From that time forth I gave myself up unreservedly to following the
squire's advice. Yes, I did not even shrink from any possible charge
of inconsistency. Deborah might laugh at me if she liked, Reuben might
look askance out of his stolid silence, mother might ponder; but I had
been convinced; I knew what I had to do, and I would stand Trayton
Harrod's friend. That was what I argued to myself. Was I quite honest?
At all events I was very happy.
One morning--it must have been about a week after the squire's words to
me--I had occasion to go out onto our cliff to plant out some cuttings
that Joyce had procured and sent me from London. Reuben was in the
orchard hard by, mowing the grass under the apple-trees. He did such
work when hands were few. The orchard was only divided by a wall from
the garden, and Reuben and I kept up a brisk conversation across it.
"I've heard say as Mister Harrod be for persuading master to have new
sorts o' hops planted along the hill-side this year, miss," Reuben was
saying.
"Indeed," said I. "Well, I suppose ours aren't a good sort, then."
"That's for them as knows to say," replied the old man. "The Lord have
made growths for every part, and it's ill flyin' in the face of the
Lord."
"Well, Mr. Harrod knows," declared I.
"Nay, miss, he warn't born and bred hereabouts. But I says to him, 'You
ask Jack Barnstaple,' says I. 'He knows,' says I."
"You said that to Mr. Harrod, Reuben!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, miss," he answered, "I did."
"Well, then, I think it was very rude of you, Reuben. That's all I have
to say."
"Nay, miss, I heard you say as how a stranger wouldn't be o' no good to
master," grinned Reuben. "They don't understand."
"If I said that I made a great mistake," answered I, half angrily. "I
think Mr. Harrod is a great deal of use."
"Well, miss, if he be agoing to have Goldings planted in instead of
Early Prolifics, he won't get no change out o' the ground, that's what
I say. They won't thrive for nobody, and they won't do it to please
him."
Reuben shouldered his scythe as he said the last words, and went off to
a more distant part of the orchard, and I set to work at my planting.
I knew pretty well by this time that it was worse than waste of time
taking Mr. Harrod's side against Reuben.
I wondered what he would have thought if he could have heard me taking
his side. But I don't think he thought much about having a "side." He
was too eager about his work.
I set to planting my cuttings busily--so busily that I did not hear
steps on the gravel behind me, and looked up suddenly to see Mr. Harrod
on the path beside me. He did not say anything, but stood a while
watching me. At last I stood up, with the trowel in my hand, and my
face, I do not doubt, very red and hot beneath my big print sun-bonnet.
"Did you meet Reuben just now?" asked I, rather by way of saying
something.
"No," answered he; "I've come straight from your father's room. He
wants you."
"Does he? Well, I can't go this minute. I must finish this job. I've
neglected it for a week. What does he want me for?"
I kneeled down and began my work again.
"He and I have been discussing a new scheme," said Mr. Harrod, without
answering my question.
"What, about co-operation, and children's schools and things?" cried I,
with a smile. "Is he going to press you into it too?"
"Oh no; about the farm," answered he. "His possessions in hops are very
small, and there's a fine and unusual chance just turned up of making
money. I want him to take on another small farm--specially for hops."
"To take on another farm!" repeated I.
"Yes," said he; "but he doesn't take to it. I think he must have
something else in his head. But the matter must be decided at once, for
I hear there's another man after it."
"Where is it?" I asked, a secret glow of satisfaction at my heart to
think he should come and tell me of this as he did.
"It's 'The Elms,'" he answered, "below the mill on the slope yonder."
I stood up and stopped my gardening to show I took an interest in what
he was saying. "I know 'The Elms' well enough," I said, "but I didn't
know it was to let."
"Yes," he replied. "Old Searle left his affairs in a dreadful mess
when he died, and the executors have decided to sell the crops at a
valuation, and let the place at once without waiting till the usual
term."
"Dear me, what an odd thing!" said I. "I thought farms were never let
excepting at Michaelmas."
"Never is a long word," smiled Mr. Harrod. "It is unusual. But I
suppose the executors don't care for the expense of putting in a
bailiff till October. Anyhow, they appear to want to realize at once;
and it's a good chance for us."
"It's all hop-gardens at 'The Elms,' isn't it?' asked I.
