SPURS TO GLORY
Slowly, very slowly, the faintly-shifting kaleidoscope of the months
adjusted Dandy to her new conditions. The first sense of stagnation,
following on the hurry of Halsted, was replaced gradually by a
feeling of steady movement and expansion. The days were alive but
never feverish. She came to see that rampant activity does not always
mean progression, that the stimulant of rush may finally produce
stupefaction, and flying feet carry one over all the great truths of
life. The country’s gift was hers--time to grow.
But the gift came gauntleted, she found. It had its Judgment Book,
its Black List, its Penal Code. There were long evenings with nobody
at hand to deliver her from herself, long, hopeless days with a heart
like a spurless steed, and long, terrible nights when the ghosts of the
place woke her to clamour in cold hate at her presence. For Watters
would not always own her. It had its brutal hours, when the very garden
was sinister and the eyes of the house had no soul, and terror waited
at every turn of the stair. She came to know, too, the penalty of
identifying her mood with that of the weather--the cruel relentlessness
of storm, the utter soullessness of glaring heat, the cynicism of an
edged wind, the inquisition-beat of hail.
Yet for these what exquisite consolation! Exhilaration of frost, peace
of still days swung on a soft, low wind, inspiration of light and shade
and mist and evening sun. She learned, too, to look on the rain as a
dominant personality ruling great issues. At Halsted, after scorching
days of tennis, a healing drizzle soft as down, blotting out the day
and whispering through the night, brought no comment except--“Filthy
weather! Shut it out!”--but here they said of it: “It’s doing
rarely--coming down nicely--doing grand!” thinking in the dark of tarns
filling in the lonely hills, and listening to the drinking earth with a
sense of personal benefit, and almost of personal achievement. And when
the big winds came, so that the lights quivered and the beds shook and
the carpets flapped like bunting, you did not say, as at Halsted: “Just
the night for ‘Everybody’s Doing It’--what? Somebody order the closed
car!” but you wondered under which hedge the sheep had gathered, and
whether the tide was over the road at Sandfoot, and if, by some miracle
of endurance, the frail old ash would live till morning.
Moreover, the country sense of clannish commonness in so much took her
by degrees, giving her whole new world into her hand.
“I believe I’m beginning to understand,” she said to Hamer, one day
when the mood of analysis was upon her. “I know now why old James
was so angry when we cut down that sycamore, just after we came.
Why, I could hate the whole District Council for pulling down the
ferny old wall at Abbey Corner, just because you and I ran round it
into the Chairman! Everything seems to get up close to you in the
country and make a personal matter of itself without being asked.
Haven’t you noticed how people say, ‘Oh, the harvest is all in, with
_us_!’ or, ‘_We_ did splendidly in roots!’ even if they own nothing
but an ivy-strangled cottage with a lean-to henpen and a border of
nasturtiums? It grows on you, somehow. Everybody does it. Why, only
last week, when those horrid cousins of mother’s motored through, and
did nothing but grumble about the Westmorland butter, I found myself
saying: ‘It can’t have been local. _Ours_ has been winning all over
the place!’ just as if I’d been raising prize pats on my own account,
instead of Harriet and Mrs. Wilson!”
“It’s great!” Hamer answered, irrelevantly but comprehensively, as he
had answered, months before. He had a fat book or two in his arm.
“Doing anything this evening, Dandy Anne? I’m going over to Wild Duck
with these, and I thought of bringing Knewstubb back with me.”
“_Need_ we have him to dinner again to-night?” Dandy sighed. “(No. The
V.A.D. was yesterday, and the S.P. something-or-other’s to-morrow.)
I’m sure I know every hair on that wretched Lapwing, by now! And two
of the maids have threatened to give notice if he goes on calling them
‘Skirts.’ Harriet says it’s his generic term for all women-servants,
just as he calls all the men ‘Whiskers,’ but it isn’t very polite. I
wish you’d give him a hint, Daddy dear.”
Hamer looked troubled.
“Of course I don’t want to pester you with him, little girl, but I
can’t help worrying and wanting to lever him out of his rut. A man with
my luck ought to be handing it round if he can. Knewstubb isn’t bad all
through. He’s only--careless. He’s begun to take an interest in one
or two things going, lately. And, anyway, my whisky’s better than the
‘White Lion’s.’”
