STOKE FERRY FARM HOUSE――THE LOVERS――A CONFIDENTIAL TETE-A-TETE.
Patty Jamblin, as we have already seen, contrived to rid herself of
her most obnoxious and objectionable admirer. She had, nevertheless,
to make use of a common phrase, “many strings to her bow.”
Numbers of soft-hearted irrepressible rustic swains hovered round the
central figure of Stoke Ferry.
As time went on, John Ashbrook became more deeply enamoured of the
pretty Miss Jamblin.
It was generally understood that he was the favoured suitor, for
Patty, albeit a little wilful and capricious, had eyes and ears for
him more than all the rest.
Old Jamblin was a farmer of the old school. He was, like most of that
class, a little prejudiced; it may be said, very prejudiced, as far as
his political opinions were concerned. Free trade and the abolition of
the corn laws he had opposed to the utmost of his power, and a Radical
he hated worse than a tax-collector.
Do not blame him for these opinions. Do not laugh at farmers, for they
are men who have worked hard, and who have been ill-treated.
This nation once made it legal to have a free trade in corn, and corn
alone. They had the bread cheap at the expense of the farmers.
“And not contented with cheating them,” observed Jamblin, “they jeered
at them too.”
“Ah,” say the free traders, “Bobby Peel was going to kill three
farmers a week, but there is one or two of them left alive yet.”
Yes, for when that law was passed the English yeomen, whom fools call
idle grumblers struck their broad breasts with their hands, and
resolved to struggle hard against their foreign foes.
It was a hard battle for them, this fight with farmers whose land cost
them little, and who had few taxes to pay.
And as they were growing fagged and faint, and were forced to fall
back upon their hard-earned savings, the Crimean war began, and the
cry was for meat to send out to the land of strife and famine. The
nation which had bled the farmers had now to bleed for them, and to
buy their sheep or oxen at fabulous prices.
Thus the Emperor of Russia saved half the English farmers from ruin.
As we have already signified, Jamblin was a farmer of the old school,
whose favourite maxim was――
He who by the plough would thrive,
Must himself either hold or drive.
He acted throughout his life in accordance with this precept.
He chose for his wife a farmer’s daughter――one of the old-fashioned
sort――an adept in the economies of the stables and pig-sty, and a
perfect genius among the milk-pails.
Having presented him with a son and a daughter, she expired in the act
of lifting a large brewing-tub, which was out of its place in the back
kitchen.
Although his wife had perished a victim to her love for _ne plus
ultra_ housewifery, Jamblin reared up his son and daughter in the same
line of education which proved so beneficial to himself.
And sometimes he would recite this old adage in a kind of chant,
beating time with his fingers on the kitchen dresser:
The man to plough,
The wife to cow,
The boy to flail,
The girl to pail,
And your rents will be netted.
But the man tally-ho!
The wife piano,
The boy Greek and Latin,
The miss silk and satin,
And you’ll soon be gazetted.
“When you grow up to be a man, Phil,” he would say to his son, “and I
have grown old, you shall live in the big house and farm Stoke Ferry
all to yourself. You stick to your trade like wax, my boy, and you’ll
have a red face when you come to be old, and a sound liver, a strong
jolly heart, aye, and your pocket full of yellow-boys, tew.”
When Philip was talked to like this he would go to work with hoe,
spade, or sickle, as if were a young hero cutting himself a path to
glory with his sword. His father’s words gave him thoughts which
cheered him to his work far more than the black muddy beer which was
sent out to them in stone or leather bottles. And sometimes, as he
plodded across the fallow fields while the last red clouds in the west
were fading into white, and while the dew was rising like a fog from
the meadow grass, he would stop and fold his arms upon his breast,
and, looking up to the sky, dream that he could see a farmhouse with a
great straw yard and massive barns and countless heads of cattle.
But by daylight he gave himself no time for reverie. Even at nooning,
when the labourers were enjoying their dinner and siestas, his mind
was full of business, and questions streamed from his lips as water
from a bucket overthrown.
“Phil will be a great man,” his father used to say; “he does his work
like a free horse, an’ is allays peerin’ about to pick up wrinkles.
His heart’s in his call, an’ that’s the head thing to look after.
But poor Phil was not destined to fulfil the farmer’s predictions; he
was cut off when on the very threshold of life――stricken down by the
hand of an assassin.
His connection with Nell Fulford had been a source of anxiety to the
farmer long before his son’s death. It was a subject he never
afterwards made reference to; but although he was silent on the
subject he had not forgotten it.
