RAILTON'S TALLY
Winter had begun, and although the briars shone red along the hedgerows
and the stunted oaks had not lost all their leaves, bitter sleet blew
across the dale when Grace went up the muddy lonning to Mireside farm.
Railton's daughter had for a time helped the housekeeper at Tarnside, and
Grace, hearing that the farmer had been ill, was going to ask about him.
It was nearly dark when she entered the big kitchen. The lamp had not
been lighted, but a peat fire burned in the wide grate, where irons for
cooking pots hung above the blaze. A bright glow leaped up and spread
about the kitchen, touching the people in the room, and then faded as she
shut the massive door.
Grace thought her arrival had embarrassed the others, because nobody said
anything for a moment or two. Railton sat in an old oak chair by the
fire, with a stick near his hand; Tom, the shepherd, occupied the middle
of the floor; and Kit Askew leaned against the table, at which Mrs.
Railton and Lucy sat. Grace wished she could see them better, but the
blaze had sunk and the fire burned low, giving out an aromatic smell, and
throwing dull reflections on the old oak furniture, copper kettles, and
tall brass candlesticks. As a rule, the lonely homesteads in the dales
are furnished well, with objects made long since and handed down from
father to son.
Then Mrs. Railton began to talk, rather nervously, and Grace turned to
the farmer as the light spread about the room again. He had a thin, lined
face; his shoulders were bent, and his pose was slack. Sickness no doubt
accounted for something, but Grace imagined his attitude hinted at
dejection.
"How are you to-day?" she asked.
"No varra weel. I'm none so young, and the wet and cold dinna agree with
my oad bones. Mayhappen I'll be better soon, but noo when I'm needed I
canna get aboot."
"He'll not can rest," Mrs. Railton interposed. "He was oot in sleet,
boddering among t' sheep aw day."
"And weel you ken I had to gan," the farmer rejoined.
Mrs. Railton's silence implied agreement and Grace's curiosity was
excited because of something she had heard at home. Railton's lease of
the sheepwalk ran out in a few days, but he was by local custom entitled
to its renewal after a review of the terms. Moreover, it was usual for
the tenant to take the sheep with the farm, and leave them equal in
number and condition when he went. The landlord could then demand a
valuation and payment of the difference, if the flocks had fallen below
the proper standard.
"Why are you forced to go out in this bitter weather?" she asked.
Railton hesitated, and then saw his daughter's meaning glance. Lucy was
clever, and he thought she wanted him to be frank.
"I had to see how sheep were," he answered dully. "Not that it was o'
mich use. T' lambs niver get over wet spring and t' ewes is poor. Then
flock is weel under tally; I've lost two score Swinset Herdwicks, and the
mak-up's next Thursday."
"But how did you lose forty sheep?" Grace asked.
"There was a hole in fell dyke and Swinset sheep are thief sheep, varra
bad to hoad. I bowt ewes there and t' lambs followed when they wandert
back to their heaf."
Grace pondered. She had noted some reserve in Railton's manner when he
mentioned the broken dyke and knew the flockmasters were careful about
their dry walls. The rest was plain; the _heaf_ is the hill pasture where
a lamb is born, and Swinset was fifteen miles away. It was a very large
sheepwalk and much time would be needed to find the sheep on the wide
belt of moor.
"If you know the sheep are at Swinset, they would be allowed for in the
count," she said.
"I have my doubts. Mr. Hayes sent me notice tally would be taken on
Thursday and he's a hard man."
Grace colored. Although she did not like Hayes, he was Osborn's agent.
There was much she wanted to know, but she could not ask.
"Mr. Hayes cannot do exactly as he likes; he must get my father's
consent," she said. "However, as I am going home by the field path, I had
better start before it's dark."
"There's a broken gate that's awkward to open. I will come with you until
you reach it," Kit remarked.
They went out together. The sleet had stopped, but leaden clouds rolled
across the hills that glimmered white in the dusk. As they struck across
a wet field Grace said:
"I suppose Railton's flock is below the proper standard and the count
is short?"
"Yes; the two or three wet years have hit flock-masters hard and Railton
had to sell more stock than was prudent, in order to pay his debts."
"Then if he can't pay the difference in number and value, the lease can
be broken?"
Kit made a sign of agreement and Grace asked: "But do you think Hayes
would break the lease and turn him out?"
"It's possible," Kit answered cautiously.