"Yes, chief part."
"It seems to me it must either be a very poor crop, or they must want a
good price for it so late in the season," said I, not ill pleased with
myself for what I considered the rare shrewdness of this remark.
But Mr. Harrod smiled again. "The price will be the average of what the
crops fetched during the past three years," said he. "That's law now.
I should say about £36 to the acre. Leastways, that would be the price
ready for picking, but there'll be a reduction at this time of year.
That'll be a matter for private bargain."
"Yes," said I. "There'll be many a risk between now and picking."
"Of course," said the bailiff, half testily. "But it's just about the
best-looking crop in these parts at the present time. They _will_ plant
those Early Prolifics about here. I suppose it's because they can get
them sooner into the market. But they're a poor hop. Now, the plants at
'The Elms' are all Goldings or Jones."
"But they say the Goldings will never thrive in our soil," said I.
"_They_; who are _they_?" retorted Harrod. "They know nothing about it."
"No; I dare say you're right," I hastened to say. "Only hops are always
considered risky, aren't they?"
"Everything is risky," answered he, more gently. "But as I have an
interest in selling the crop to advantage if it turns out well, I don't
believe your father could go very far wrong over it."
"Well, if you think it would be such a safe speculation, of course
father ought to be persuaded to go in for it," said I.
"I really think so," answered Harrod, confidently.
"But perhaps he doesn't think he can afford the rent of it," suggested
I, after a pause; "perhaps he hasn't the ready money."
"I can scarcely believe that, Miss Maliphant. Your father passes for
a rich man in the county," answered he, with a smile. "No; he thinks
the property is good enough as it has stood all these years; but, as a
matter of fact, it would be a far more valuable one if it had better
hop-gardens. Hops are the staple produce of the county, and I am sorry
to say he doesn't stand as well in that line as many of the farmers
about; he wants some one to give him courage to make this venture.
Unluckily, he has not confidence enough in me, and Squire Broderick is
away in London."
"Is the squire away?" asked I.
"Yes; I have just inquired, by your father's wish."
"I'll go and talk to father," said I, with youthful self-confidence,
gathering up my tools, and too happy in feeling that I was the
supporter of the man who but a fortnight ago I had sworn to treat as an
open enemy to be troubled by any misgivings.
As I might have known, I did not do very much good. But what Mr. Harrod
had said was true--father was in some way preoccupied. I think he had
had a letter from Frank Forrester about the Children's Charity Houses
Scheme, and it had not been a satisfactory one; for when I went into
his business-room I found him busily writing to Frank, and I could not
get him to pay any attention to me until after post-time. Then he let
me speak.
"Meg, child," he said, when I had done, "I don't feel quite sure that
you know a vast deal yourself about such things, but maybe you're right
in one item, and that is, if I engage a man to look after my property,
I ought to be willing to abide a bit by his advice. So we'll have a
drop o' tea first, and then we'll go up and have a look at these hops
of his."
And that is what we did. Mr. Harrod didn't come into tea, but we met
him outside and walked up the hill together. It was still that bright
June weather of the week before; we never had so hot and fair a summer
I believe as that year. After our hard long winter the warmth was new
life, and the long evenings were very exquisite. The breath of the
lilac--just on the wane--of the bursting syringa, of the heavy daphne,
lay upon the air, and was wafted from behind garden walls up the
village street.
As we passed the old town-hall and came out at the end of the road, the
white arms of the mill detached themselves against the bright sky where
the sun, sinking nearer to the horizon, rayed the west with glory.
Father stood a moment on the crest of the hill looking down into the
valley, upon whose confines the broad meads of the South Downs swelled
into rising ground again; a stream wound across the plain, that was
intersected by dikes at intervals; far to the left lay the sea--a dim,
blue line across the stems of the trees, breaking into a little bay in
the dip of the hill where the valley met the marsh.
"The Elms" stood on the brow of the hill nearer the sea; the
hop-gardens that belonged to it lay close at our feet. We went down the
hill among the sheep and the sturdy lambs that leaped lightly still
after their dams; father walked slowly in front, Mr. Harrod and I
followed. The hop plantations covered the slopes, and swept across the
valley to the other side. We left the house to our left above us, and
went down into the valley.
