THE TROUBLE COMING
The twenty-ninth of March. Lancaster had been at the Pride. Now he was
walking along the north road, where he had stood with Francey Dockeray,
months ago. They had had a good winter, just enough hard weather
and little wind, and the spring was wonderfully early. The whole
countryside breathed an atmosphere more like that of late Easter than
wild March. But March had had no lion in it, this year. It had come
in like a lamb, and continued to frolic softly onwards, crowned with
garlands, like a sacrifice frisking to the altar.
He walked slowly, loving the kind air and the delicate light lying
over the land, and his soul was at peace. His visit to the Pride had
left him happier than he had expected. For long, the necessity of it
had haunted him, and he had shrunk, without admitting it, from what he
possibly might find. But there had been nothing to disturb or alarm.
Wolf looked very old, but in better spirits than when he had last seen
him, for old age has its own medicine of the mind. He spent most of his
time at the last Ninekyrkes fence, looking over the fields. The new
tenants were not into the house yet, but they were at work on the land,
and he found a queer, half-bitter interest in watching others till his
soil. Mrs. Whinnerah was a great deal thinner, seemed to have no more
substance than a blown straw, but she was much softer in manner than
Lanty had ever known her. Her eyes, grown large as she grew small, had
the exalted, aloof, almost happy expression of the martyr-fanatic, but
they rested more kindly upon him than of yore.
The little Pride was a model of neatness and comfort. He found himself
envying them its cosy quiet, until, looking up, he saw the Lugg
towering in at the window. For a moment he had the impression that his
own satisfaction, the woman’s calm and the man’s quiet were all alike
due to one terrible fascination, the charm that holds a fated creature
still before a beast that springs. It was gone directly, and, as he
walked with Wolf on the new land, they talked again of his father’s
planning. He saw it broken up, portioned out, houses built, fences set,
a new estate growing under the shelter of the Lugg. When there was a
little colony there, the loneliness would vanish, and those that had
never known it would laugh at the old tale of a dead fear.
Bluecaster was still at home, waiting. He seemed bored and rather
restless, but he would not leave. When Lancaster suggested a Swiss
trip, or at least some sort of a party in the big house, he could
generally produce some halting excuse; but one day, when hard pressed,
he said simply: “It’s March!” and looked at the barometer. Lanty wanted
to laugh, but forbore. There were days when it did not do to laugh at
Bluecaster. He could make you feel that you were laughing, not only at
him, but at nine other Baron Bluecasters behind him.
Well, March was passing, wearing a dainty face showing neither fear nor
frown. This was Friday, and Sunday would be Mid-Lent Sunday. The worst
of the year was over, thank goodness, and with luck there should be a
second good season in front. He was almost sure there would be another
good season.
He asked after Lup. He would sail to-morrow, it seemed. They had had
a letter, saying a last good-bye after the most circumscribed method
of good-byes. Lanty had the letter to read, and wondered how long it
had taken him to frame the clipped sentences. At the bottom of the
page, far below the abrupt signature, three words were scribbled, as
if jerked into being by some ghost-hand gripping his elbow. Almost
indecipherable, they evolved themselves on inspection into “Wait of
me,” and no more. Completely out of touch with the letter both in
spirit and position, they gave the impression that the writer might
have sealed the cover without ever knowing they were there.
Mrs. Whinnerah saw the agent’s eyes on the message, and smiled faintly.
“There’s that as waits for nobody,” she said enigmatically, and turned
her face to the window. And again the thought came to him, as it had
come, months before, that she saw what no other eye could envisage.
The old couple walked with him to the fence, and there he bade them
farewell.
“I’ll be back again before long,” he said cheerily, shaking each by the
hand. “I’ll be looking you up again soon”--and knew not what truth he
spoke. So they parted, with mutual kindly smile and thought and word;
and as they turned from each other at last, a magpie fluttered out of
the fence and stood between them, lonely and alone on the alone and
lonely road.
Young Rowly came out from Ladyford at his hail, and his sister behind
him. Mother and father were away for the day, it seemed. Francey met
him with her usual pleasant manner. Lup’s departure had left her
apparently untouched, he thought. Perhaps, after all, it had been best
for him to go.
“Have you seen Bracken Holliday, lately?” she asked, as he put a foot
into the boat, a subtle change coming over her tone.
Some undercurrent of sympathy made Lanty start, realising that the man
had been in his mind, also.
“Why, no!” he answered, steadying himself in the boat, and looking
at her instead of crossing to the stern. “What’s his Loftiness been
doing with himself? Getting engaged, or making ready to stand for the
County? I hear he was a great man at election-time.”
Young Rowly looked up from his seat with a ripple of mirth running over
his clear, young face.
“Nothing o’ _that_ sort! He’s got religion. He’s taken to going to
church!”
“Not just Sundays, to show off the fit of his coat,” Francey explained.
“He’s done that, all along. Rowly means Lent services--weekday
services. Brack’s there, every time!”
“But what’s taken him? Some girl gone back on him? Or has he lost
another pig or something?”
She looked down at the sand. There were words on her lips, plainly
enough, but she did not utter them. Rowly, however, supplied the
deficiency with the same happy haste.