Grace gave him a sharp glance. "What do you really think, Mr. Askew? I
want to know."
"Then, my notion is Hayes would like to get Mireside for Jim Richardson."
"Richardson is his nephew."
"Just so," said Kit, with some dryness. "All the same he'd make a good
tenant. His father is rich enough to start him well."
Grace's eyes sparkled, for she saw where the hint led, but she hid her
resentment, because, after all, she had doubts. Osborn needed money and
Hayes was cunning.
"I imagine it would hurt Railton to leave."
"It would hurt him much. He was born at Mireside and his father took the
farm from your grandfather, a very long time since. Then he's an old man
and has not enough money to begin again at another place."
"Ah," said Grace, "it would be very hard if he had to go! But if he
hasn't money, he couldn't carry on, even if we renewed the lease."
"We have had remarkably bad weather for two or three years and the cold
rain killed the young lambs, but a change is due. A dry spring and fine
summer would put the old man straight."
Grace was silent for a few moments and then looked at Kit with some color
in her face.
"Thank you for making the situation plain. You were not anxious to do so,
were you? I think you don't trust us!"
"I don't trust Hayes," Kit said awkwardly.
"But Hayes is our agent. We are accountable for what he does."
"In a way, I suppose you are accountable. For all that, when a landlord
has a capable agent it is not the rule for him to meddle. I understand
Mr. Osborn leaves much to Hayes."
Grace pondered. Kit's embarrassment indicated that he was trying to save
her feelings, but he must know, as she knew, that a landlord was rightly
judged by his agent's deeds. Although she rather liked Kit Askew, he had
humiliated her.
"Well," she said resolutely, "something must be done. If the strayed
sheep could be found, it would help."
"Yes," said Kit. "Tom and I start for Swinset to-morrow to try to bring
them back. But if you'll wait a moment, I'll open the gate."
He walked through the mud the cattle had churned up, and, lifting the
broken gate, pushed it back so that Grace could cross a drier spot. Then,
as he stood with his hands on the rotten bars, she stopped.
"Don't start for Swinset until you hear from me," she said. "Thank you.
Good night!"
Grace went on and Kit turned back to the farm with a satisfaction that
made his heart beat. In a way, the girl had given him her confidence;
she had, at least, not hidden her feelings. Her proud calm was only on
the surface; it covered a generous, impulsive nature. Then she had
pluck, because he could understand her difficulties. She was loyal to
her father, but hated injustice and was quickly moved to sympathy. All
the same, he had noted that when she spoke of Osborn renewing the
lease she said we, and since he knew why she had done so, it gave him
cause to think.
It was the code of the old school; the family stood together, a compact
unit to which she belonged and for whose deeds she believed herself
accountable. In a sense, this was rather fine; but Kit, knowing Osborn's
pride, saw it would confine their friendship to narrow limits. Still he
had no ground for imagining she was his friend, and he tried to fix his
thoughts upon the search for the sheep. Grace obviously meant to talk to
Osborn, but Kit did not believe the latter would be moved by her
arguments.
When Kit returned to the farm kitchen Railton was sitting moodily by the
fire and his wife's face was sternly set. They are not an emotional
people in the dales, and her trouble was too deep for useless tears, but
as she glanced about the room all she saw wakened poignant memories. The
old china in the rack had been her mother's; she had brought it and the
black oak meal-chest to Mireside thirty years since. The copper kettles
and jelly-pan were wedding presents, and Tom, her son, who died in
Australia, had sent the money to buy the sewing machine. Now it looked as
if her household treasures must be sold, and to leave Mireside would mean
the tearing up of roots that had struck deep. Besides, while she would
suffer it would hurt her husband worse. When Kit came in she gave him a
keen glance.
"Weel, what had Miss Osborn to say?"
"She didn't say much; I think she means to talk to Osborn."
Railton looked up gloomily. "T' lass has a good heart, but talking to
Osborn will be o' nea use. Hayes is real master and he wants Mireside for
Jim Richardson."
Kit made a sign of agreement. "The fellow's getting dangerous and must be
stopped. I suspect he's backing Bell and now he means to use his nephew;
it's not altogether for Richardson's sake he wants to break your lease.
Some day I imagine Osborn will find his agent owns the estate; but that's
not our business. Well, Peter told me to remind you that you and he are
old friends, and if a hundred pounds would be some help--"
"It would be a big help," said Railton, and Kit turned to the shepherd
when Mrs. Railton awkwardly began to thank him.