The hops, according to their sort, had grown to various heights: some
three feet, some less, and the women and girls from the village had
been out during the last month tying them, so that they were now past
the second bind.
Father and Mr. Harrod walked in a critical way through the lines of
plants, examining them carefully. Here and there Trayton Harrod pinched
off the flower of a bine that had been left on.
"It's very strange," said he, "that pruning and branching of the hops
used not to be done some years ago. I read in an old book that the
practice was first introduced since farmers noticed how hailstones,
nipping off the bine-tops early in the summer, made the plants grow
stronger."
They walked on again, Harrod showing father where the Jones hops grew,
and where the Goldings, and arguing that, for purposes of early foreign
export, the Jones hops easily took the place of the Early Prolifics,
and came to a far finer, taller growth, while for later introduction
into the market the Goldings were the best grown. Father stated the
same objections that Reuben had stated--Trayton Harrod fighting each
one vigorously, and coming off victorious, as he somehow always did.
We walked on through the gardens and then up by the house and back
along the brow of the hill.
The sun had sunk below the horizon, and the crimson of the after-glow
lay, a lump of fire, in the purple west, and sent rays of redness far
into the heavens on every side, washing the clouds with a hundred tints
from the brightest rose to the tenderest violet, the faintest green,
the softest dove-color above our heads. Behind the village and its
houses a row of dusky-headed pines stood tall or bent their trunks,
bowed by the storm-winds, across the road; father stopped there a
moment and looked at the glowing sky from between their red stems.
The hills lay round the plain, wonderfully blue; the sunset gilded
the quiet little stream upon the marsh till it looked like a streak
of molten metal. He had not spoken a word, and now he sighed, half
impatiently, as he turned homeward. I remember that Mr. Harrod left us
at that point. He promised to be in to supper, and father and I walked
on alone.
When we got to the dip of the road where the hill begins to go down
towards the sea-marsh, we met Mr. Hoad coming up in his smart little
gig, with his daughter Jessie at his side. I was for passing them with
merely a bow, for they showed no signs of stopping, and I desired no
conversation with either of them; but father stopped the gig.
"Hoad, can you spare me a few minutes?" asked he. "I should be much
obliged to you. Miss Jessie, you'll come in and have a cup of tea,"
added he, courteously.
Miss Jessie said that she should be very pleased to come; but she did
not look pleased, and for the matter of that I fear neither did I. I
could not think why father should want Mr. Hoad's company again so
soon; but I supposed it must be about that letter of Frank's. He had
evidently seemed annoyed about it, although I did not know at that time
why it was.
I took Jessie Hoad into the parlor while the two men went into the
business-room. Mother was rather flurried when I announced, in my blunt
way, that these visitors were going to stay to tea. The presence of a
strange woman always _did_ trouble mother a bit, and Jessie having been
the head of her father's house since her mother died, she considered
her in the light of a housewife. I knew that she was longing to have
her best china out and the holland covers off in the front parlor. She
was far too hospitable, however, to allow this feeling to be apparent,
and she rose at once to welcome her guest.
"I'm very pleased to see you, Miss Hoad," said she; "I'm sorry Joyce is
away."
"Oh, not at all; pray don't mention it, Mrs. Maliphant," declared
Jessie, in her hard, high voice, sitting down and settling her dress to
advantage. "Of course I'm sorry to miss Joyce, but I'm very glad to see
you and Margaret."
My blood boiled to hear her call us like that by our Christian names,
and to see the way she sat there with her little smart hat and her
little nose turned up in the air, chatting away to mother in a
patronizing kind of way, and keeping the talk quite in her own hands
with all the town news she had to tell.
"Yes, the Thornes' is a beautiful house," she was saying, "all in the
best style, and quite regardless of expense. I assure you the dessert
service was all gold and silver the other night when father and I dined
there. Of course it was a grand affair. All the county swells there.
But the thing couldn't have been done better in London, I declare."
"Indeed!" answered mother. "I haven't much knowledge of London."
"No, of course not," said Jessie. "But you have seen the Thornes'
house, I suppose?"
"No," answered mother. "We don't go there. My husband and Mr. Thorne
don't hold together."
