Tallente sat in the morning train, on his way to town, and on the other
side of the bare ridge at which he gazed so earnestly Lady Jane and
Segerson had brought their horses to a standstill half way along a rude
cart track which led up to a farmhouse tucked away in the valley.
"This is where James Crockford's land commences," Segerson remarked,
riding up to his companion's side. "Look around you. I think you will
admit that I have not exaggerated."
She frowned thoughtfully. On every side were evidences of poor farming
and neglect. The untrimmed hedges had been broken down in many places
by cattle. A plough which seemed as though it had been embedded there
for ages, stood in the middle of a half-ploughed field. Several tracts
of land which seemed prepared for winter sowing were covered with
stones. The farmhouse yard, into which they presently passed, was dirty
and untidy. Segerson leaned down and knocked on the door with his whip.
After a short delay, a slatternly-looking woman, with tousled fair hair,
answered the summons.
"Mr. Crockford in?" Segerson asked.
"You'll find him in the living room," the woman answered curtly, with a
stare at Lady Jane. "Here's himself."
She retreated into the background. A man with flushed face, without
collar or tie, clad in trousers and shirt only, had stepped out of the
parlour. He stared at his visitors in embarrassment.
"I came over to have a word or two with you on business, Mr.
Crockford," Jane said coldly. "I rather expected to find you on the
land."
The man mumbled something and threw open the door of the sitting room.
"Won't you come in?" he invited. "There's just Mr. Pettigrew here--the
vet from Barnstaple. He's come over to look at one of my cows."
Mr. Pettigrew, also flushed, rose to his feet. Jane acknowledged his
greeting and glanced around the room. It was untidy, dirty and close,
smelling strongly of tobacco and beer. On the table was a bottle of
whisky, half empty, and two glasses.
"There is really no reason why I should disturb you," Jane said, turning
back upon the threshold. "A letter from Mr. Segerson will do."
Crockford, however, had pulled himself together. A premonition of his
impending fate had already produced a certain sullenness.
"Pettigrew," he directed, "you get out and have another look at the cow.
If you've any business word to say to me, your ladyship, I'm here."
Jane looked once more around the squalid room, watched the unsteady
figure of Pettigrew departing and looked back at her tenant.
"Your lease is up on March the twenty-fifth, Crockford," she reminded
him. "I have come to tell you that I shall not be prepared to renew
it."
The man simply blinked at her. His fuddled brain was not equal to
grappling with such a catastrophe.
"Your farm is favourably situated," she continued, "and, although small,
has great possibilities. I find you are dropping behind your neighbours
and your crops are poorer each season. Have you saved any money,
Crockford?"
"Saved any money," the man blustered, "with shepherd's wages alone at
two pounds a week, and a week's rain starting in the day I began
hay-making. Why, my barley--"
"You started your hay-making ten days too late," Segerson interrupted
sternly. "You had plenty of warning. And as for your barley, you sold
it in the King's Arms at Barnstaple, when you'd had too much to drink,
at thirty per cent, below its value."
Jane turned towards the door.
"I need not stay any longer," she said. "I wanted to look at your farm
for myself, Mr. Crockford, and I thought it only right that you should
have early notice of my intention to ask you to vacate the place."
The cold truth was finding its way into the man's consciousness. It had
a wonderfully sobering effect.
"Look here, ma'am," he demanded, "is it true that you lent Farmer
Holroyd four hundred pounds to buy his own farm and the Crocombe
brothers two hundred each?"
"Quite true," Jane replied coldly. "What of it?"
"What of it?" the man repeated. "You lend them youngsters money and
then you come to me, a man who's been on this land for twenty-two years,
and you've nothing to say but 'get out!' Where am I to find another farm
at my time of life? Just answer me that, will you?"
"It is not my concern," Jane declared. "I only know that I decline to
have any tenants on my property who do not do justice to the land. When
I see that they do justice to it, then it is my wish that they should
possess it. It is true that I have lent money to some of the farmers
round here, but the greater part of what they have put down for the
purchase of their holdings is savings,--money they had saved and earned
by working early and late, by careful farming and husbandry, by putting
money in the bank every quarter. You've had the same opportunity. You
have preferred to waste your time and waste your money. You've had more
than one warning you know, Crockford."
"Aye, more than a dozen," Segerson muttered.
The man looked at them both and there was a dull hate gathering in his
eyes.
"It's easy to talk about saving money and working hard, you that have
got everything you want in life and no work to do," he protested "It's
enough to make a man turn Socialist to listen to un."
"Mr. Crockford," Jane said, "I am a Socialist and if you take the
trouble to understand even the rudiments of socialism, you will learn
that the drones have as small a part in that scheme of life as in any
other. You have a right to what you produce. It is one of the
pleasures of my life to help the deserving to enjoy what they produce.
It is also one of the duties, when I find a non-productive person
filling a position to which his daily life and character do not entitle
him, to pull him up like a weed. That is my idea of socialism, Mr.
Crockford. You will leave on March 25th."
They rode homeward into a gathering storm. A mass of black clouds was
rolling up from the north, and an unexpected wind came bellowing down
the coombs, bending the stunted oaks and dark pines and filling the air
with sonorous but ominous music. The hills around soon became
invisible, blotted out by fragments of the gathering mists. The cold
sleet stung their faces. Out on the moors was no sound but time
tinkling of distant sheep bells.