"About the broken dyke, Tom? What d'you think brought it down?"
"I canna tell. Dyke's good and there was nea wind."
They were all silent for a few moments, and then Kit said, "Well,
Richardson is a cunning hound." He paused and picked up his hat before
he turned to Railton. "I've a job at Ashness that must be finished
to-night. There's not much time, but if it's possible Tom and I will
find the sheep."
In the meantime, Grace walked home thinking hard. Kit was Railton's
friend, but he had used some tact, until she forced him to tell her the
truth. This, however, was not important, because she had got a jar. It
looked as if Osborn had consented to a cruel plot; a landlord ought to
help his tenants and not take advantage of their need. She tried not to
blame him; he had a bad agent, who used a dangerous influence. She must
try to protect him from the fellow and, in a way, from his own
carelessness.
After all, it was, for the most part, carelessness, because he did not
know Hayes as she knew him. Still, she had not undertaken an easy thing
and she braced herself as she went up the steps of the new terrace. Grace
hated the terrace. It was the price they, the Osborns, had taken for a
shabby deed, and for which poor people and hard-worked women paid. Grace
knew about the extra dust that peat fires caused and how often the bread
was spoiled.
When she entered the library Osborn was studying some documents. He
looked up impatiently, and she said, "I was at Mireside. Railton's no
better and is much disturbed about his lease."
"Not more disturbed than he deserves!" Osborn rejoined. "The fellow has
been getting slack for some time; he sold his store sheep imprudently and
let the flock run down."
"He has been ill and the weather has been bad for some years."
"Exactly. A cautious man provides for bad years; he knows they
will come."
Grace was surprised her father did not see that his statement had a
humorous touch, since improvident extravagance was his rule; but it was
obvious that he did not.
"One cannot save much money when rents are high and prices are low."
"Do you know much about these matters?" Osborn asked.
"I have heard the farmers talk. Sometimes I ask them questions."
Osborn frowned. "You talk too much to the farmers. I don't like it. You
know this."
"Well," said Grace, "I think you ought not to break Railton's lease."
"Why?"
Grace hesitated. She began to see that Osborn could not be moved, but she
had undertaken to plead Railton's cause.
"He's an old man and has been at Mireside all his life. He has worked
hard and always paid his rent. Now he's ill and in trouble, it would be
shabby to turn him out because there's a risk--it's only a risk--that we
might lose something by letting him stay."
"You don't seem to understand a landlord's duty," Osborn rejoined. "He
is, so to speak, the steward in charge of the estate; it belongs to the
family and is not his. He must hand it on in good order and this means he
cannot indulge his sentimental impulses. If he keeps a bad tenant from
pity, or because he's afraid to seem harsh, he robs his heir."
Grace knew there were other, and perhaps worse, ways of robbing one's
heir; but she said, "Aren't you taking Hayes's view that Railton is a bad
tenant? After all, we are responsible."
"Then you suggest that Hayes is mistaken?" Osborn asked ironically.
"I don't know if he's mistaken or not," said Grace, with a steady look.
"I know he's greedy and unjust. But there's a thing you ought not to let
him do. Railton has lost forty sheep, that have strayed back to Swinset,
and Hayes doesn't mean to count them in the tally."
Osborn's face got red and he knitted his brows. "I have tried to be
patient; but this is too much! Do you know more about managing an estate
than a clever agent? Or do you think I'm a fool and Hayes leads me like a
child? Anyhow, you are much too young to criticize my actions. Let us
have no more of it! An unmarried girl is not entitled to opinions that
clash with her parents'."
Grace went out silently. To know that she had failed hurt her pride, and
it hurt worse to suspect that her father had got angry because he knew
she was right. Besides, she felt strangely alone; as she had often felt
since she came home. Gerald was careless and thought about nothing but
his extravagant amusements; her mother's main object was to avoid jars
and smooth over awkward situations. Then, she had household cares; money
was scarce, and since Osborn hated self-denial, she must economize. Grace
could not tell her her troubles; but there was a way by which Railton
might save his lease and Kit could help. Getting a pencil and paper, she
wrote him a very short note:
"You must find Railton's sheep."
Then, knowing that she was rash, she went to look for the gardener's boy,
and sent him to Ashness.