One evening when Patty was away (she had gone to the hall to spend a
day or two with Lady Aveline, at her ladyship’s special request),
Jamblin had for his companion John Ashbrook.
Strange to say, on the evening in question there were no chance
droppers in――the reason for this being, perhaps, the absence of Patty.
The two farmers were seated in the parlour before a bright, cheerful
fire.
“Kitty,” said Jamblin, addressing himself to a red-faced, red-armed
servant girl, who was kept more for use than ornament, “go down to the
cellar and bring up a big jug of the October old ale out of that
little cask in the corner.”
The October ale, which was several years old, and of unrivalled
strength and flavour, never moistened throats except upon holiday
occasions.
The girl knew her master disliked to be questioned, so taking a bunch
of keys from the shelf, she glided out of the room and returned with
the ale.
“Now, gell,” said her master, “go upstairs into my room, and on the
top of the shelf of the left hand cupboard, you will find a jar of
’bacca in it, under a lead weight. Bring two or three screws of that,
will you?”
It was real Latakia, which had been smuggled over from Turkey by a
parson’s son, a midshipman in the navy, and presented to the farmer in
return for hospitalities.
Kitty gave one stare of astonishment before she complied. She had
never known the old man treat himself to the October ale and the
Latakia tobacco on the same evening, but she said nothing, and
hastened on her errand.
When she returned, Jamblin said――
“Reach down from the shelf in the parlour two of those cut glasses.”
This was too much for Kitty, who could hardly believe her ears. The
cut glasses in question had never been used――so she had been told
since the death of her master’s wife――they were called Mrs. Jamblin’s
glasses.
“Do you mean the best cut glasses, sir?” inquired the girl, almost
breathless with astonishment.
“Yes, you little fool!” roared the farmer. “What for d’ye want
doddlin’ and starin’ like a stuck pig? I thought I spoke plain English
tew.” The beer and tobacco were all placed on the oak table at the
farmer’s elbow.
“Well, measter John,” said he, “it be’s a poor heart as never
rejoices, and now we be free from them chaps who drop in at times when
mebbe they’re not wanted, we’ll enjoy ourselves in our own humble
way.”
The glasses were filled and Jamblin held his own up in the air and
looked at the bright liquor it contained.
“I will gi’ ’ee a toast,” said he. “Here’s everybody in the world’s
good health, ’cept farmer Nettlethorpe.”
They both drank the toast, after which John Ashbrook burst out into a
loud laugh.
“Poor Nettlethorpe!” he exclaimed.
“Poor, indeed,” returned Jamblin. “I’ll tell ’ee why I don’t drink his
good health. It is because I want farmer Nettlethorpe to die. He’s a
puddin’ mean man, and tries to make his land as thin and poor as his
cattle, and his cattle as poor and thin as himself.”
“He’s what I call an apron-stringed farmer,” said Ashbrook. “He was a
grocer, and now he’s taken to farming. He’ll find it a poor catch.”
“You don’t say much, John, but what you do say aint a great ways off
the mark. He will find it a poor catch for all he tries to strip two
skins off a cow, and would stoop any day to take a farthing off a
dunghill wi’ his teeth. I dare say ye’ve heard in yer Sunday travels
’em tell that he who changes his trade often makes soup in a basket.”
“If a man was bred and born a farmer,” said his companion, “and could
tackle hold of the right end of the stick, and mek the quarters meet
as should be, I don’t think he’d want to change his trade――that is, if
he has got a farm worth working, but land ’ill beat any man.”
The old farmer gave a laugh of pleasure, disguised as a cough; then he
asked for his pipe, and having filled the bowl with the Turkish herb,
dipped the stem into the beer to sweeten the clayey morsel to his
mouth.
He then leant back in his chair in an attitude of placid enjoyment.
His friend filled his pipe and began smoking also.
For some little time neither of them spoke. Jamblin’s eyes, though
half closed, were directed towards Ashbrook. The two human funnels
were absorbed in a fragrant weed.
“I feel somehow, John, that I be gettin’ an old man, and may be I
shan’t be able to look after Stoke Ferry for many more years. It’s of
no use denying the fact or attempting to conceal it. I ain’t what I
was, an’ ever since my poor boy’s death I aint had the heart as I used
to ha’.”
“You must not talk like that, Mr. Jamblin; you are not so young as you
were, it is true, but you are hale and hearty as yet.”
