FARMER BLUFF.
WHILST Dick was making acquaintance with Bill the Kicker, the Squire's
bailiff, Farmer Bluff, was sitting in his parlour, with his leg upon a
cushion and a pint mug on the table by his side, swearing inwardly—if
not aloud—at the fate which had cursed him with the gout.
Now this fate was none other than the blustering old farmer's own
stupidity; for time after time the doctor had warned him that as long
as he made that mug his boon companion, so long exactly would his enemy
pursue him with its twinging pains.
But Farmer Bluff was obstinate as well as blustering—to every one
except the Squire, of course, in whose presence he was like the latter
end of March—a lion transformed into a lamb. The excuse he made to
himself turned upon the mug, of which he was naturally proud, it being
solid silver, an heirloom that his grandfather had left to him. He
liked to have it on the table by his side; and if upon the table, why,
it must have something in it. And that something must of course be
beer, and must be drunk. And so the stupid fellow's gout grew angrier
year by year, until at length it got so bad that if he did not swear
aloud, it was for no better reason than because nobody was by to hear.
As he sat there by the hearth, looking across his shoulder out of the
window at the bright March sunshine that used to call him up and abroad
at six o'clock, until this gout got hold of him, he heard Grip set up
the furious bark that fetched the servant out to look. Then he heard
Blazer take up the challenge; and shortly afterwards the voices of the
servant and the man fell on his ear.
Now it was a peculiarity of the old bailiff to resent not being able to
hear what passed between other people; so after chafing and fretting
for some minutes, he reached out for the handbell that stood beside the
silver mug, and rang it lustily. Then he took another pull at the mug,
and having poked the fire to a roaring blaze, impatiently awaited the
answer to his summons.
This happened exactly at the moment when the servant threw up the
kitchen window to let in the air.
"Always kicking up a fuss for nothing in the world," said she again,
flouncing back to her washing up, with a strong determination to let
him ring a second time. After a minute or two, however, she let drop
her dish-clout in the tub, and drying her hands on her apron as she
went, hurried off to the parlour.
Farmer Bluff was known to be a bit of a miser, and had few near
relatives to leave his money to; and Elspeth had her eye upon a
handsome legacy.
"He's over sixty-five," she used to tell herself, by way of comfort
when he swore at her; "and gout don't make old bones. I can put up with
it a bit longer, on the chance of being mentioned in his will."
But, as it happened, just as Elspeth reached the parlour, there
was another ring, this time at the outer door; not so lusty as her
master's, though, for all that the bell itself was twice the size.
Filling up a waste space in the hall, there was a cunning china closet,
with a narrow window looking through into the porch. A step or two
aside and one quick glance revealed who stood without. Going swiftly to
the door, Elspeth threw it open with a deferential curtsey. It was the
Squire who had given that modest ring; and she never kept the Squire
waiting, for he always had a civil word, in spite of his high rank.
Then having answered his inquiry as to whether her master was up, she
stepped briskly back towards the parlour.
Farmer Bluff was in the act of ringing his handbell a second time.
"A man might die in a fit, for all the haste you make!" exclaimed he
with an oath, banging down the bell so violently that the clapper
uttered a "twang" of protest. "An indolent, slow-footed hussy!" He was
going on with a regular string of abuse, but just as he was in the
midst of some words that no proper thinking man had any business to lay
his tongue to, the door flew open, and to his great dismay, his eyes
met those of no less a personage than the Lord of the Manor.
Farmer Bluff's tirade came to an abrupt termination, and Elspeth having
announced, "The Squire, sir," withdrew, leaving her master to put the
best face on it.
What with beer, and rage, and shame, the old sinner's countenance was
nearly as red as the live coals in the grate. He made desperate efforts
to rise as the Squire approached, bearing like a man the torture that
would have made him swear like a trooper if Elspeth had been by instead.
The Squire, however, hastened to stop him.
"Keep your seat, Mr. Bluff," said he good-naturedly, as the bailiff
blurted out an apology. "Pray don't put yourself to any pain on my
account. No; not so near the hearth, thank you," as Farmer Bluff tried
to reach a chair. "I'll sit here. The air is mild this morning, and I
can see you've been serving your fire to the same sort of rousing as
you treat your woman servant to."
The old farmer reddened still more, and mumbled something about "your
blood being chilly when you had the gout."
"And you find that swearing makes it circulate," remarked the Squire
sarcastically. "Dependence upon others is a very unfortunate condition
to come to," added he; "and you have apparently a very inattentive
attendant too."
The Squire's caustic tone did not escape Farmer Bluff. He blurted out a
few words about "not so bad," only she needed "keeping up to the mark."
"You've chosen a somewhat unscriptural way of setting about it,"
observed the Squire; "and my experience—the experience of fourscore
years—is that whatever is unscriptural is unprofitable, and altogether
wrong. Therefore, Mr. Bluff, if I were you I should give it up."
Having uttered this straightforward piece of advice, the Squire dropped
the subject, and went on to speak of his bailiff's health.
It was wonderful the contrast there was between the two men. The
Squire, brought up all his lifetime in the midst of luxury—had he
chosen to live softly—had as elastic a tread as many a man of forty,
and looked as hale and hearty as if he had been accustomed to weather
wind and storm out in the fields with his own shepherds. His bailiff,
nearly twenty years his junior, looked bloated and unhealthy, in spite
of his invigorating out-door life about the farm and woods; and half
his days, at least, were spent in this arm-chair, with one foot or the
other upon a cushion.
