Patience Longstaffe
Patience Longstaffe was the only child of Preacher Joe, of God-First
Farm, on the way to Lewes; and she was very like her father.
He had been brought up a Primitive Methodist and had first heard the
Word at Rehoboth, the little red brick place of worship of the sect on
the outskirts of Polefax; but being strong as he was original he had
seceded from the church of his fathers early in life to the Foundation
Methodists and started a little chapel of his own, which bore on its red
side the inscription that gave the popular name to its founder's farm.
The chapel was hidden away down a lane; but as you drove in to Lewes
along the old coach-road, with the Downs bearing on your left shoulder,
you could not mistake Mr. Longstaffe's farm: for a black barn on the
roadside carried in huge letters the text,
_Seek ye first the Kingdom of God._
To the cultivated and academic mind there might be something blatant and
vulgar about so loud an invitation.
But if its character estranged the carriage-folk, the man who had put it
up had sought the Kingdom himself, and had, if all was true, found it.
Joe Longstaffe was by common consent a Christian man, and not of that
too general kind which excuses its foolishness and fatuity on the ground
of its religion. The Duke's agent disliked him for political reasons,
but he would admit that the dissenter was the best farmer in the
countryside; and the labourers would have added that he was also the
best employer.
The curious who walked over from Lewes to attend the little chapel in
which he held forth, found nothing remarkable in the big, gaunt man with
the Newgate fringe and clean-shaven lips, who looked like a Scot but was
Sussex born and bred. Joe Longstaffe was not intellectual; his theology
was such that even the Salvation Army shook their heads over it; he had
read nothing but the Bible and Wesley's Diary--and those with pain; he
stuttered and stumbled grotesquely in his speech, and a clerical Oxford
don, who pilgrimaged from Pevensey to hear him, remarked that the only
thing he brought away from the meeting was the phrase, reiterated _ad
nauseam_,
"As I was sayin', as you might say."
But there was one mark-worthy point about the congregation of the
chapel; and the Duke in his shrewd way was the first to note it.
"Nine out of ten of the people who attend are his own folk--his carters,
shepherds, milk-maids, and the like. And they don't go for what they can
get. Now if I started a chapel--as I'm thinkin' of doin'--d'you think my
people'd come? Yes; if they thought they'd get the sack if they didn't."
They went, indeed, these humble folk, because they couldn't help it. And
they couldn't help it because there was a man in that chapel who drew
them as surely as the North Pole draws the magnetic needle. And he drew
them because there was Something in him that would not be denied,
Something that called to their tired and thirsting spirits, called and
comforted. It was not possible to say what that Something was; but this
man had it, and it was very rare. And that tall daughter of his, who
rarely smiled, and never grieved, who was always strong, quiet, and
equable, going about her work regular as the seasons, possessed it, too.
Everybody, indeed, respected Patience Longstaffe, if few loved her.
She was long past thirty, and people were beginning to say that she had
dedicated herself to virginity, when to the amazement of all it was
announced that she would marry Mat Woodburn, the trainer, twenty years
her senior.
The Duke, of whose many failings lack of courage was not one, asked her
boldly why she was doing it.
Her answer was as simple as herself.
"He's a good man," she said.
It was a new and somewhat surprising light on the character of Old Mat,
but the Duke accepted it without demur.
"She's right," he said at the club at Lewes. "Mat's a rogue, but he's
not a wrong 'un." And with his unequalled experience of both classes,
the old peer had every right to speak.
The vulgar-minded, who make the majority of every class in every
country, thought that Preacher Joe would make trouble, and looked
forward hopefully to a row. For at least a month after the announcement
every drawing-room and public-house in South Sussex was rife with
malicious and sometimes amusing stories. The authors of them were doomed
to disappointment. Not only was Mr. Longstaffe quietly and obviously
happy, but he and his son-in-law, who was but five years his junior,
showed themselves to be unusually good friends.
And there was no doubt the marriage was a success. The content on
Patience Woodburn's face was evidence enough of that.
How far the strange and apparently ill-assorted couple affected each
other it was difficult to say. Outwardly, at least, Old Mat remained Old
Mat still, and Patience, although she became Ma Woodburn, went her
strong, still way much as before her marriage. Bred on the land and
loving it, inheriting a wonderful natural way with stock of every kind,
she was from the first her husband's right hand, none the less real
because unsuspected and to a great extent unseen.
She was never known to attend so much as a point-to-point, but when a
colt wasn't furnishing a-right, or a horse entered for a big event was
not coming on as he should, it was Ma who was sent for and Ma who took
the matter in hand.
"I've nothing against horses and racing," she would say. "God meant 'em
to race and jump, I reck'n. But I don't think he meant us to bet and
beer over 'em."
From the first she was a power in the Putnam stable.
Except in a crisis she interfered little with the lads, but when they
went sick or smashed themselves, she took them into her house and nursed
them as though they were her own. If they were grateful they did not
show it; but in times of stress some spirit whose presence you would
never have suspected made itself suddenly and sweetly apparent.
The Bible Class for the lads in her husband's employ she had started on
the first Sunday of her reign at Putnam's.
It was voluntary for those over fifteen; but all the lads attended--"to
oblige."
That class at the start had been the subject of untold jokes in the
racing world.
There had even been witticisms about it in the _Pink Un_ and other
sporting papers.
And when Mat had been asked what he thought of it the story went that he
had answered:
"I winks at ut," adding, with a twinkle: "I winks at a lot--got to now."
Ma Woodburn kept the class going for twenty years, until, indeed, her
daughter was old enough to take it over from her.