“How you are scooping in the shekels up aloft, Daddy dear! If you’re
not careful, you’ll break the bank. Why, yes, Stubbs is quite a
different creature already, and you’ve started others stretching a hand
to him, too. They made him a platform ornament at the last Conservative
meeting, and several good souls are trying to push him into positions
of trust. It won’t be your fault if you don’t waft him into Heaven
among you!”
Hamer looked more troubled than ever.
“You’re not sneering at me, are you, Dandy Anne?”
“Oh, DARLING!” Dandy took the fat books from him, and put herself in
their place. “Now may the Bald-Head Bears come out of Crag Yeat Wood
and gobble me up! As if I didn’t just worship you and your trams, and
mean to ride into glory at the tail of one of them! Ask the Stubbs,
by all means, and I will get him to teach me the Farmers’ Shuffle
for the fifteenth time, while you have your after-dinner nap. And you
might ask the Forgotten Parson and the Lonely Lady with the Policeman’s
Rattle. Let’s have a real Tram-Party while we’re about it. There’s the
Grammar-School-Master, too, who blew himself up, last week. I met him
this morning, wandering about in bandages and a splint. He hasn’t a
spare hand, so you’ll have to feed him. Shall I tell mother dinner for
seven? And then let me walk over to Wild Duck with you, and help to
carry the books. I want to see Harriet about ‘Elijah.’”
They found the lady-farmer round by the shippons, on the point of
climbing into the float between the shining milkcans. It was growing
dusk as they went up the gravelled path, and already a light showed in
the pretty farm-house. Snowdrops were thick in the garden, and a band
of yellow crocus edged the foot of the whitewashed porch. Over the
dividing wall they could hear Harriet directing the lighting of the
sparkling lamps.
“Just taking the milk to the Workhouse,” she informed them, as
they appeared through the little gate. “Martindale is laid up with
rheumatics, and there’s some complaint I want to settle in person.
Stubbs is indoors, if you’ve brought that dull-looking inkhorn-stuff
for him. You might keep him stodging at it till I get back. I shan’t
be long, so don’t clear out before I’ve had a chin with you. Right,
horse--get along off!”
She spun out of the yard with the flashing cans, flourishing her whip
as she rounded the turn, and swaying easily to the swing of the trap.
Hamer looked after her admiringly.
“I like a woman with a straight back!” he observed. “It means a lot
more than you’d think. It’s a pleasure to watch that girl move. She’s
real grit bent on getting there all the time!”
“Ay, she’s a devil to meet, but an angel to follow!” Stubbs commented
at his elbow. “She’s got my figure”--the check swelled proudly--“but
I’m hanged if she’s got my face! Deuced plain, _I_ call her. Don’t know
where she picked it up. And the very dickens for language, though I’m
d----d if I know where she gets _that_, either! Come along in, won’t
you, and have a glass of--snow about somewhere, I’ll swear!”
Through the deep-seated porch into the narrow passage, where a staring
stag’s head threatened their own from the pink-washed wall, they came
into the snug parlour, and soon Hamer and Stubbs were happy with a fat
book between them under the lamp on the round table. The fire chuckled
merrily, and the lustre ornaments on the mantelpiece caught the
dancing light and flashed it on to the brass candlesticks and a gilt
beer-barrel of a clock. Above the clock was a black paper silhouette
of Harriet’s grandfather, _the_ John Knewstubb, Prop of the County.
It was a man’s room, from the business-like bureau to the prints
and the books--county, agricultural, sporting and veterinary--the
leather leggings flung at the side of the hearth, and the silver-bound
carriage-whip in the corner. Yet it was here that Harriet spent most of
her scanty indoor hours, and the room was as much hers as her father’s.
There was no sign of feminine occupation, nor a single softening touch,
but for all that it was cosy and cheerful with the homeliness that
clings imperishably to the farm-house, the fundamental, abiding home
of all. It had the real farm-house smell, too--Dandy was beginning to
recognise it, and was proud of the fact--the smell that registered it
as the Holy of Holies of many a past generation.
