WAITING FOR THE BLOW TO FALL
David Penlogan was not the man to cry out when he was hurt. He went
about his work in dumb resignation. The calamity was too great to be
talked about, too overwhelming to be shaped into words. He could only
shut his teeth and endure. To discuss the matter, even with his wife,
would be like probing a wound with a red-hot needle. Better let it be.
There are times when words are like a blister on a burn.
What the future had in store for him he did not know, and he had not the
courage to inquire. One text of Scripture he repeated to himself
morning, noon, and night, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,"
and to that he held. It was his one anchor. The rope was frayed, and the
anchor out of sight--whether hooked to a rock or simply embedded in the
sand he did not know--but it steadied him while the storm was at its
worst. It helped him to endure.
Harvest was beginning, and the crop had to be gathered in--gathered in
from fields that were no longer his, and that possibly he would never
plant again. It was all very pathetic. He seemed sometimes like a man
preparing for his own funeral.
"When next year comes----" he would say to himself, and then he would
stop short. He had not courage enough yet to think of next year; his
business was with the present. His first, and, as far as he could see,
his only duty was to gather in the crops. Sir John had not spoken to him
yet. He was too concerned about his daughter to think of so small a
matter as the falling-in of a lease. Strange that what was a mere trifle
to one man should be a matter of life and death to another.
It was a sad and silent harvest-tide for the occupants of Hillside Farm.
The impending calamity, instead of drawing them more closely together,
seemed to separate them. Each was afraid of betraying emotion before the
rest. So they avoided each other. Even at meal-times they all pretended
to be so busy that there was no time to talk. The weather was
magnificent, and all the cornfields were growing ripe together. This was
true of nearly every other farm in the parish. Hence hired labour could
not be had for love or money. The big farmers had picked up all the
casual harvesters beforehand. The small farmers would have to employ
their womenfolk and children.
Ralph and his father got up each morning at sunrise, and, armed with
reaping-hooks, went their ways in different directions. Ralph undertook
to cut down the barley-field, David negotiated a large field of oats.
They could not talk while they were in different fields. Moreover,
neither was in the mood for company. Later on they might be able to talk
calmly and without emotion, but at present it would be foolish to make
the attempt.
Every day they expected that Sir John Hamblyn or his steward would put
in an appearance; that would bring things to a head, and put an end to
the little conspiracy of silence that had now lasted nearly a week. But
day after day passed away, and the solemn gloom of the farm remained
unbroken.
Ralph kept doggedly to his work. Work was the best antidote against
painful thoughts. Since the morning he walked across to Hamblyn Manor,
in order to ease his conscience by making a clean breast of it, he had
never ventured beyond his own homestead. He tried to persuade himself it
was no concern of his what happened, and that if Dorothy Hamblyn died it
would be a just judgment on Sir John for his grasping and oppressive
ways.
But his heart always revolted against such reasoning. Deep down in his
soul he knew that, for the moment, he was more concerned about the fate
of Dorothy than anything else, and that it would be an infinite relief
to him to hear that she was out of danger. Try as he would, he could not
shake off the feeling that he was more or less responsible for the
accident.
But day by day the news found its way across to the farm that "the
squire's little maid," as the villagers called her, was no better.
Sometimes, indeed, the news was that she was a good deal worse, and that
the doctors held out very little hope of her recovery.
Ralph remained as silent on this as on the other subject. He had never
told anyone but Sir John that he had refused to open the gate. It had
seemed to him, while he sat on the stile and faced the squire's
daughter, a brave and courageous part to take, but he was ashamed of it
now. It would have been a far more heroic thing to have pocketed the
affront and overcome arrogance by generosity.
But vision often comes too late. We see the better part when we are no
longer able to take it.
Sunday brought the family together, and broke the crust of silence that
had prevailed so long.
It was David's usual custom on a Sunday morning to walk across the
fields to his class-meeting, held in the little Methodist Chapel at
Veryan. But this particular Sunday morning he had not the courage to go.
If he could not open his heart before the members of his own family, how
could he before others? Besides, his experience would benefit no one. He
had no tale to tell of faith triumphing over despondency, and hope
banishing despair. He had come nearer being an infidel than ever before
in his life. It is not every man who can see that Providence may be as
clearly manifested in calamity as in prosperity.
So instead of going to his meeting, David went out for a quiet walk in
the fields. He could talk to himself, if he had not the courage to talk
to others. Besides, Nature was nearly always restful, if not inspiring.