There was good reason for the difference; there is for most things, if
men only had the sense to find it out. The Squire, from his youth up,
had been temperate, using the good gifts of God wisely, not abusing
them. His bailiff had never got beyond regarding these gifts as the
wages which it was his good fortune to earn from the Squire; and he had
gone to work with the intention of getting the greatest possible amount
of enjoyment out of this little bite off the great man's luxury. Thus,
grasping all, he had come pretty near losing all; for, ask anybody who
has made close acquaintance with gout, and they will tell you that
there is next to no enjoyment in life for those who have made it their
companion.
The moral is,—avoid intemperance, remembering always that beer is
not the only thing that may be abused, and that gout is not the only
punishment; for, sad to say, there are as many sins as there are weeds
in this fair world, and a punishment to each. As the Bible has it—in a
form that no one need forget—"Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he
also reap."
Sow sins, and you shall reap punishment as surely as did Farmer Bluff.
This was the sum and substance of the Squire's thoughts as he sat
down on the window-seat. "I'm thankful I shall go down to my grave
without gout," said he to himself, as he watched the contortions of
his bailiff's features; for it was vain for Farmer Bluff to think of
not making faces. He had put his foot to unusual inconvenience in his
attempts to show respect; and it cost effort enough to refrain from
bellowing aloud at the pain.
"I hoped to find you better than this, Mr. Bluff," began the Squire
after a pause, putting his gold-headed cane between his knees, and
crossing his hands over it. "This has been a long attack."
"It has, sir; a—very long attack."
Farmer Bluff usually hesitated a good deal in talking to the Squire;
otherwise he might have let slip unsuitable expressions, such as he was
in the habit of using to Elspeth.
"The longest you ever had, eh?"
The Squire did not want to be unkind, but he had called in with the
intention of saying something rather disagreeable; and it had got to be
said, in spite of his natural inclination to say pleasant things.
"By far the longest," repeated he.
Farmer Bluff declared himself heartily tired of it, adding in an
injured way that no one knew what suffering was until they had tried
gout.
The Squire shook his head. A man has no right to feel hardly done by
when he deliberately chooses to bring pain upon himself. "I'm heartily
tired of it, too," said he; "and the fact is, Bluff, I'm getting
too far into years to be my own bailiff—and that's what it comes to
nowadays. For these keepers and labourers of yours—well! I've no
doubt you give your orders. A man might give his orders in the other
hemisphere by telegram. But if I didn't go round and see to things for
myself, they would be in a pretty muddle. Why! I was in the saddle
at half-past six this morning to do your work. A glorious morning it
was too; as glorious as God ever made. Time Was when I'd as soon have
been out myself as trouble you—except for the sense that a man with
abundance of this world's goods is bound to broadcast some of his
money amongst dependants. But an octogenarian begins to need a little
indulgence, or he will do very shortly, for the time must come to all
of us, Mr. Bluff."
"Ay, that it must, sir," acquiesced the bailiff meekly, feeling rather
as if his time had come; for he could see pretty plainly what the
Squire was driving at.
"I should not like," continued the old gentleman after a pause, "to
leave the estate out of working gear when I go. It is not as if I left
a grown man in my place. My grandson is such a mere child that I can
hardly hope even to see him attain his majority; and that is what I
came to speak to you about. You have served me many years, Bluff; but
the fact is, you are not what you were, and I feel that I ought to see
a competent man in your place, whilst I myself am still competent."
Farmer Bluff began to whine. Long service deserved indulgence, he
hinted. "A man must take what the Lord sends him," said he.
But the Squire stopped him. "Men often make mistakes about the source
of their misfortunes, Bluff," said he. "I don't believe that your
complaint is often of the Lord's sending."
The bailiff's eyes reverted uncomfortably to the silver mug. He knew
very well what his patron referred to.
"I might very easily have put myself in the way of it," continued the
Squire. "My father left me a well-stocked cellar, and I have had to
dispense hospitality; but I have mostly contented myself with listening
to other people's praises of my wines, remembering an old saying that
those who constantly seek their own reflections at the bottom of their
tankards are likely oftenest to see an ass. The saying certainly holds
good of a man who, in immediate opposition to his doctor's orders,
feeds his gout on beer. No, Bluff: if the Almighty were responsible for
your gout, I should feel very differently about the matter. As it is,
although I shall consider myself bound to see that your old age does
not come to want, you must certainly understand that you will have to
make way, within due notice, for a man who can put his beer mug on one
side in favour of duty."
Farmer Bluff tried hard to obtain a commutation of this sentence.
But the Squire was a man who knew his own mind, once it was made up,
and who did not make it up hastily either. He had for some years past
been much disgusted with his bailiff conduct; and the experience of
the last few months had finally decided him. He was determined to
leave upon the estate a thoroughly efficient bailiff. To this intent,
having given due notice to the gouty old rascal who at present held
the office, he now rose and took his leave, Farmer Bluff ringing his
handbell— though not so roughly as before—for Elspeth to show the
Squire out.
[Illustration]