A kitten was flung, white-pawed and drowsy, on the red window-seat,
and, drawing it to her knee, she looked through the narrow panes into
the gathering shadows. Hamer glanced up once from the printed page and
across to her dreaming face, and a look of whimsical distress came into
his own. He had lost his girl, he knew that; had known it ever since
the night she had danced with the fairies through a Gate of Vision.
The minutes slid by, bringing no roll of returning wheels, but
presently, across the men’s talk and the song of the furry sleepiness
in her lap, Dandy caught the sound of voices on the path--Helwise’s
first, penetrating as escaping steam, and then Lancaster’s, deep and
abrupt, followed by the framing of their figures in the arc flung on
the night. Helwise plunged in at the porch, still babbling, but Lanty
stayed a moment, arrested, and through the little, old casement he and
Hamer’s daughter sent glance to meet glance. So had he seen her in the
car, he remembered, her charming, wistful head aureoled in light. That
picture had remained; this, too, held him. There was to be a third
also, kept for an hour as yet mercifully hid from both.
Meanwhile Helwise had streamed into the passage and through the parlour
door, and had addressed at least half a paragraph to Harriet before
she discovered that she wasn’t in the room. Stubbs said “H----ll of
a bore!” under his breath, and “Milk. Back in a jiff!” above it,
and retired into the fat book without more ado. He couldn’t stand
Helwise at any price. It was Hamer who got up, put her into the rocker
and lifted her feet to the fender, loosened her furs and plunged a
poker into the red coals. The big man loved waiting on the piece of
deceptively-appealing inconsequence, and of course Helwise loved it,
too, so they were both happy. Dandy moved her eyes from the window with
a start, and stood up politely to offer her a cushion.
Stubbs looked relieved when he saw Lancaster, and drew him down to
the table, pointedly turning his back upon his female relative, but
she soon wore him into silence. She was upset, it appeared, about the
forthcoming oratorio in Bluecaster. The church was small, and it seemed
that there would be a squash for the Choral Society. Forms would have
to be added to the choir-stalls. The Vicar had written Miss Lancaster,
as Secretary of the Society, to know whether Elijah and Co. might be
accommodated on chairs on the chancel steps, and, if so, whether the
chairs should be plain or upholstered. Miss Lancaster was of opinion
that the chairs in question ought to be the Vicar’s best saddle-bags,
and had answered to that effect--a suggestion indignantly vetoed by the
Vicar’s wife. The Vicar had replied that, according to _his_ humble
judgment, large and bulgy saddle-bags were in keeping neither with the
appointments of a church nor with the original entourage of Elijah and
his troupe. Helwise had responded with quotations: “The Lord loveth
a cheerful giver,” and “Whatever, Lord, we lend to Thee, repaid a
thousandfold will be,” envisaging the terrible prospect of countless
saddle-bags prancing cumbrously up the Vicarage drive. This Biblical
trespassing had been taken in bad part by the other side, and Elijah
bade fair to fall between two stools. Lanty having refused to show any
interest whatever in the matter, Helwise had flown to Harriet, who,
it seemed, was at the Workhouse. Stubbs audibly wished them both at
Hong-Kong, and Elijah along with them.
Hamer came soothingly to the rescue. He happened to have some old
chairs that were exactly the thing. In fact, he rather believed that
they had been church-wood, to begin with. He would be delighted to
lend them, and also to send them, if they would be of service. He even
borrowed notepaper from the disgusted Stubbs, and sat down to write
to the Vicar at Helwise’s dictation. Lanty, in the window, stroking
White-Paws on Dandy’s lap, growled a remonstrance, which she checked.
“Oh, please let him!” she begged under her breath; and, remembering
that Wiggie would occupy one of the chairs, he said no more. Stubbs
rattled off a string of all the most swear-sounding rotifera he could
think of.
To the tune of a spanking trot Harriet dashed into the yard, and strode
in, a fine colour in her sallow cheeks, and every fighting bristle
raised for war. Hospitality dragged from her a brief recognition of the
later arrivals as they rose to greet her, but she paid it no further
dues. Stubbs brightened. Evidently there had been a row.
“Worm!” said Harriet, slapping down her hard gauntlets under
Helwise’s nose. “Caterpillar! Bloodless, backboneless caterpillar!
To dare to talk to _me_ about milk--ME! Knewstubb of Wild Duck!
Centipede--white-livered, backstair crawler--Earwig! CROCODILE!”
The Shaws paled--this was a new and dreadful Harriet--but Stubbs merely
hallooed: “Sick ’em, lass! Good dog--hie on to him!” snapping his
fingers with keen enjoyment, and even Helwise seemed unconcerned. As
for Lanty, he laughed with evident understanding.
“Thorne, I suppose, is it? I’ve seen him slinking into the Workhouse
once or twice lately as I passed. Afraid he thinks no great shakes of
me as his fellow-Guardian. It isn’t often I get time to look in. I
fancy he gives them a pretty thin time there, poking about and finding
fault.”
“Yes. Ollivant Thorne. ‘Creeping Jesus’ they call him in the village,
with his slimy voice and his shifty eyes! What are you all on your
hind legs for, by the way? I’ve a lot to say, so you may as well ease
up to it. That’s better! It was like this: Lambert sent me a private
note to say that Thorne didn’t think the milk up to standard, so I went
round myself to see about it, and there if you please was the Creeping
Jesus, waiting ready to sniff at the milkcan as soon as it stopped at
the door. Of course I asked him where the devil he had learned anything
about milk with his death’s head always stuck in a ledger, and he
said he was there to see that the poor were not being fleeced by a
flummoxing farmer. I replied that the milk was the best in the county,
as anybody but a long-eared sarsaparilla raised on barley-water and
lemon wouldn’t need telling, and he said that language wasn’t allowed
in the Sacred Precincts of the Pure Pauper, and that he should parley
with the Board, and have the contract taken from me. I told him he
could sue me for jumping it on the spot, and tried to come away and the
milk with me, but Lambert nearly wept, so of course I turned soft and
let him have it. He said awful things about Thorne when the Creeping
Jesus had bunked, but of course that’s unofficial, so you must keep it
dark. The creature’s had his knife into me ever since I chucked him out
for trying some stuff on Stubbs that he called a perfect substitute for
whisky. Stubbs was ill for days afterwards--weren’t you, Stubbs?--and I
had to stick upstairs nursing him and let the farm slide.”
“Thorne?” Hamer pondered. “I know the man. Excise--insurance--law--what
is he? Something parchmenty, anyhow. Had two hours of him one day, and
never guessed what he was after until the last five minutes, when he
tried to get some work out of me. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could
throw him. County odd-jobber, isn’t he, as well?”
Lanty nodded.
“Rural District Council. Attends like his prayers. I share the honour
with him. We’ve been returned unopposed at least twice, and there’s
nobody coming up against us this time either that I know of. Election
in March. Afraid I don’t lay myself out much to oblige. The estate
carries me, and Thorne has a select band of slummites that he beats up
for the occasion.”
“Estate be hanged!” Harriet jeered. “Lanty’s shoving his head in the
sand, Mr. Shaw. He doesn’t need to canvass, because the district, in
its rational moments, happens to know a useful man when it sees one.
Thorne always works like a black if he thinks there’s a chance of a
fight. You’ll find him slumming for months beforehand--the carping old
milk-sniffer! I’ve half a mind to stand against him myself.”
The words meant nothing, spoken in a last leaping spasm of annoyance,
but after a pause Hamer said “Why not?” very quietly; and after a
second pause--of astonishment, this time--Stubbs suddenly said “Why
not?” too. Indeed, he got solemnly to his feet and repeated it,
extending a check arm.
“Why not? In the family. Always in the family! Rur’l D’trict C’cillor
myself, once upon a time”--so he had been, in forgotten ages--“father
Rur’l D’trict C’cillor, too. Chairman, in fact. Chairman myself but for
accident. Other important business--you all know! Father great man,
very highly respected. Chairman. In the family. Always in the family!”
Harriet said--“Oh, cheese it, Stubbs!” looking embarrassed, but the
colour had risen again in her cheeks, and she pulled the gauntlets back
and fidgeted with them.
“We all remember John Knewstubb,” Lancaster paid tribute. “His work
for the county will stand for many a long year.” He looked laughingly
at Harriet. “Come on! I’m sure his granddaughter will find plenty of
backers.”
