to look
after themselves; but if he has good blood behind him and a strong hand
beside him, he will come to them, soon or late. Left to himself, with
no great name to support, Bluecaster would have been a tennis champion
or somebody’s private skipper, chauffeur or huntsman--anything but the
head of a large estate, with his generous but harassed brain besieged
by the growing problems of the day. Yet he had hurried home from Egypt
to take his place, to speak the right word as far as he knew, and was
sitting with his patient dog’s eyes raised in courteous attention,
keeping his end up not too unsuccessfully, thanks to the spur of race
and the steady influence of a good servant.
Lancaster finished the survey of the half-year, covering general
events, agricultural conditions and the new legislation; and then,
on an impulse that he never ceased to regret, referred, in his final
sentences, to a subject already closed.
“I should just like to add that I hope all the marsh-men are sleeping
well!” he ended, dropping into a lighter tone. “Mr. Bracken Holliday
was a little anxious, as we all know, about the beginning of last
autumn, but I trust that by now he has come round to the general
conclusion of safety.” He lifted his glass. “I wish all on the marsh a
succession of prosperous seasons and no dreams!”
Denny seized this excellent opportunity for sending round a cardboard
nautical imitation labelled “The Thweng Life-Boat,” and quite a number
of pence was jangled down in front of Brack. He nodded careless thanks,
but he whitened angrily, and he sent one long glance up the table which
set Lancaster biting his lip. The farmer said nothing, however, and his
lordship, grateful that the difficult subject was not to be re-opened,
muttered--“Bounder got some decent feeling, after all!” and handed
him his own cigarette-case. Brack coloured, this time, and fell into
frowning thought. The courtesy got home, even through his armour of
conceit, but vaguely he groped for subtler sympathy behind. Who knew
what Bluecaster really thought about the Lugg?
Denny was asked to respond for “The Bonny Lasses of Westmorland,” and
did so with enthusiasm, quite unabashed by pointed interrogations,
such as: “Wha was fust-footer ower to Braithet’s?” (Braithwaite had a
crowd of pretty daughters) and, “Wha’s buits bed ta gitten fur t’job?”
etc., etc. Michael opened the singing in the gentle, light tenor that
he raised every Sunday in the Ladyford family pew where his fathers
had worshipped. The song was the inevitable “Kind Mary,” and Lanty
wondered whether he was thinking of his own cheerful, masterful partner
as he sang with his mild eyes fixed on the ceiling, marking the rhythm
with slow nods. Denny gave them the famous “Eh, poor Lassie, she was
Dumb!” and called upon Brack to oblige with “Pull for the Shore,
Sailor!” or “Throw out the Life-Line!” but his victim, placated by the
cigarette-case, was not to be drawn. Old Simon contributed “The Mardale
Hunt,” hammering out the time with the punch-ladle, and quaveringly
commanding the chorus to “give it weft!” Lanty always sang the same
song, his father’s song: “In the Downhill of Life.” Wigmore, drawn
gradually back by the music, stood presently in the doorway, listening
to the simple faith of an older generation--
“In the Downhill of Life when I find I’m declining,
May my fate no less fortunate be,
Than a snug Elbow Chair can afford for reclining,
And a Cot that o’erlooks the wide sea.
With an ambling pad Poney to pace o’er the Lawn,
While I carol away Idle sorrow,
And blythe as the Lark, that each day hails the dawn,
Look forward with hope for To-morrow.
To-morrow, To-morrow, Look forward with hope for To-morrow.
With a Porch at my door both for shelter and shade too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail,
And a small spot of ground, for the use of the spade too,
With a Barn for the use of the flail;
A Cow for my dairy, a Dog for my game,
And a Purse when a friend wants to borrow,
I’ll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,
Nor what honours may wait him To-morrow.
From the bleak northern blast may my Cot be completely
Secur’d by a neighbouring hill,
And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly,
By the sound of a murmuring rill:
And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
With my Friends I will share what to-day may afford,
And let them spread the Table To-morrow.
And when I at last must throw off this frail cov’ring,
Which I’ve worn for Threescore Years and Ten,
On the brink of the grave I’ll not seek to keep hov’ring,
Nor my thread wish to spin o’er again;
But my face in the glass I’ll serenely survey,
And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;
And this old worn-out stuff which is threadbare to-day,
May become everlasting To-morrow!”