Ralph came down to breakfast an hour later than was his custom. He was
so weary with the work of the week that he was half disposed to lie in
bed till the following morning. He found his breakfast set for him in
what was called the "living-room," but neither Ruth nor his mother was
visible. He ate his food without tasting it. His mind was too full of
other things to trouble himself about the quality of his victuals. When
he had finished he rose slowly from his chair, took a cloth cap from a
peg, and went through the open door into the garden. Plucking a sprig of
lad's-love, he stuck it into the buttonhole of his jacket, then climbed
over the hedge into an adjoining field.
He came face to face with his father ten minutes later, and stared at
him in surprise.
"Why, I thought you had gone to your meeting!" he said, in a tone of
wonderment.
"I don't feel in any mood for meetings," David answered gloomily. "I
reckon I'm best by myself."
"I fancy we've all been thinking the same thing these last few days,"
Ralph answered, with a smile. "I'm not sure, however, that we're right.
We've got to talk about things sooner or later."
"Yes; I suppose that is so," David answered wearily. "But, to tell you
the truth, I haven't got my bearings yet."
"I reckon our first business is to try to keep afloat," Ralph answered.
"If we can do that, we may find our bearings later on."
"You will find no difficulty, Ralph, for you are young, and have all the
world before you. Besides, I've given you an education. I knew it was
all I could give you."
"I'm afraid it won't be of much use to me in a place like this," Ralph
answered, with a despondent look in his eyes.
"There's no knowing, my boy. Knowledge, they say, is power. If you are
thrown overboard you will swim; but with mother and me it is different.
We're too old to start again, and all our savings are swallowed up."
"Not all, surely, father! There are the crops and cattle and
implements."
David shook his head.
"Over against the crops," he said, "are the seed bills, and the manure
bills, and the ground rent, and over against the cattle is the mortgage.
I never thought of telling you, Ralph, for I never reckoned on this
trouble coming. But when I started I thought the money I had would be
quite enough not only to build the house and outbuildings, and bring the
farm under cultivation, but to stock it as well. But it was a much more
expensive business than I knew."
"And so you had to mortgage the farm?"
"No, my lad. Nobody would lend money on a three-life lease."
"And yet you risked your all on it?"
"Ah, my boy, I did it for the best. God knows I did! I wanted to provide
a nest for our old age."
"No one will blame you on that score," Ralph answered, with tears in his
eyes; "but the best ships founder sometimes."
"Yes. I have kept saying to myself ever since the news came that I am
not the only man who has come to grief, and yet I don't know, my boy,
that that helps me very much."
Ralph was silent for several minutes; then he said--
"Is this mortgage or note of hand or bill of sale--or whatever it
is--for a large amount?"
"Well, rather, Ralph. I'm afraid, if we have to shift from here,
there'll be little or nothing left."
"But if you are willing to remain as tenant, Sir John will make no
attempt to move you?"
"I'm not so sure, my son. Sir John is a hard man and a bitter, and he
has no liking for me. At the last election I was not on his side, as you
may remember, and he never forgets such things."
Ralph turned away and bit his lip. The memory of what the squire said to
him a few days previously swept over him like a cold flood.
"I'm inclined to think, father," he said at length, "that we'd better
prepare for the worst. It'll be better than building on any
consideration we may receive from the squire."
"I think you are right, my boy." And they turned and walked toward the
house side by side.
They continued their talk in the house, and over the dinner-table. Now
that the ice was broken the stream of conversation flowed freely. Ruth
and Mrs. Penlogan let out the pent-up feelings of their hearts, and
their tears fell in abundance.
It did the women good to cry. It eased the pain that was becoming
intolerable. Ralph talked bravely and heroically. All was not lost. They
had each other, and they had health and strength, and neither of them
was afraid of hard work.
By tea-time they had talked each other into quite a hopeful frame of
mind. Mrs. Penlogan was inclined to the belief that Sir John would
recognise the equity of the case, and would let them remain as tenants
at a very reasonable rent.
"Don't let us build on that, mother," Ralph said. "If he foregoes the
tiniest mite of his pound of flesh, so much the better; but to reckon on
it might mean disappointment. We'd better face the worst, and if we do
it bravely we shall win."
In this spirit they went off to the evening service at the little chapel
at Veryan. The building was plain--four walls with a lid, somebody
described it--the service homely in the extreme, the singing decidedly
amateurish, but there were warmth and emotion and conviction, and
everybody was pleased to see the Penlogans in their places.