“As yet――that be a good term; but I ain’t got the pluck as I ought to
ha’, an’ I’ve been thinking, lad――well I’ve been thinkin’ of a lot of
things. Now there’s Patty, you know――――”
“Yes, and as good a girl as ever stepped.”
“That be right enough――I am glad to hear thee say so. Well, although I
be old I ha’ got eyes in my head and know how many blue beans mek
five――an’ I can see pretty plainly, John Ashbrook, that you are sweet
on the gell, and it may be that she’s a bit partial to you. This is
only as I guess,” he added, pointing over his shoulder with the end of
his pipe.
“Be I right or be I wrong?” he said, sharply.
“Why of course you are quite right. I am glad you have broached the
subject, which, to say the truth, I was about to enter upon myself.
Mr. Jamblin, I need hardly tell you how dearly I love your daughter, I
have done so for years past, but――――”
“But what? Don’t ’ee begin loike that, John. The only butt there is in
the question is one filled with the best stingo, which is to be
broached when the health of the bride has to be drunk.”
“It does one good when you talk like that,” cried Ashbrook, bursting
out into a laugh.
The old man indulged in a merry chuckle also.
“But I must beg you to listen to me for a short time,” said Ashbrook.
“You see, Mr. Jamblin, things are not so rosy with us at Oakfield as
they used to be. There are many reasons for this. The farm has not
been so profitable of late, and we’ve had some heavy losses. Poor
Richard has not been the same man since the loss of his wife――you
know, of course, she died of a broken heart.”
“Ah, poor gell, so I heard. That scoundrel Gregson, the burglary, his
execution, enough to make one shudder to think on.”
“You know also that the man Peace who was here some time since――he as
your son gave a thrashing to, he was concerned in the burglary at
Oakfield.”
“Was he though?” cried Jamblin, taking the pipe out of his mouth and
staring at the speaker.
“Yes he was, but let that pass. As I was saying, Richard, poor chap,
took it in his head to have a turn at brickmaking. He fancied he had
found a vein of earth well adapted for the purpose, and he’s sunk a
deal of money on the speculation, which we shall none on us see back
agen, I’m thinking.”
“Foolish lad, what does he understand about bricks?”
“Well, Mr. Jamblin, I am not a rich man but a poor one, and that has
been my only reason for not asking your consent, you understand?”
“Umph, well yes, I think I do. Well, John, I’m sorry you’ve bin goin’
to the bad of late, but it can’t be helped; it aint no fault o’ yours,
that I be quite sartin on. And as far as Patty is concerned, it won’t
mek much difference.”
“She may have more wealthy suitors.”
“She may certainly, or she may not; but in any case it won’t make much
difference. If you loike her, which I blieve ye do, and she loike you,
we’ll strike a bargain.”
John Ashbrook shook the old farmer warmly by the hand.
“I cannot tell you how supremely happy you have made me,” he murmured,
“and only wish I had a fortune to lay at your daughter’s feet.”
“But you’ve got time afore ye, lad. Ye’re young, and ha’ got common
sense.”
“No one can be too clever for a farmer. I haven’t been in the world
without knowing that.”
“You’re right, John. The more a man larns our trade the better he
finds out how little he really knows, an’ I’ve often thought that if
God gave a man the grace to live a thousand years, like Methusalem of
old, he wouldn’t be able to tackle the ins and outs of the weathers,
and manners, and stock, and markets, and all the rest of it. Well,
John, most people who have saved a little money and bought a little
land like to keep their children waiting for it till they die, and
then folks wonder there aint more tears shed over burials. Now, I aint
one of that sort. My daughter is now my only care, and if so be as she
and you make up your minds to be one――which I dare say ye have for a
long time past――ye shall have a fair start in life. You’ve got your
head screwed on the right way, lad, and what I put by for poor Phil
shall be yours.”
“Oh! Mr. Jamblin, I have no right to it.”
“I tell ’ee ye have, and that’s sartain. You shall have a good start,
and as Oakfield Farm aint what it was, let Richard and your sister
have it. You can work this for awhile under my direction, and in time,
when I be gathered to my faythers――well, then it’ll be yours and
Patty’s. There, I can’t say much fairer than that.”
The farmer sent forth vigorous puffs of smoke from his pipe after he
had delivered himself of this speech, and his companion, who was
perfectly overwhelmed by his generosity, could not for the moment find
words to express his gratitude.
