BARTON GILL UNDER NOTICE
The mind of Barton Gill was exercised, for he had heard painful news
and suddenly learned the unsuspected opinion of another man
concerning him. He felt shocked and cast down, having never guessed
that Jacob Bullstone contemplated the possibility which now
confronted Mr. Gill as a fact.
Barton was sixty-eight and, in his own opinion, as active and
apprehensive as ever. Looking back he perceived that he had actually
outgrown some weaknesses of middle age; while with respect to his
knowledge of dogs, no man could deny that it embraced everything of
importance.
Returning from Brent, the kennel-man fell in with Adam Winter and
revealed his troubles.
"Hast heard the black news, Adam?" he began. "But of course you have
not. It only burst upon me yesterday."
"Can it be bettered, or is it one of they fatal things beyond
repair?" asked Winter.
It was his solid custom on all occasions to help if harm might be
averted, but not to fret unduly at evil accomplished.
"Whether it's going to be fatal remains to be seen; but I don't feel
an ounce of hope," said Gill. "In a word--Jacob Bullstone. You know
his way. He'll store his thoughts, and smile, and hide what's moving
in his head from every eye but his Maker's; and then, when the deed
is ripe, he'll do it. And so half his actions come upon people as a
great surprise, because they never get a wink of what was leading up
to 'em."
"He's always got his reasons, however," argued Adam.
"He may have, or he may not. And it's all one, anyhow, since he
never feels called to give 'em. But in my case there ain't a shadow
of reason. He's built up a very wrong and mistaken picture of me.
He's watched me in secret, which ain't a manly thing to do, and now,
like a thunder planet, he's fallen upon me and given me the sack!"
"My stars! You going?"
"Under notice; but never any warning in the rightful sense of the
word," explained Barton Gill. "I've been doing my work in season and
out at Red House for half a century, and putting the dogs before
everything but God Almighty, and helping to make 'em the world-famous
creatures they be. And full of zeal for the family, and pouring my
knowledge into young Peter. And now to be flung out."
"Why for, Barton?"
"Well may you ax that. For no reason on earth but because I'm too
old! And only sixty-eight by this hand, and I wish I may die if a
year more."
Adam was cautious. He felt very little doubt that Jacob Bullstone
knew his own business best. They had been neighbours for fifteen
years and, so far as Winter knew, Jacob regarded him as a good
neighbour. They had never quarrelled and not often differed. Indeed
they met but seldom and Adam saw Margery Bullstone far oftener than
her husband. He had been good to her children and regarded himself
as an old friend of the family; but his relations with Bullstone were
not intimate.
"What you say about Bullstone's character is very interesting,
Barton," he replied. "There are some men that do things on a sudden
and hide the reasons. But, if you look, you'll often find, after
your surprise dies down, that there's nothing much to be surprised
about. I'm sorry if you wanted to stop on. Perhaps, if you was to
be content to sing second to a younger man and just milk the goats
and potter about for smaller money, he'd be content."
"You say that? Why, that's what he offered me!"
"Not the sack then? You told me you were flung out."
Gill shook his head impatiently.
"You don't know my character seemingly, though you ought to by now.
But Bullstone does know it, and well he knows I'd not bide under a
younger kennel-keeper. I stop as head man, else I don't stop. And
this I say, that to see your faithful life's work forgot is a sad
sight. He did ought at least to be decent and let me die in harness,
before he talks of changes and new-fangled notions. What the hell
more do he want than first prizes again and again, and four awards in
the last ten years for the best dog in the show?"
"Youth will be served," said Winter. "I see it more and more. I'm
forty-six and not done with yet; but it's no good pretending the
younger men don't know more than us. They've got what we can give
them, because they're always welcome to our knowledge; but they've
got much more than that, along of education, and I'll bet there's
scores of men ten and fifteen years younger than me, who know more
about the latest in farming; and, of course, there's scores know more
than you about the latest in dogs."
"You're a very poor-spirited creature to say so then, and I don't
think none the better of you for it," replied Gill warmly. "I ban't
one to throw up the sponge before youth, I promise you. I understand
the wilful ways of youth a darned sight too well. Hot-headed
toads--always dashing at things, to show off their fancied
cleverness, and then coming to us, with their tails between their
legs, to make good their mistakes. You might just so soon say a
puppy's wiser than his sire, than tell me the youths know more than
us."
"It's nature," argued Winter. "When we stand still, the younger ones
have got to pass us by. And, to the seeing eye, that's the first
thing middle age marks--that the young men go past. We think we be
trudging along so quick as ever; but we are not. And as for your
life's work, you've done your duty we all know and done it very well.
You was born to work and you've worked honest and helped on the world
of dogs in your time; but nothing stands still and dogs will improve
beyond your knowledge no doubt. So I should be dignified about it
and go. Nought lasts, and youth's the flood that's always making to
drown all."
Barton Gill considered these sentiments, but did not approve of them.
"I had it in mind to ax you to put in a word for me," he answered;
"but I see I can't.'
"Not very well, Barton. I don't know enough about it, and nobody has
a right to come between master and man."
"Everybody's got a right to throw light on another's darkness.