"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Jessie; "that's a pity. He and his daughter are
the nicest people in the county. But as I was saying to Mary Thorne,
there's something very quaint in your old house, and I can't help
fancying the new style does copy some things from the old houses."
"Oh, I can't believe that," said I, half piqued. "It wouldn't be worth
its while."
She looked round at me, a little puzzled, I think, but any rub there
might have been between us was put a stop to by the entrance of father
and Mr. Hoad from the study.
Mr. Hoad was, if anything, in better spirits than ever; his eyes were
bright, and he rubbed his hands as a man might do when anything had
gone to his satisfaction. Father's brow, on the contrary, was heavy.
We sat down to tea. Mr. Harrod came in a little late. He was about to
retire when he saw that we had company; but mother so insisted on his
taking his usual seat that it would have been rude to refuse, although
I could see that he did not care for the society.
Mother introduced him to Miss Hoad, who just looked up under the brim
of her hat, and then went back to her muffin as if none of us were much
worth considering. There was altogether an air about her as though she
wanted to get over the whole affair as soon as possible. And she did.
That bland father of hers had not time for more than half the pleasant
things that he usually said to us all before she whipped him off.
"It'll be quite too late to pay our call at 'The Priory' if we don't go
at once, papa," said she, rising, and looking at a dainty gold watch
at her waist. I suppose she did not trust the time of our old eight-day
clock that stood between the windows, yet I'll warrant it was the safer
of the two.
She turned to mother.
"I'm sorry to have to run away so soon," said she, with an outward
show of cordiality, "but you see it's very important to leave cards on
people like the Thornes directly after a large party. And if I don't do
it to-day I must drive out again on purpose to-morrow."
"Have you been dining at Thorne's, Hoad?" asked father.
"Yes," answered the solicitor. "He's a rare good-fellow, and he gave us
a rare good dinner."
Father did not say a word, and the Hoads took their leave.
"I'll let you have that the first thing in the morning," said Mr. Hoad,
as he shook hands with father.
Father nodded, but otherwise made no remark. When the visitors were
gone he turned to Mr. Harrod: "I've made up my mind to rent 'The
Elms,'" said he, shortly. "We'll drive into town to-morrow and see
Searle's executors about it."
"That's right, sir," said Harrod, cheerfully. "I feel sure it will turn
out a sound investment."
"'The Elms!'" exclaimed mother. "Are you thinking of that, Laban?"
"Yes," answered he. "Harrod advises it."
"Well, of course I shouldn't like to set myself against Mr. Harrod,"
said mother, half doubtfully. "But I should have thought our own farm
was enough to see after. It seems a deal of responsibility and laying
out of money."
"There's no farm to speak of at 'The Elms,' ma'am," answered Harrod.
"It's all hop-gardens. That's why I advised Mr. Maliphant buying it."
"Dear," said mother, nowise reassured. "Isn't that very risky? I've
always heard of hops as being riskier than cows, and I'm sure they're
bad enough, though Reuben will have it they're nothing to sheep at the
lambing."
Harrod had frowned a little at first, but now he smiled. "There's a
risk in everything," he said. "You might break your leg walking across
the room."
"You'll live up at the house, Harrod," put in father. "I've been sorry
there's been no better place for you up to the present time."
"Oh, I've done very well," laughed the young man; "but it'll be best
I should go over there now. It's only a step for me to get here of
mornings."
"Well, I'm glad of _that_ at any rate," said mother. "Father's quite
right. It wasn't fitting for you as our bailiff not to have a proper
place. And now you'll have it. Meg, you and I must go up and see as
everything's comfortable. And we must get a woman in the place to see
after him. Old Dorcas's niece might do. She's a widow--she'd want to
take her youngest with her, but you wouldn't mind that," added she,
turning again to Harrod. Her mind was full of the matter now. So was
mine. We were quite at one upon it, and discussed it the whole evening.
Nevertheless, I found time to wonder now and then how it was that it
was only after his talk with Mr. Hoad that father had made up his
mind to take on "The Elms." It rather nettled me. Mr. Hoad could not
possibly know as much about farming as did Trayton Harrod.
However, the thing was done, that was the main thing. Mr. Harrod had
had his way, and I tried to flatter myself that I was in some way
instrumental in procuring it.