“I am sure I can never be sufficiently thankful to you, Mr. Jamblin,”
he ejaculated.
“Nonsense, lad. Haven’t we known each other for years and years? The
Jamblins and Ashbrooks ha’ been staunch friends for more than half a
century. Your poor fayther and myself went to school together when
mere yonkers――and that be a few weeks ago,” cried Jamblin, bursting
out into a loud guffaw; “only a few weeks ago, John.”
“Ah, sir, time runs on pretty fast with most of us; and what appears
but a few months or years perhaps bridges over a long gap in a man’s
lifetime.”
“That be true, lad. Well, as I was a sayin’, the Jamblins and
Ashbrooks ha’ bin firm friends for more than a lifetime, and setting
aside Patty, I’ve neither chick nor child, and therefore she be my
only consideration. Mek her a good husband, John, and I be sartin sure
she’ll mek you a good wife; and so, lad, we ha’ a clear understanding.
There, boy, my hand on it!”
The two friends shook hands once more, and they drank each other’s
health in some whiskey toddy, and did not retire to rest till an
unusually late hour.
Patty Jamblin returned on the following day, and after a cordial
greeting the old farmer went abroad in the fields, leaving the lovers
to themselves.
“I expect you and father have been enjoying yourselves to your hearts’
content during my absence,” said Patty to John Ashbrook.
“We’ve made ourselves as contented as we could under the
circumstances,” returned Ashbrook.
“Ah――so I should suppose. You can do very well without me, you two
cronies.”
“Indeed, we cannot, neither of us. But we have touched on a question
during your absence which concerns both of us. Oh, Patty! I am
thankful and grateful to Providence that we have spoken so freely to
one another.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Just this. Your father has given his consent. There is now no
impediment in the way of――――”
“Impediment! Pray tell me what I am to understand by this.”
“You cannot guess, then, my darling?”
Miss Jamblin coloured, and stammered out the monosyllable, “No.”
“I say he has given his consent freely and unconditionally. What say
you to that?”
“I wish you would speak a little more plainly.”
“Oh, Patty! surely you who are so quick-witted will find it easy to
divine my meaning. You do not need to be reminded of my devotion to
you. You do not need me to plead my own cause, for, to say the truth,
I am a very dunce in affairs of this sort. You do not require me to
tell you how dearly and fondly I love you.”
“Upon my word, you are growing eloquent all of a sudden.”
“It is the first time I ever was, then; but, Patty, say something.
Tell me, do you――――”
“Do I what?”
“Give your consent? There, dall it, I am a plain-spoken man, and am
but a poor hand at pleading my own cause. You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” inquired the little coquette.
“Why, of course you do. Will you be mine?”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
He drew her towards him with his arm round her waist, and his heart
going, as he afterwards said, “nineteen to the dozen,” he embraced her
passionately.
“Your answer, darling. Give me an answer.”
“You are in such a mighty hurry, John. You don’t give one time for
reflection.”
“But you have reflected long ago.”
“Ah well, there may be some truth in that.”
“There is――there is a great deal of truth in it. If you don’t know
your own mind now you never will; but it’s of no use you making any
attempt to oppose your father’s expressed wishes,” he added, with a
smile and a kiss. “No dutiful daughter would do that, you know.”
“Oh, then, according to your showing I am to have no voice in the
matter?”
“Your word is law――I obey it most implicitly; but you will not be so
cruel as to――well, cast me off.”
“No, I don’t say that.”
“Well, then, what do you say?”
“That if I am not your wife, I’ll be no man’s wife, John. That’s what
I say.”
Ashbrook uttered an expression of delight.
“Oh, Patty, my own, my dear, dear Patty!” he ejaculated.
“And so you and father have settled the business between you――eh?”
“No, do not misunderstand me. It was left for you to determine.”
“But I suppose now you had the vanity to believe that I shall do so in
your favour.”
“I confess I had.”
“So I thought. Well, John, you are not mistaken, you see, and what did
father say then?”
“Oh, he said a good deal more than I expected, and his kindness quite
overpowered me. He spoke of poor Philip.”
“Ah, I thought he would do that,” said Miss Jamblin, her countenance
changing in its expression. “I cannot forget Phil――he never will, rest
assured of that. And what else did he say?”
“I told him of our altered circumstances.”
“That did not make any difference, I’ll be sworn.”
“None in the least. He said the money he had put by for his deceased
son should be mine, and that I was not to trouble myself about being
not so well off as I have been; but lor, Patty, it would take me a
long time to tell you the whole of our conversation. It is enough to
declare that he does not make money a consideration, or the need of it
an impediment to our union.”
“Ah, John Ashbrook, my dear father may be a little wilful and
opinionated, but his heart is right enough. No one knows that better
than myself; but there, you know there is Richard and your sister
Maude. What will they say?”
“That is all arranged. Richard is not the same man he was a few years
ago, and, without Maude, I know not how he would get on at all.”
“He’s never got over the loss of Jane.”
“Never, and I fear never will. You see Jane was a fatalist, a believer
in destiny, was strangely superstitious, believed in omens and signs
and all that sort of things, and somehow or other at times I am afraid
she has imbued my brother with the same notions.”
“You think so?”
“Sometimes I do, while at others I hope I am mistaken, but taken
altogether it has been a bad business.”
“What! his marriage with Jane Ryan?”
“I don’t say that. He loved her if ever man did love a woman, and she
was worthy of him, for a better, more true, and honest gell never
broke the bread of life. This is one thing, but her heart was bruised
and half-broken when she gave her hand to my poor brother.”
“Ah, John, a deep shadow has fallen over you and yours, even as it has
done over me and mine, but these are things over which we have no
control, and yet they both spring from the same cause or nearly so.”
“You are right, Patty. A shadow has fallen on Oakfield.”
“But we are no worse off than our betters――perhaps not so badly off,
in many ways. A shadow has fallen over the inmates of Broxbridge Hall,
and Lady Aveline is not without her troubles; neither is the earl, her
grandfather.”
“I suppose not.”
“By no means. Did my father say anything about the lad that used to be
with us――the boy Alf Purvis?”
“No, he did not mention his name.”
“What can have become of that young scapegrace? We have had no tidings
of him since he left here with the dead hare tied round his neck.”
“How very remarkable!”
“It is singular, I must confess. I know father would be glad to learn
something about him; but he never will, I suppose, now.”
“I fancy not, but he’s better lost than found, if all be true I’ve
heard.”
[Sidenote: No. 44.]
[Illustration: THE ATTEMPTED ESCAPE FROM WAKEFIELD GAOL.]
“Yes, that’s right enough――at least, I suppose so,” cried Miss
Jamblin, who after this was lost for some time in reflection.
“I am the happiest man alive,” exclaimed John Ashbrook. “You are to
have your own way in everything――that has been agreed upon.”
“Has it? I am glad to hear you say so, because, you see, we all like
to have our way.”
“Ah, but you are not to be crossed in anything, and, to say the truth,
darling, it is not at all likely you will be. I love you too much for
that.”
“Promises are one thing――――”
“And the performances of them are another――that’s what you were about
to say.”
“You are very clever to be able to anticipate one’s thoughts,” said
the farmer’s daughter, with a merry laugh, “but I think I may trust
you.”
“Be assured you may. You will have no reason to repent of your choice,
although I say it as should not say it, to make use of a common
phrase.”
“I do not for a moment doubt it, John. I accept you with a right good
will, and with all my heart.”
The young farmer embraced her fondly, and nothing now remained but for
the happy day to be named.
In a few days after this it became generally known to all who took
interest in such matters that John Ashbrook and old Jamblin’s daughter
were shortly to become man and wife.
There were of course a number of disappointed swains, who had to
repine at the loss they had sustained, but we are happy to be able to
state, upon reliable authority, that no serious results attended their
discomfiture. They solaced themselves by seeking “fresh fields and
pastures new,” and bore their fate with becoming fortitude.
The wedding ceremony was performed on a grand scale, and on the day on
which it took place Stoke Ferry Farm was filled with guests of every
denomination. Lord Ethalwood honoured the nuptials with his presence,
and his grand-daughter, Aveline, was one of the bridesmaids; Maude
Ashbrook, and her brother Richard, were of course there, and the good
people in the neighbourhood had not seen such a gathering or such a
scene of festivity for many a long day.
The bride looked lovely, as all brides do under similar circumstances,
or said to do, which is much the same thing.
Farmer Jamblin was a little thoughtful, or it might be said downcast,
this being attributable to painful reminiscences in respect to his
son; but when the ceremony had been performed, he rallied and was as
cheerful as the best of them.
After the bride and bridegroom had started on their wedding tour, he
became silent and thoughtful again. He had, however, for his
companions Maude and Richard Ashbrook, who had arranged to stay at
Stoke Ferry for a few days to keep him company.