Bullstone's wrong. He might so soon give his right hand notice as
me. He's got to take me as an accepted law of nature, and he's
worked himself into a silly fancy that a younger man would be what I
am, and even more. But it's ignorance; and if I took him at his word
and went, he'd be calling out for me on his knees in a week."
"Then you ought to be hopeful," said Adam. "If that was to happen,
you'd come back with a flourish of trumpets."
"I don't want no flourish of trumpets and I don't want to go,"
declared the other. "It's very ill-convenient and unchristian thing
to fire me now, and I hope Bullstone will see sense before it's too
late."
Adam Winter had some experience of the tyranny of old servants and
perceived that the kennel-man was not going to leave Red House if he
could stop there.
"What does Mrs. Bullstone say?" he asked. "She's a very clever
woman."
"For a woman she is," admitted Gill; "and when she calls home what
I've been to her young people, I make no doubt she'll see that a very
improper thought have come to master. But I haven't sounded her as
yet and she may not have the pluck to take my side."
"What did you say to Bullstone?"
"Nothing so far. He burst it on me, as I tell you, and left me and
my stomach wambling with the shock. I couldn't let down my dinner
after, for the troubled mind tells upon the body instanter. I just
axed him if I'd heard aright, and he said I had; and since then I've
been turning it over."
They had reached the gate of Shipley Farm on the east bank of Auna,
and Adam stood a moment before entering.
"Well, I dare say it will straighten out. Look all round it. You've
only got yourself to think of; and if you was to retire, you'd enjoy
a restful time, and the respect due to you, and not be sorry to find
yourself idle with your work well done."
"I'm not going," answered Barton. "One word's as good as a thousand,
and unless the man uses force, I don't go. I've set the age of
seventy-five for retirement, and I don't break my word to myself for
fifty Bullstones."
In this determined mood he crossed the bridge and proceeded sulkily
homeward. A thought struck him and he turned and shouted it back to
Adam.
"A man's home is his home, ain't it? And who the devil's going to
turn me out of my home?"
Adam did not answer, but laughed to himself. He was still laughing
when he entered his kitchen, where his aunt, Amelia Winter, and his
brother, Samuel, had just begun their tea.
"I didn't expect you back so soon, my dear," he said to the old woman.
"And I didn't expect to be home so soon," she answered, "and, what's
more, I came too soon for my peace, for if I hadn't gone up Church
Lane when I did, I shouldn't have seen a very sad sight."
Amelia had worn well. She was upright and stout and strong--the
youngest of the party, as Adam always declared. The men resembled
each other. Samuel was but a few years older than his brother and
Adam stood to him for divinity. He echoed his opinions and bestowed
upon him absolute trust. Nothing his younger brother could do was
wrong. Sammy's mental eccentricities were considered quite harmless
and they had seldom as yet made him a danger to the community. If he
ever displayed a spark of passion, it was at any adverse criticism of
Adam, and this weakness on his part--once actually manifested, when
he fell tooth and nail upon another labourer for laughing at his
brother over some trifle--was now respected. In person Samuel
appeared a larger edition of Adam, but of gaunt expression and
already grey. He was very strong and laboured like a horse. Work
kept his mind sweet.
"And what might you have seen to shock you, Aunt?" asked the master
of Shipley.
"A sorry sight," she answered. "You mind poor Miss Marydrew's famous
hat with the red squirrel's tail? It was a well-known feature--a
proper landmark round about; and to-day I've seen it on another
woman's head, and you might have knocked me down with a feather.
That any female could have the front to flaunt that well-known
trophy! And such a female! Sarah Saunders if you please. Properly
indecent I call it."
"Her sale fetched very good prices," said Adam. "Old William kept a
few of the best things for his house; but they say he's cleared
something better than sixty pounds by it."
"He oughtn't to have sold her clothes, and I've told him so,"
answered Amelia. "Clothes are sacred to the wearer in my opinion,
and I'd so soon have seen Mercy's ghost as her hat on that wicked
head. It won't bring no luck to anybody concerned."
Adam told how Barton Gill was under notice, and his aunt thought it a
hard thing. Samuel waited to hear his brother's opinion, and echoed
it.
"Gill's worn out and did ought to make room for a younger man," he
said.
He spoke very slowly in a very deep voice.
"Did Mrs. Kingwell's cow come to 'Turk'?" asked Adam.
"She came," answered his brother.
Then the men went out to their evening labours.
No great prosperity marked the farm, but Adam was not ambitious and
his future hopes only extended to his brother. He desired to see
Samuel safely through life and never at the mercy of unfriendly or
indifferent hands. His own needs were of the simplest. He had
abandoned any wish to wed, or raise up a family. He was content and
his life went uneventfully forward, brightened by various
friendships. He was well liked but not well known. To more
full-blooded and energetic men he seemed shadowy; yet none ever heard
him say a foolish thing. His neighbours knew him for a capable
farmer, but they wondered why he stopped on year after year at a
place which offered such small opportunity for enterprise as Shipley.
Others, however, explained this seclusion as accepted on Samuel's
account. Samuel was happier in loneliness.