Stubbs wished to supplement this with “Riding down to Bangor,” but was
firmly suppressed, and Wiggie was called in to keep him in order and
supply his share of the entertainment.
“It’s fearful cheek to ask you!” Lancaster apologised, “but they don’t
know what a big favour it is, and they’ll like it no end. You might
just give us something to send us home happy, if you’re not afraid of
your voice.”
“I’ll sing with pleasure!” Wiggie said contentedly, standing up beside
Lancaster’s chair with the same childlike detachment that he showed on
a public platform. He did not begin at once, though, because he found
the last song very difficult to follow, but after a moment or two he
gave them “The Song of Good Heart” in a half-whisper sweet as mountain
church-bells, more as if he were thinking it than singing it.
“Give, dear O Lord,
Fine weather in its day,
Plenty on the board,
And a Good Heart all the way.
Kind soil for the share,
Kind sun for the ley,
Fair crop and to spare,
And a Good Heart all the way.
Good Hand with the stock,
Good Help and Hope aye,
Christ-blessing on the flock,
And a good Heart all the way.
Gold-yellow on the com,
Green-yellow on the hay,
A whistle in the morn,
And a Good Heart all the way.
Good Heart in the field,
And the Home-Heart gay.
Ay! Heaven yield
A Good Heart all the way!
A last prayer in the night
That God ’ild the day.
Bide still and die light,
With a Good Heart all the way.”
And after that he sang a grand old German “Alleluja!” letting out his
magnificent power until the room echoed, and his audience thrilled and
rocked, intoxicated with enthusiasm, mightily growling out the Royal
Salute in various keys of their own, as Wiggie swept them away to the
Table of the Great Rent-Auditor of All. The voice beat at Lancaster’s
brain, dragging at a lost memory. Wigmore was a bit of a puzzle all
round. He had no relations that one ever heard of, and no home. He was
a professional singer, yet one never seemed to come across his name,
in spite of his undeniable gift. Perhaps he was one of the unlucky,
to whom no roads open. Certainly there was little of the blatantly
successful artist about his slight, tired figure and unassuming manner.
Yet it was surely genius that was swinging them all out of their narrow
anchorages on that flood of sound. And only Brack, suddenly fearful
and cold, felt the irony of that “Alleluja!” on the marshmen’s lips,
singing their Easter anthem before ever the agony and the grave were
passed.
They fell upon Wiggie in a body after that, and clumped him heavily on
the back until he gasped, and told him it was “champion” and “reet as a
bobbin,” and “fit to beat Holliday’s Royal bull!” until Bluecaster had
to rescue him by giving the final toast, “To our next merry meeting!”
drunk by Brack with shaking lips. Old Simon presented an unsolicited
testimonial.
“There’s them as _can_ sing an’ _waint_ sing!” he pronounced
emphatically, with a scathing eye on Brack, “an’ the de’il tak’ ’em
fur a lock o’ snirpin’ dew-nowts! An’ theer’s them as _can’t_ sing an’
_dew_ sing--an’ neea thanks tull them, neyther--but niver did I hear
the likes o’ yon!”
Lanty shook the singer by the hand, and said, “Miss Shaw will be
pleased to hear of _this_, anyhow!” with nothing in his voice but the
heartiest liking, and Wiggie met it instantly. There was never again
between them a shadow of any kind.
At the door, Harriet waited in the float. It was already dark. The
short January day was over, and as Wiggie shoved Stubbs up the step,
he was glad that he could not see her face. A moment later, gathering
that the kindred object was already fast asleep, he asked for a lift
home, but Harriet suspected him and snapped refusal. “It’s a long way
to walk!” he remonstrated sadly, and so convincingly that she yielded,
thinking he meant to try. Holding on to Stubbs as they trotted steadily
through the dark, he asked suddenly why she had come herself instead of
sending the man.
“Because this is _my_ job, in spite of Hamer!” she answered abruptly.
“I’ve got to see Stubbs through, whatever he does. He’s only a poor
exhibit as a father, but he’s all I’m likely to have, and if he chooses
to drink himself to death it’s up to me to stand the racket.” She
pulled into the hedge. “Isn’t that the Watters car?”
“It’s so difficult to tell, at night,” the subtle Wiggie made innocent
reply, all the time knowing the note of it as well as the sound of his
own voice. But what he did not know was that, inside it, was Dandy,
come to fetch him in an idle moment. That disappointment had yet to
be revealed. Thus is the spilt wine of our good deeds made bitter as
waters of Marah.
* * * * *
Lup walked over to drive the old man home. Lancaster had a word with
him on the kerb.
“You might have given us a look-in, for the last time! When next
January comes round, you’ll be feeling sorry you didn’t. When do you
leave?”
“In another few weeks, sir. I’ll be stopping a while with an uncle
in Liverpool before sailing. I’d meant to go, if I’d had to work my
passage, but the old man’s seen to the brass. There’ll be plenty to
start me on the other side an’ all. When he’d once given in, he wasn’t
for stinting me. He’s hard, but he’s not unjust, and he knows I’ve
earned it all right.”
“It’s _you_ that’s hard, Lup--ay, and unjust, too! You haven’t earned
the right to spoil your father’s last days.”
“He’s had his life, sir. This is mine.”
“And much good may it do you! You’re a fool!” Lanty swung on his heel
to find the Watters chauffeur at his elbow, wearing such a shocked
expression that both the other men smiled. Lup said, “Like enough!
Good-night to you, sir!” and rattled off, and Lancaster drifted to the
car. Dandy put out a hand to him through the window.
“Whom were you slanging on the pavement? And do you know what has
happened to Wiggie? They have it inside that he’s gone home already.”
It was explained that he had driven off with Mr. and Miss Knewstubb,
and she lifted her eyebrows a little. She was so used to Wiggie’s
devotion that the wind blew cold at the slightest sign of defection.
“It’s quite all right, of course, but we’d promised to send over.
I had nothing particular to do, so I just came for the run. I hope
he won’t get cold after the hot room--I brought the closed car on
purpose--especially as he came to please me.”
“He pleased a good many other people, too,” Lanty said warmly. “He
was immense! I can’t think why he isn’t in the front rank of English
singers. Surely somebody ought to have found him out!”
“Oh, he’s getting on all right,” she answered, rather hurriedly. “I’m
sure he enjoyed singing for you.”
“Well, yes, I think he did. He was great, anyhow! I’m glad you thought
of sending him as your representative.”
“I was interested.” She looked down, so that her head with its halo of
yellow light was thrown into relief by the night and her dark furs.
There were yellow chrysanthemums opposite.
He laughed with a shade of incredulity.
“We’re dull enough at close quarters--just a lot of rough working-men
digging up God’s gold out of the land. I’d an idea you didn’t approve
of us; thought we starved our dogs or something!” There came to him a
recollection of the last meeting in the Lane. “You told me once you
were home-sick for a collection of oddments of some sort--Tantalums,
Thermos flasks and hair-curlers!”
It was she who laughed now, and so infectiously that Bluecaster, making
for his carriage, stopped and asked to be introduced.
“I didn’t include _him_ in my estimate,” Lanty added, when he had
passed on, leaving a word for Hamer, and a message of sympathy for
Helwise, struggling with a cold. “He’s different from the rest of
us--you’d know it on the top of Skiddaw. _He_’s never done any digging,
and I don’t want him to.”
“Digging might be good for him,” Dandy ventured, and was growled at for
her pains.
“No, it wouldn’t! It might alter him, that’s all, but he’d lose all
the other things. He’s the best chap in Britain! We’re here to do the
digging for him, as we’ve always been. You don’t understand. They
mean a lot to us--the little thoughtfulnesses and the bottles of
cough-medicine and the words in season. If Bluecaster was digging, he’d
be too busy to bother. That’s what _he_’s here for. But of course it
can’t mean anything to you.”
“You’re rather rude, I think!” she replied gently, with a kind of
humorous resignation at which he smiled in spite of himself. Up the
street, on the green, a group of caravans was stationed, the lights of
a merry-go-round filling the winter evening with colour. A rollicking
tune came down to them, mixed with the shouts and laughter of the crowd.
“Come out and have a look!” he suggested, opening the door and offering
a hand, and presently they were standing in the ring of light, caught
in the deafening blare of the full orchestrion overhead. Some of
the farmers had stayed for a final flourish to the day’s festivity.