"There's snow coming," Segerson muttered, as he turned up his coat
collar.
"It won't do any harm," she answered. "The earth lies warm under it."
The lights of Parracombe, precipitous and unexpected, were like flecks
in the sky, wiped out by a sudden driving storm of sleet. A little
while later they cantered up the avenue to Woolhanger and Jane slipped
from her horse with a little sigh of relief.
"You'd better stay and have some tea, Mr. Segerson," she invited.
"John will take your horse and give him a rubdown."
She changed her habit and, forgetting her guest, indulged in the luxury
of a hot bath. She descended some time later to find him sitting in
front of the tea tray in the hall. A more than usually gracious smile
soon drove the frown from his forehead.
"I really am frightfully sorry," she apologised, as she handed him his
tea. "I had no idea I was so wet. You'll have rather a bad ride home."
"Oh, I'm used to it," he answered. "I'm afraid they'll lose a good many
sheep on the higher farms, though, if the storm turns out as bad as it
threatens. Hear that!"
A tornado of wind seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet. Jane
shivered.
"I suppose," she reflected, "that man Crockford thought I was very cruel
to-day."
"I will tell you Crockford's point of view," Segerson replied. "He
doesn't exactly understand what your aims are, and wherever he goes he
hears nothing but praise of the way you have treated your tenants and
the way you have tried to turn them into small landowners. He isn't
intelligent enough to realise that there is a principle behind all this.
He has simply come to feel that he has a lenient landlord and that he
has only to sit still and the plums will drop into his mouth, too.
Crockford is one of the weak spots in your system, Lady Jane. There is
no place for him or his kind in a self-supporting world."
She sighed.
"Then I am afraid he must go down," she said. "He simply stands in the
way of better men."
"One reads a good deal of Mr. Tallente, nowadays," Segerson remarked,
changing the conversation a little abruptly.
Jane leaned over and stroked the head of a dog which had come to lie at
her feet.
"He seems to be making a good deal of stir," she observed.
The young man frowned.
"You know I am not unsympathetic with your views, Lady Jane," he said, a
little awkwardly, "but I don't mind admitting that if I had a big stake
in the country I should be afraid of Tallente. No one seems to be able
to pin him down to a definite programme and yet day by day his influence
grows. The Labour Party is disintegrated. The best of all its factions
are joining the Democrats. He is practically leader of the Opposition
Party to-day and I don't see how they are going to stop his being Prime
Minister whenever he chooses."
"Don't you think he'll make a good Prime Minister?" Jane asked.
"No, I don't," was the curt answer. "He is too dark a horse for my
fancy."
"I expect Mr. Tallente will be ready with his programme when the time
comes," she observed. "He is a people's man, of course, and his
proposals will sound pretty terrible to a good many of the old school.
Still, something of the sort has to come."
The butler brought in the postbag while they talked. Segerson, as he
rose to depart, glanced with curiosity at half a dozen orange-coloured
wrappers which were among the rest of the letters.
"Fancy your subscribing to a press-cutting agency, Lady Jane!" he
exclaimed. "You haven't been writing a novel under a pseudonym, have
you?"
She laughed as she gathered up her correspondence in her hand.
"Don't pry into my secrets," she enjoined. "We may meet in Barnstaple
to-morrow. If the weather clears, I want to go in and see those cattle
for myself."
The young man took his reluctant departure. Jane crossed the hall,
entered her own little sanctum, drew the lamp to the edge of the table
and sank into her easy-chair with a little sigh of relief. All the rest
of her correspondence she threw to one side. The orange-coloured
wrappers she tore off, one by one. As she read, her face softened and
her eyes grew very bright. The first cutting was a report of Tallente's
last speech in the House, a clever and forceful attack upon the
Government's policy of compromise in the matter of recent strikes. The
next was a speech at the Holborn Town Hall, on workmen's dwellings,
another a thoughtful appreciation of him from the pages of a great
review. There was also a eulogy from an American journal and a gloomy
attack upon him in the chief Whig organ. When she had finished the
pile, she sat for some time gazing at the burning logs. The little
epitome of his daily life--there were records there even of many of his
social engagements-seemed to carry her into another atmosphere, an
atmosphere far removed from this lonely spot upon the moors. She seemed
to catch from those printed lines some faint, reflective thrill of the
more vital world of strife in which he was living. For a moment the
roar of London was in her ears. She saw the lighted thoroughfares, the
crowded pavements, the faces of the men and women, all a little strained
and eager, so different from the placid immobility of the world in which
she lived. She rose to her feet and moved restlessly about the room.
Presently she lifted the curtain and looked out. There was a pause in
the storm and a great mass of black clouds had just been driven past the
face of the watery moon. Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath,
but so far as she could see, moors and hillsides were wrapped in one
unending mantle of snow. There was no visible sign of any human
habitation, no sound from any of the birds or animals who were cowering
in their shelters, not even a sheep hell or the barking of a dog to
break the profound silence. She dropped the curtain and turned back to
her chair. Her feet were leaden and her heart was heavy. The struggle
of the day was at an end. Memory was asserting itself. She felt the
flush in her cheek, the quickening heat of her heart, the thrill of her
pulses as she lived again through those few wild minutes. There was no
longer any escape from the wild, confusing truth. The thing which she
had dreaded had come.