“If you want to know, sir, he’s praying for _you_!”
“For me? What in creation----! For _me_?”
“Yes, sir--for you. He says there’s something awful coming along, and
you’re responsible for it. Says if he can only get the Almighty to
listen to reason, He’ll happen let you off and give you another chance.
So he goes to church every day, motor-machine, bettremer clothes an’
all!”
Lanty scrambled over, and sat down with a bump and a laugh. It was
difficult to take any theory seriously that included a vision of Brack,
pale-gray suit, Trilby and S.-F., waving wild arms in supplication
before the Lord.
“Seems to me Brack must have collected a germ or two on the other side
of the pond! He’s a queer specimen. Well, I’m grateful for anybody’s
prayers. Who knows? Brack’s may do me a good turn yet!”
Over the sand, he went to Pippin Hall for his horse. Uncle Willie was
in the yard, and walked with him for some distance along the dyked
road. He remembered afterwards how many people seemed to have stopped
and held him, as if loth to let him go, on that last journey round the
banks.
“I suppose you’ll be over at this feed to-morrow night, you and your
lads?” he inquired--“Mr. Shaw’s hotpot supper at the ‘Duke.’”
“Ay, we’ll happen show up. T’ element’s quiet enough at present.” He
cast a keen look over the sky, and then the deep-set eyes twinkled,
dropping to Lanty’s face. “They seem a likely sort, the new folk over
at Watters. They do say as you’re looking round there, Mr. Lancaster.
Time you got wed an’ all!”
Lanty laughed as he mounted.
“Oh, they’ve had me fixed up more often than I could count, but it’s
never come off yet! I’m over-throng for that kind of thing, with the
Government setting me a different sort of sum every other week. The
estate’s my wife. I’ll never have any other.”
But, as he rode away, he knew that the real reason had been left
unspoken. True, the estate had the whole of his heart at present, but
it had not yet claimed all his dreams. The Lady that had walked between
his box-borders was not forgotten, though still yet to be found. The
shadows would have to lengthen further before he ceased to hope.
He would have no half-gods, this blunt, absorbed business-man of the
land. Thorough as he was in every detail of his work, he carried the
same demand for perfection even to his private, human joy. It had
always been said of the Lancasters that they would have the best--the
best stuff, the best workmen, the best methods, no matter at what cost.
And the last Lancaster of all added that, in little things like love
and marriage, he would also have the best--or go wanting them.
He had had a very pleasant day in Manchester. Hamer had treated him
royally, and Dandy’s joyous enthusiasm had shed brilliance over the
expedition. For once she had shown for him the rare sparkle that she
always kept for Wiggie. He had felt free and gay and almost as young as
she as they wandered round the Show, tasting the charm of fellowship
and mutual interest, but even then it had failed as it had always
failed before. He had told her that she must persuade Hamer to take
her to the Royal, and she had mocked: “Cows and turnips!” passing on
to show rapturous interest in the latest type of plane. He could not
know that, five hours before, on the Preston Road, she had decided that
Hamer should certainly take this very same party to the Royal. He only
felt like a turnip, and wished that his boots were more like those of
the nearest showman, and wondered if he could possibly tolerate an
overcoat with a waist to it. And when they had turned their backs on
the city lights, she had wriggled from under the rug to look behind
her over the hood, and had sighed: “Dear Manchester!” It had always
been for her a city of wonder and delight, paved and padded by the
genie-hands of Hamer’s gold, but there hung no gleam of hard cash
over it to-night, only the will-o’-the-wisp lantern of new love. But
Lanty remembered the Thermos flasks and electric hair-curlers, and
believed that she turned sadly from the rich man’s city, where such
comforts were as common as dog-roses in Westmorland. _He_ would never
have an electric thingumbob in _his_ house, he reflected savagely and
childishly. They had a Thermos flask already, in spite of him, given to
Helwise by Hamer, last Christmas, and she had found it a glorious boon
on the servant’s day out, when she happened to want a day out, too.
Lanty had had many a cooped-up cup of tea out of it, longing the while
with a foolish bitterness for a singing kettle and a fresh brew. The
Lady would never give him tea out of a Thermos--he was certain of that.
The shock of Wiggie’s illness had laid the final lever to the reopening
gulf. During the following anxious weeks, Dandy’s one thought had been
for her old friend, so that the new seemed completely put aside; and
the latter, hearing her self-reproach and seeing her genuine trouble
and anxiety, was more than ever convinced that, in spite of their day
together, she belonged to the Wiggies of the world, and could never be
rightly his. With a very little incense she might be a half-god--his
rebelling soul confessed that!--but he did not mean to burn it. He
would swing no single censer, nor strew a single flower.
As he climbed out of the marsh on to the main road, he met Brack in
the Flanders. A church-bell was ringing somewhere on the hill-side,
and on the empty seat at Brack’s left lay a Prayer-book. When he saw
the well-known figure, he pulled up with a jerk that ground fierce
complaint from his tyres. Lanty looked at the Prayer-book in mild
surprise, and up to its owner. The angry colour flew into Brack’s face,
but he did not put out a hand to the strange object. Let the d----d
agent look if he liked!