At the close of the service a little crowd gathered round them, and
manifested their sympathy in a dozen unspoken ways. Of course, everybody
knew what had happened, and everybody wondered what the squire would do
in such a case. The law was on his side, no doubt, but there ought to be
some place for equity also. David Penlogan had scarcely begun yet to
reap any of the fruit of his labour, and it would be a most unfair
thing, law or no law, that the ground landlord should come in and take
everything.
"Oh, he can't do it," said an old farmer, when discussing the matter
with his neighbour. "He may be a hard man, but he'd never be able to
hold up his head again if he was to do sich a thing."
"It's my opinion he'll stand on the law of the thing," was the reply. "A
bargain's a bargain, as you know very well, an' what's the use of a
bargain ef you don't stick to 'un?"
"Ay, but law's one thing and right's another, and a man's bound to have
some regard for fair play."
"He ought to have, no doubt; but the squire's 'ard up, as everybody
knows, and is puttin' on the screw on every tenant he's got. My opinion
is he'll stand on the law."
No one said anything to David, however, about what had happened, except
in the most indirect way. Sunday evening was not the time to discuss
secular matters. Nevertheless, David felt the unspoken sympathy of his
neighbours, and returned home comforted.
The next week passed as the previous one had done, and the week after
that. The squire had not come across, nor sent his steward. David began
to fear that the long silence was ominous. Mrs. Penlogan held to the
belief that Sir John meant to deal generously by them. Ralph kept his
thoughts to himself, but on the whole he was not hopeful.
The weather continued beautifully fine, and all hands were kept busy in
the fields. Except on Sundays they scarcely ever caught a glimpse of
their neighbours. No one had any time to pay visits or receive them. The
harvest must be got in, if possible, before the weather broke, and to
that end everyone who could help--little and big, young and old--was
pressed into the service.
On the big farms there was a good deal of fun and hilarity. The village
folk--lads and lasses alike--who knew anything about harvest work, and
were willing to earn an extra sixpence, were made heartily welcome.
Consequently there was not a little horse-play, and no small amount of
flirtation, especially after night came on, and the harvest moon began
to climb up into the heavens.
Then, when the field was safely sheafed and shocked, they repaired to
the farm kitchen, where supper was laid, and where ancient jokes were
trotted out amid roars of laughter, and where the hero of the evening
was the man who had a new story to tell. Supper ended, they made their
way home through the quiet lanes or across the fields. That, to some of
the young people, seemed the best part of the day. They forgot the
weariness engendered by a dozen hours in the open air while they
listened to a story old as the human race, and yet as new to-day as when
syllabled by the first happy lover.
But on the small farms, where no outside help was employed, there was
very little mirth or hilarity. All the romance of harvest was found
where the crowd was gathered. Young people sometimes gave their services
of an evening, so that they could take part in the fun.
As David Penlogan and his family toiled in the fields in the light of
the harvest moon they sometimes heard sounds of merry-making and
laughter floating across the valley from distant farmsteads, and they
wondered a little bit sadly where the next harvest-time would find them.
On the third Saturday night they stood still to listen to a familiar
sound in that part of the country.
"Listen, Ralph," Ruth said, "they're cutting neck at Treligga."
Cutting neck means cutting the last shock of the year's corn, and is
celebrated by a big shout in the field, and a special supper in the
farmer's kitchen.
Ralph raised himself from his stooping posture, and his father did the
same. Ruth took her mother's hand in hers, and all four stood and
listened. Clear and distinct across the moonlit fields the words rang--
"What have 'ee? What have 'ee?"
"A neck! A neck!"
"Hoorah! Hoorah! Hoorah!"
Slowly the echoes died over the hills, and then silence reigned again.
Ralph and David had also cut neck, but they raised no shout over it.
They were in no mood for jubilation.
Sir John Hamblyn had not spoken yet, nor had his steward been across to
see them. Why those many days of grace, neither David nor Ralph could
surmise.
It was reported that the squire's daughter was slowly recovering from
her accident, but that many months would elapse before she was quite
well and able to ride again.
"We shall not have to wait much longer, depend upon it," David said, on
Monday morning, as he and Ralph went out in the fields together; and so
it proved. About ten o'clock a horseman was seen riding up the lane
toward the house. David was the first to catch sight of him.
"It's the squire himself," he said.