Denny was mounted on a tiger, with his brother’s little girl in front
of him, and one of Braithwaite’s pleasing daughters behind. The big
cattle-dealer was perched on an inadequate ostrich, with a scared wife
clinging to the neck of a giraffe. The shy ploughman rode solemnly
alone in the red-plush sumptuousness of a car. The blaze of brightness
scooped out of the pressing dark gave the whole scene a curiously
unreal effect, so that, watching the mechanical rise and fall of the
flying circle, Lanty’s mind, reacting from the strain of the three
days’ audit, grew gradually quiescent and dazed. Dandy spoke to him,
but he did not hear her. Close at hand in the crowd, Brack had turned
to face him, but he did not see him. The lights dimmed suddenly, became
lanterns swinging and dipping in a night as dark as hell. The blare
of the trumpets was the shattering roar of a big wind as it tore the
air to tatters, and the wailing of the reeds grew into the shrieks
of women and the thin crying of lambs. He was conscious of intense,
paralysing fear, of a frantic necessity to shout, choked on his lips
by the pressure of the gale. And through it all he felt that he was
listening, straining his ears to madness against the tumult of an
inferno let loose, just as, at Ninekyrkes, he had seen an old woman
strain and reach through the tense stillness of coming thunder. The
deadly helplessness of nightmare weighed him down as he writhed against
the horror, certain that, if he could speak _now_, hear _now_, the
unthinkable danger would pass. Through the torture a hand came up on to
his, a hand that he had never touched before to recognise, but which
held and drew him up and out of the abyss. He thought vaguely that
it must be Hamer’s--the clasp had the same comfort--but when he had
struggled blindly back to the present, he found it was not Hamer’s, but
his daughter’s. He saw Brack, then, his eyes, as they rested on him,
unnaturally brilliant, the pupils unnaturally large, before he dropped
his still swaying gaze to Dandy’s face.
“What was it?” he asked. “I heard--water!” and as he said it he caught
a little click in a man’s throat, as of satisfaction and justification,
but when he looked again, Brack was gone. Dandy drew him out of the
crowd.
“You looked as if you had gone blind!” she said. “I was frightened, and
you trembled as if you were frightened, too. And you called first to
your own father and then to mine, just as though you were drowning and
wanted help. I expect you’re tired out, and ought to rest. Let me take
you home in the car. You can send over for your horse to-morrow.”
But he refused. He wanted the quiet ride home in the night for thought.
“Jogging along in the air will do me good--thanks all the same! I _am_
tired--you’re right, there--but I’m as strong as an ox and can stand
anything. I don’t usually behave like this, even after a rent-audit!
I’m dreadfully sorry if I upset you. I expect the glare of the lights
hypnotised me on top of the landlord’s punch! You won’t trust yourself
to me again, if I’m going to see visions in your company.”
She gave him her hand a second time through the window, and he looked
down at it in his own. “It _is_ like Hamer’s!” he said curiously,
marking the resemblance in miniature, small, but square and strong. She
withdrew it with a shade of embarrassment.
“Yes, I know, but what made you think of it, now? I’m proud of it--dear
old Dad! You’ll start at once, won’t you?--and do keep your wits about
you on that lonely road!”
At the top of the hill he pulled up for a last look down into the
little blaze of life below him, throwing its brilliance over the pile
of the church and the looming canopies of the trees. The lights still
circled madly, the music still crashed, but they had no power over him,
now. What was it that had used them to the forcing of that terrible
moment? Vague words of Brack’s about clairvoyance drifted back into
his mind. He had laughed with Bluecaster over a mental picture of
Brack evoking spirits. Was he responsible for that tortured nightmare?
Perhaps he had really been trying to tell him something; or was it just
hypnotic reaction from that theory of his, obsessing him to madness?
For himself, he could do nothing, now. Even if he had believed it,
he could not doom the Lugg on the strength of a prophecy--after a
rent-dinner, too! And he did not believe it. His faith stayed where it
was.
He quickened his horse along the silent highway, the healing of the
night gathering him into quiet; and, as he rode, there went with him
the pressure of the hand that was so like Hamer’s, cool and firm and
blessedly kind.