When the colour faded, Lanty saw that he was thinner, less superior,
less exaggerated, less--well, less Brack. The superciliousness that had
marked him at the rent-audit was gone, the splendid self-possession
changed to mere nervous defiance. His eyes were restless, frightened.
He looked as though, at any moment, he might bolt like a startled deer.
Lanty stared at him curiously, with more contempt in the curiosity than
he knew. It was impossible to take Brack seriously; the man must have
dropped a screw or two somewhere “across the dub.” The Prayer-book
alone, sitting blandly on the seat of the car, stamped the situation.
Stung by his expression, Brack pulled himself together with an effort,
drawing out his cigarette-case with shaking hands.
“Been looking out for you!” he began, coughing to steady his voice.
“Just come from calling at Watters.”
“Indeed?” The agent raised his eyebrows. Was Brack aspiring to that
particular orbit? The younger man flushed angrily once more.
“Westmorland Holliday blood need touch its hat to no manufacturer’s
cash, Mr. Lancaster!”
“Granted!” Lanty said heartily--“though it lifts it to honest success!”
His manner changed, however. The little outburst pleased him, coming
as it did, not from vanity, but from heritage, showing the man to be
really one of the old stock. He dropped into the coaxing tone he kept
for the long-time tenants. “Come, Brack! What’s worrying you? Not the
same old tale, man, surely? You’re looking as nervous as a cat, and
more fit to be in hospital than driving a car.”
But Brack ignored the question, struggling with his obstinate
cigarette, and cursing under his breath (despite the Prayer-book) as
the wind took the flame.
“I went to Watters,” he continued, speaking very carefully, “to see
about this hotpot supper. I went to tell Mr. Shaw I reckoned he’d
better put it off.”
“Put it off?” Lanty’s eyebrows went up again. “What on earth for?
Measles or something broken out at the ‘Duke’? He must have thought you
had a pretty fair cheek! What did he say?”
“Say?” Brack raised himself in the car, shaking suddenly with
distorting rage. “He heard me right out without bucking in once--all
I’ve told you from the start, and a bit more--and then he said what the
whole durned crowd of them say, every bright boy among ’em, but what
I reckon they’ll soon be shutting their mouths on for ever and ever,
Amen--he said, ‘I’ll ask Mr. Lancaster!’ That’s the ticket--always has
been. ‘I’ll ask Mr. Lancaster. What a Lancaster says, goes!’”
His hand fell accidentally on the Prayer-book, and he quietened. The
bell had ceased ringing up on the hill. Lanty regarded him gravely.
“I know what you believe, Brack--it didn’t take long to guess who sent
that chapter out of the Bible--but you can hardly expect us to believe
it, too, just on your word. You’ll admit it’s a queer story. And what’s
it got to do with the hotpot?”
Brack fiddled with the wheel, suddenly embarrassed and distressed, his
personal animosity fading before the pressure of his inexplicable fear.
His tale had run fluently enough to Hamer, a listener from without.
Before the agent’s steady contempt it fell to pieces.
“Dead woolly things!” he muttered, incoherent and unintelligible; and
other words completely lost. And then again: “Wet little woolly things!
_Dead!_”
Lanty might be forgiven for thinking that his sudden religious mania
had been backed by the “Duke’s” ale. He touched up his horse, but Brack
put out a hand.
“I’ve just been slinging a word over the wire!” he said queerly.
“Really?” Lancaster was wearying to get away. “To the Clerk of the
Weather, I presume?”
“No! Will you listen, if I tell you?” He leaned forward eagerly, and
then got his hands back to their place as the sound of wheels warned
him from the near corner. Denny tore round it, and pretended to have a
heart-attack when he saw Brack.
“Danged if it bain’t the Judgment hissel! Runnin’ about in a motor an’
all!” He put his hands together, and turned his eyes to heaven. “Give
us a bit of a prayer, Parson Brack, do!”
Livid, Brack snatched at the Prayer-book with quivering fingers, and
stood up.
“Guess you shall have it right now!” he cried, and raised his hat. The
book fell open instantly at the Forms of Prayer to be used at Sea. By
the fierce rush of his words they guessed that he knew the page by
heart.
“O most glorious and merciful Lord God.... Look down, we beseech thee,
and hear us, calling out of the depths of misery, and out of the jaws
of this death, which is ready to swallow us up! Save, Lord, or else we
perish. The living, the living shall praise thee....”
His voice steadied as he read, the greatness of the need taking hold,
not only of the speaker, but of the two men hearkening. Mechanically,
Lanty put his hand to his cap, and Denny awkwardly followed suit. The
last words came out quietly into calm.
“Stir up thy strength, O Lord, and come and help us; for thou givest
not always the battle to the strong, but canst save by many or by
few.... Hear us thy poor servants begging mercy, and imploring thy
help.”
And Lanty, with his face turned to the sea, answered “Amen!”
Denny passed him as he rode on, saluting him with a lifted whip. His
pleasant, uncaring face was troubled and wondering. He met the agent’s
eyes with a question in his own.
Lancaster broke into a trot in the fair evening, and, behind him, over
the sea, there came up a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand.