THE SQUIRE.
The next morning the poor old farmer came down to the plentiful
breakfast prepared by Dorothy Burrow looking ten years older than when
he had left the kitchen the night before. He refused all food, and sat
in the settle by the fire, holding his thin hands over the smouldering
embers, and shuddering every now and then and moaning to himself.
'You ain't cold now, father?' Dorothy bawled in his ear. 'It is hot enow
in the fields, even now, I can tell you. Do you want a bigger fire--eh?'
The old man shook his head.
'What _do_ you want then? Don't sit there as if you was crazy--sighing
and muttering.'
'Here, grandfather,' Betty said, approaching the settle and sitting down
by her grandfather's side, 'here. I've put a drop of rum in the new
milk, now take a draught of it, do, and you will feel quite spry and
lively. Come!'
Betty always took a common sense view of things, and she added,--
'You can't feel well if you don't break your fast.'
She succeeded in making the old man swallow half the contents of the
thick-lipped mug. Then she put another faggot on the fire, not heeding
Dorothy's remark that they should all be smothered with heat, and sat
down on the bench at the table, by Bryda's side, to discuss her own
breakfast with a keen appetite.
Bryda, who was thinking over the loud, angry voices she had heard on the
previous night, connected her grandfather's appearance with some
mysterious visitor, who had evidently left the house in anger. So she
did not do justice to the particular griddle cake, done to a turn, which
Betty had put on her plate.
'Something is wrong,' she whispered to Betty. 'I know there is. I wish
we knew what it is.'
They were not left long in doubt. As soon as the scraping of the heavy
boots of the farm servants was heard on the brick floor of the back
kitchen, where they took their meals, and the benches pushed back by the
general servant of the farm, Mr Palmer spoke, jerking his thumb in the
direction of the open door.
'Shut yonder door,' he said, 'and come here all of you.'
The girls obeyed, Bryda and Betty seating themselves on either side of
their grandfather, while Dorothy Burrow stood before him, her stout red
arms uncovered, her elbows stuck on either side of her thick waist, and
the frills of her big calico cap blown back from her stolid face.
'Well,' she said, 'what's up, father?'
The old man shook his head, and thumped his fist irritably.
'Didn't I say I was going to tell you summat?' he said. 'Hold your
tongue till I've done it. Years agone,' he began, 'I had a son--your
father, Biddy and Bet. You don't remember him--how should you. He and
your poor silly mother died when you were babes.'
'I remember him well enow,' Dorothy began; 'I had cause for he disgraced
the family.'
'Hold you tongue, Doll.'
'Yes, Aunt Dorothy, do be quiet,' Bryda said in a trembling voice.
'Well, he went wrong, very wrong, and I wanted to get him out of the
country, to escape the justices. It was a big sum, and I borrowed it of
Squire Bayfield up Binegar way. I put my name to a paper that I'd be
surety it should be paid on demand. The old Squire was a kind-hearted
chap, and he never pressed me. I spoke to him last fall, when he was out
with the beagles, as stout and as strong as ever, I thought. I told him
times were bad, and the crops scarce, and I had lost a lot of sheep in
the hard winter. And says he, "All right, I'll not come down on you." So
I was easy in my mind, and if he had lived it would have been all right;
but he dropped down dead last Candlemas, and his son, who has come back
from foreign parts, says he will have the cash or sell me up.'
'How much is it?' Betty asked, with white trembling lips.
'Three hundred pounds. I paid interest, I did, but this chap, curse
him, says he will have the lump sum or he'll put the bailiffs in.'
'Are you bound to pay him the sum?' Bryda asked. 'I expect not.'
'Yes, the paper says, or heirs of his body.'
'Ask a lawyer about it. Ask Mr Lambert,' Betty said.
'It ain't no good. The young fellow was here blustering last night. He
says he is in want of cash, and he must have it. That's the long and the
short of it. No, there's no hope. So the stock must go, and the bits of
furniture that have stood here since I was no higher than the table.'
'Lor'!' the old man said, wandering back into the past, 'I can see my
mother now a-polishing and rubbing yonder bureau till I could see my
face in it. Well, well, it's not for myself I grieve, it's for you
children.'
Bryda had risen, and stood with one hand on her grandfather's shoulder
and the other grasping the carved elbow of the old oak settle. Her lips
were firmly shut, and her whole bearing determined, almost defiant.
Presently she said,--
'I never knew before it was as bad as this. I never knew my father was
what Aunt Dorothy says--a disgrace. But did _you_ know it, Betty?'
'I guessed something, not much; but, Bryda, it is all over now.'
'All over,' the girl said, with flashing eyes, 'all over! Such a stain
can never be wiped away.' Then, with a sudden impulse of pity and
tenderness, Bryda stooped, and kissing the furrowed brow of the old man,
she said,--
'Ah, poor grandfather!'
'He was such a fine, handsome boy, was our Phil. There was not one to
match him--straight as a dart, and that strong, he could get the better
of the strongest in the wrestling matches. Oh, he was a fine fellow was
Phil! To see him on horseback was a treat.'
'What did he do? I wish to know now, grandfather.'
But the old father shook his head.
'It is so long ago, now--near nineteen years. Yes, nineteen years. Betty
was born just after, and her mother died of a broken heart, they said.
Hearts don't break.'
'Do you know, Aunt Dorothy, what my father did?'
'Well, if you must know--he forged a cheque. If he hadn't been got off
to America he would have been--hung. Father scraped up a hundred pounds,
and sent him packing, and borrowed the three hundred to pay the man Phil
had robbed. That's the long and short of it. I wasn't here, but that's
what father told me, and I suppose it's gospel truth. It's over and done
with now, and no one need have been the wiser if that fool, young
Bayfield, had not come and stormed at father. Shameful, I call it.' Then
Dorothy threw her apron over her face, and leaving the kitchen, called
Betty to come and look after the butter. 'It is churning day,' she said,
'and to spoil pounds of good butter won't mend matters.'
Betty obeyed, and Bryda was left with her grandfather.
'Is my father dead?' she asked, putting her mouth close to the old man's
ear.
'Dead? Yes. I never heard a word of him since the ship sailed from
Bristol one dark night. I put him aboard. No one knew. When I got back
there was Bet wailing. She was born--and your poor silly mother died.
Poor thing! poor thing! She said, "I am glad to die, take care of my
babes." And I said I would, and so I did--eh, Biddy?'
'Yes, yes, grandfather; and now we will take care of you. I'll go and
earn my keep at any rate; but first I shall go and see Mr Bayfield.'
'No, no; it's like a lamb running into the jaws of a lion. He will only
storm at you. There's nought to be done but sell up, and pay the cash
down. But I'll do it myself. He sha'n't send his fellows here to knock
about the things. The stock must go. The sheep will fetch summat--and
there's two fine young heifers, beside the milch cows.'
Three hundred pounds looked an enormous sum in the eyes of the
Somersetshire maiden, but she was determined to make an appeal to the
hard-hearted young Squire.
Binegar was some miles from the hamlet of Upton, where Bishop's Farm
stood; but Bryda was well used to long rambles over hill and dale, and
she ran up to her room full of her scheme.
'I will tell no one--no, not even Bet,' she thought. 'They shall see for
once I can be of use. And then I will go to Bristol and see Mr Lambert,
and tell him I will come and be the useful girl about the place his
mother wants.'
Bryda took some pains with her appearance, as she stood before a little
glass, which gave but a distorted reflection of the fair face which
gazed into it.
Bryda exchanged her blue homespun skirt for a red camlet, a material
then much used for women's dress. It was made with short elbow sleeves,
and the bodice cut low. Over this Bryda pinned a white kerchief,
confining the ends at the waist with a silver buckle which had belonged
to her mother. Then she tied back her bright hair, which was the colour
of a cornfield rippling in the sunshine, with a blue ribbon, and perched
on the top of her pretty head a bonnet of Dunstable straw which would
have disguised most faces so ugly was its shape. But Bryda's face could
not lend itself to any disguise. Her luminous eyes seemed to shine the
brighter under the shadow of the peak. Her clear rose-and-white
complexion was set off by the clumsy knot of faded ribbon strings which
passed under the high crown of the bonnet was tied under Bryda's dimpled
chin, and defined its beautiful outline.
Thus equipped, Bryda stepped quietly downstairs, and went out at the
back door of the farm.
In the yard, on a barrel turned up for a seat, sat Silas the shepherd.
He was cutting huge slices of coarse bread with a clasp knife, and
crowding them into his mouth, with morsels of Cheddar cheese.
'I want to take one of the dogs for a walk, Silas. Which can you spare?'
'Neither,' was the short response.
'Oh, let me have one, Silas. Let me have Flick. Here, Flick, will you
come?'
'Where be thee going?'
'For a long walk, that's all.'
'You'll find it nearly broiling 'cross the hill. The old ewe died early
this morning. There's another loss for the master. But, lor', he's dazed
like. If I told him the whole flock was dead he wouldn't care. Master is
queerish this morning.'
'He is not well,' Bryda said. 'Don't trouble him, Silas, if you can
help, and let me have Flick.'
Flick was only waiting the word of command from his master, with anxious
upturned nose and eyes scanning Silas's rugged face.
'Get along with you,' was the not very gracious dismissal.
And the old dog leaped for joy, gave his low, deep-mouthed bay, scuttled
round the yard twice, sending two sedate cats clambering up the old
wall, with its high lichen-covered coping, where they turned at bay,
with swelled tails and arched backs, to spit at their enemy.
So bright was the sky, and so full of life was everything around her,
that as Bryda tripped lightly on her way she had almost forgotten what
was her errand.
The church clock of Dundry struck ten as she passed. The village was
quiet, almost deserted.
The people were out at their daily toil on the hills, and only a few
white-headed children were making dust pies by the churchyard gate, two
or three women, with babies in their arms, gossiping at their cottage
doors.
'Where's she off to, I wonder? That's Peter Palmer's girl, she is mighty
proud, and never passes good-morning or the time of day, not she.'
'Pride must have a fall,' said another. 'Look at her in her fine red
gown as if 'twere a Fair day.'
And then the women hushed their squalling babies with somewhat rough
vehemence and turned to other subjects.
Bryda was a little doubtful of the nearest road to Rock House when she
came to the place where four roads met.
The old sign-post had lost one of its arms, and the lettering on another
was defaced. Bryda knew Rock House was several miles nearer Dundry than
the town of Binegar, but she could not feel sure which of the four roads
that looked so much alike was the right one.
As she stood hesitating, a young man, with a gun under his arm, leaped
over the hedge into the road.
Flick growled as he approached, and Bryda, putting her hand through his
collar, said,--
'Down, Flick.'
Then, addressing the young man, she said,--
'Please, sir, can you tell me the way to Rock House, Squire Bayfield's?'
Then she added demurely, 'I have business with him.'
'Well,' was the reply, 'the Squire is a lucky man, that's all I have to
say.'
Bryda's colour rose, for this young man's gaze was a little too openly
admiring.
She curtsied, with a grace which was very different from the low bob of
the country maiden generally, and said,--
'I beg you, sir, to be so good as to tell me which road I am to take,
right or left.'
'It's right ahead,' was the reply; 'I am going the same way. Your dog is
not a very pleasant companion; he looks as if he would fly at my throat
if he could.'
'He knows his manners, sir,' Bryda said, 'and he will not fly at anyone
without reason. Down!' she said, 'quiet, Flick.'
This, with a pat on his shaggy head, was taken as a sign that Bryda's
companion was not the foe Flick had at first imagined, and he walked
gravely by her side, as if unconscious of a third person's presence.
Bryda volunteered no conversation, and for some minutes there was
silence. Presently the man asked,--
'Have you any acquaintance with Squire Bayfield?'
'No, sir; not with the young Squire. He has been in foreign parts for
years.'
'Yes, that's true; he came home a week ago to find his father dead and
buried, and the old place a ruin for him to build up, and money short to
do it.'
Again there was silence, till a pair of large gates came in sight and a
long avenue of firs leading up to a house, of which the low front was
seen at the end of the drive.
'Is this Squire Bayfield's house, sir?'
'Yes, and I have business there also, so we will walk up to the door
together.'
Bryda hesitated, and then said,--
'I have business with the Squire, sir; but it is of a private nature,
and I must see him alone.'
'That I'll warrant you shall do, madam,' and insensibly the man's manner
became more respectful.
This was no country maiden to whom he might offer any familiarity,
praise her beauty, or rally her on her charms. Bryda had always about
her that innate purity and refinement, which acts as a shield against
the shafts of impertinent admiration which men of a certain type in the
eighteenth century were apt to offer to win favour with the belles of
town or country.
A short flight of stone steps led to the front entrance of the house,
and here the young man paused. After a moment's hesitation he opened the
door, and a parcel of dogs of all shapes and sizes came rushing out,
whining and capering with delight.
Immediately Flick stood at bay, and a scrimmage seemed imminent, when
the young man took a short whip from a peg in the hall, and thrashing
right and left, with a great many oaths and curses, exclaimed, 'The
brutes--the underbred brutes,' as the dogs went whining and yelping back
to the place whence they came.
'Now, madam,' the young man said, after apologising for this uproar,
'let me show you into the only habitable room in the place where you can
have your desired interview with the Squire.'
He pushed open a door as he spoke, and holding it for Bryda to pass,
closed it again, and left her alone.
Bryda was in the old library, which was full of deed boxes and papers.
Books lined the walls, and a big chair at the farther end by the bay
window was the magistrate's seat, where Mr Bayfield had, after the
custom of the time, tried prisoners for poaching, petty larceny, and
other offences.
Bryda felt frightened, and yet gathered up all her courage to meet Mr
Bayfield when he appeared.
The summer sunshine, lying on the wide expanse of open country, did not
touch this gloomy room, which looked full north, and only caught a gleam
of brightness later in the day for a short space.
Bryda walked to the window and looked out. Flick was lying on the
terrace, his nose on his big ungainly paws, his ears pricked up--on
guard, and watching for a return of the yapping crew which the young
man's whip had so summarily dismissed.