“Bunkum!” Harriet frowned uncomfortably. He was not serious, she knew,
but her colour mounted higher. “You’re talking through your hats. Of
course I can’t do it!”--and again came the query, placidly from Hamer,
importantly from Stubbs.
“But isn’t she too--young?” Dandy put in, gazing with awe at the
proposed candidate. “Of course, I know they do have ladies sometimes,
but not--not like Harriet.” Excitement conquered doubt. “Oh, Harriet,
_do_, and we’ll all help! Dad and I will canvass for you, and Miss
Lancaster and Wiggie--Wiggie will love it, and nobody ever refuses him
anything”--she pulled up suddenly, biting her lip. “We shall all be so
proud of you, if you get in!”
“Lancelot won’t let me canvass,” Helwise lamented. “Such a good
opportunity for collecting subscriptions, too! He says they’re
side-issues, whatever that may mean. But I’m sure they’d put you in,
Harriet, even without me. You know you always get the egg-accounts
within a shilling or two.”
And Stubbs said: “In the family. Always in the family. Rur’l D’trict
C’cillor!” with a final wave that abolished one of the lustres, and the
diversion gave the visitors their chance to move. Harriet refused the
Shaws’ invitation both for herself and her father.
“I’m going to write to the Creeping Jesus, and it’ll take me all
evening. I’ve remembered lots of things I could have said and didn’t,
and I’ll want Stubbs by me to put in the adjectives. He’ll be as happy
as a king with that and the microbes. We’ll come some other night, if
you’ll have us. You’d better take a light, hadn’t you? It’ll be as
black as a hearse in the lane.”
She lighted a lantern, and walked with them to the gate. Behind her
straight, boyish figure the well-kept house spoke of comfort, honesty
and respect. She snapped the latch after them with a firm hand.
“Good-night. And good luck!” Lanty called laughingly. “I shan’t mind
standing down to John Knewstubb’s successor!”
Harriet grunted with annoyance.
“Stow all that piffle! You’re as safe as houses, and you know it. It’s
Thorne I’d be out to rattle; I’d make no difference to _you_. And in
any case I’m not doing it. You’ll only set Stubbs agitating. I wish
you’d chuck it!”
But as she went slowly back up the path, the stray-flung idea settled
and took root. It was absurd, of course, and she was much too young,
too insignificant, and--only a woman; but after all she was doing a
man’s job in a man’s place, and doing it well. She had earned respect
in her own line--there was no doubt about that--and she’d as good a
head-piece as most of the old buffers on the Board, thank the powers!
It would be a fine old crow over the Creeping Jesus if she bagged his
post. Might be a help in business as well, now she came to think of it.
She was bred to it, too, as Stubbs had said. A certain knowledge of
Poor Law and County management comes the way of most country people,
but Harriet, brought up by her grandfather, had breathed it in with her
native air. She could still cite many a point of importance which he
had made familiar, repeat stories of difficulties triumphantly solved.
She loved it, too; all the machinery and the ceremony and the cracking
of nuts with Nasmyth hammers. Association and instinct alike made the
dull things dear and vivid. There are few stronger claims in certain
families than this obligation of service, passing from one generation
to another. On the backs of its often inadequate but willing gentry the
agricultural county moves forward, exorbitant with them because it has
bred them, exacting more of them with each succeeding year, and only
they know what it gives them in return. Titles--silver--illuminated
addresses--a squad of police to walk before their coffin--a portrait to
hang behind their empty chair--these make their testimony; but the real
guerdon is surely immeasurably different and beyond.
Later, in her own room, the deeper reason--the woman’s reason--spoke
for itself. Dandy had said: “We shall all be proud of you.” “All?”
Would _he_ care if she went in to fight and came out victorious,
honour her because honour had come her way? The suggestion had amused
him; he had not taken it seriously, but it had roused him to new
interest in her, nevertheless. She had thrilled at his homage to her
grandfather; _that_ had been serious and genuine, without question,
and the reflection, if pale, had yet been hers. The possible venture
would surely bring her a little nearer! She would share some measure
of his work, lay her hand to it beside his, join in the common
endeavour. Thorne and the milk-insult were forgotten. The woman’s
reason, the woman’s hope, urged her forward. Lighting a candle, she
slipped silently down to the sitting-room, and drew out one of her
grandfather’s books.