The aspect of everything was dreary and cheerless. The dark firs, the
decayed urns, which flanked either side of the stone steps, the rough
terrace of loose stones, the long grass of the pleasance below, where a
few flowers were bravely struggling to show themselves under
difficulties.
'What a dreary place!' Bryda exclaimed. 'But, oh, I wish the Squire
would come. I wish Betty was here; but I must make the best of it now I
have come here. No gentleman would be cruel to an old man like
grandfather, and--'
She stopped, for the door opened and the same man whom she had met on
the road came in. He made a low bow, and advancing, said,--
'The Squire, otherwise David Bayfield, is at your service, madam. I pray
you be seated, and let me ask you to take such refreshment as this
miserable house can afford. I have ordered it to be brought.'
But Bryda stood like a fawn at bay, and said with all the calmness she
could command,--
'I do not understand, sir. I am at a loss to know whether--'
'I am the Squire? Yes, fair lady, I have the misfortune to bear that
ill-starred title, and I beg you to be seated and open out your
business.'
But Bryda, though trembling from head to foot, repressed all outward
sign of fear, and still stood, her hand on the back of the old carved
oak chair, which, when she had turned from the window, she had grasped
at the entrance of the young Squire.
'My business, sir, will not detain you long,' she said. 'My poor
grandfather, Mr Palmer, to save a son, _my father_'--this was said with
infinite sadness--'yes, my father, from disgrace, borrowed a sum of
money, a very large sum, from the old Squire. He never pressed him for
payment, and indeed it is doubtful that he ever expected it. I came to
ask you, sir, to be pitiful, and give my grandfather time, at least. He
has had years of poor crops, and many losses of stock. He is already
behind hand. If you press him, as I heard you did last night, you will
ruin him, you will kill him,' she added with vehemence--'yes, you will
kill an old man, who is over seventy, and,' clasping her hands, 'make us
all wretched and miserable.'
'Madam,' David Bayfield began, coming nearer, while Bryda, with the
shield of the old magistrate's chair before her, felt secure, 'madam, I
feel like a poacher on trial, you the judge. Listen to a prisoner
pleading; I pray you, be merciful. You speak of ruin--the money I claim
by right of your respected grandfather it is absolutely necessary I
should have. I hold the note of hand. I showed it to the old man last
night. It sets forth that the money is payable on demand to my father,
or heirs of his body. I _must have_ the money.'
Bryda looked straight into the face before her, and with flashing eyes,
drawing her small figure up to its full height, she said,--
'Very good, sir; I need detain you no longer, but return whence I came
from my bootless errand. I do not envy you, sir; it is always better to
be the injured than the injurer. Permit me to pass, sir, as I must lose
no time.'
The door opened at this moment, and an old man-servant came shuffling
in, a tray in his hand, loaded with a silver goblet of spiced wine and a
few wheaten cakes. He eyed Bryda curiously, and placing the tray on a
small table covered with dust, he put a chair before it, and was
retiring, when Bryda seized the moment for escape. She came swiftly
round from the chair, and before the servant could close the door she
had gone out into the hall.
'Nay, madam, I pray you, do not leave my house thus. It will put me in
the position of an inhospitable brute. I beseech you take some
refreshment ere you depart.'
'I did not come here for refreshment, sir,' Bryda said. 'I came in the
hope of finding a merciful gentleman, who would not hasten an old man to
his grave by cruelty and hard usage. This hope is at an end. There is
nothing left for me but to repent I ever came hither.'
'But, my dear madam, hearken. I would fain win your favour. I am not
one to make fair speeches, but I am not cruel. Right is right, and--'
'Mercy is mercy,' Bryda said. 'Good-day to you, sir. Flick, Flick!'
The dog was at her side in an instant. He gave an ominous growl as the
Squire tried to follow, and then Mr Bayfield stood like a statue on the
top step of the cracked flight and watched Bryda's light figure as it
passed under the sombre firs, Flick striding at her side as she walked
swiftly, at a pace which was nearly running, towards the white gates,
and then vanished out of sight.
The Squire clenched his teeth and muttered a string of oaths, turned
into the house, swallowed the contents of the silver mug at one draught,
and then sat down before the table, with its many pigeon-holes and
secret drawers, to curse his stupidity in allowing Bryda to depart
without another attempt to detain her.
She was so entirely different from any woman he had met. There was a
mingling of dignity and sweetness which he was not slow to recognise.
Her beauty was not her only attraction. He read in her clear eyes
purity, and strength of purpose in her round, determined chin, with its
slightly upward curve. David Bayfield felt ashamed of himself as he had
never felt before, and unable to settle to any business matters, he went
to the stable, saddled one of the horses, which had been eating off
their heads there since his father's death, and galloped at a furious
pace to Wells to consult his man of business there as to what steps
should be taken.