On the 13th of June Sir Gerald Malloring, returning home to dinner from
the House of Commons, found on his hall table, enclosed in a letter from
his agent, the following paper:
“We, the undersigned laborers on Sir Gerald Malloring's estate, beg
respectfully to inform him that we consider it unjust that any laborer
should be evicted from his cottage for any reason connected with private
life, or social or political convictions. And we respectfully demand
that, before a laborer receives notice to quit for any such reason, the
case shall be submitted to all his fellow laborers on the estate; and
that in the future he shall only receive such notice if a majority of
his fellow laborers record their votes in favor of the notice being
given. In the event of this demand being refused, we regretfully
decline to take any hand in getting in the hay on Sir Gerald Malloring's
estate.”
Then followed ninety-three signatures, or signs of the cross with names
printed after them.
The agent's letter which enclosed this document mentioned that the hay
was already ripe for cutting; that everything had been done to induce
the men to withdraw the demand, without success, and that the farmers
were very much upset. The thing had been sprung on them, the agent
having no notion that anything of the sort was on foot. It had been very
secretly, very cleverly, managed; and, in the agent's opinion, was due
to Mr. Freeland's family. He awaited Sir Gerald's instructions. Working
double tides, with luck and good weather, the farmers and their families
might perhaps save half of the hay.
Malloring read this letter twice, and the enclosure three times, and
crammed them deep down into his pocket.
It was pre-eminently one of those moments which bring out the qualities
of Norman blood. And the first thing he did was to look at the
barometer. It was going slowly down. After a month of first-class
weather it would not do that without some sinister intention. An old
glass, he believed in it implicitly. He tapped, and it sank further. He
stood there frowning. Should he consult his wife? General friendliness
said: Yes! A Norman instinct of chivalry, and perhaps the deeper Norman
instinct, that, when it came to the point, women were too violent,
said, No! He went up-stairs three at a time, and came down two. And all
through dinner he sat thinking it over, and talking as if nothing had
happened; so that he hardly spoke. Three-quarters of the hay at stake,
if it rained soon! A big loss to the farmers, a further reduction in
rents already far too low. Should he grin and bear it, and by doing
nothing show these fellows that he could afford to despise their
cowardly device? For it WAS cowardly to let his grass get ripe and play
it this low trick! But if he left things unfought this time, they would
try it on again with the corn—not that there was much of that on the
estate of a man who only believed in corn as a policy.
Should he make the farmers sack the lot and get in other labor? But
where? Agricultural laborers were made, not born. And it took a deuce
of a lot of making, at that! Should he suspend wages till they withdrew
their demand? That might do—but he would still lose the hay. The hay!
After all, anybody, pretty well, could make hay; it was the least
skilled of all farm work, so long as the farmers were there to drive
the machines and direct. Why not act vigorously? And his jaws set so
suddenly on a piece of salmon that he bit his tongue. The action served
to harden a growing purpose. So do small events influence great! Suspend
those fellows' wages, get down strike-breakers, save the hay! And if
there were a row—well, let there be a row! The constabulary would have
to act. It was characteristic of his really Norman spirit that the
notion of agreeing to the demand, or even considering whether it were
just, never once came into his mind. He was one of those, comprising
nowadays nearly all his class, together with their press, who
habitually referred to his country as a democratic power, a champion of
democracy—but did not at present suspect the meaning of the word; nor,
to say truth, was it likely they ever would. Nothing, however, made him
more miserable than indecision. And so, now that he was on the point
of deciding, and the decision promised vigorous consequences, he felt
almost elated. Closing his jaws once more too firmly, this time on lamb,
he bit his tongue again. It was impossible to confess what he had done,
for two of his children were there, expected to eat with that well-bred
detachment which precludes such happenings; and he rose from dinner with
his mind made up. Instead of going back to the House of Commons, he went
straight to a strike-breaking agency. No grass should grow under the
feet of his decision! Thence he sought the one post-office still open,
despatched a long telegram to his agent, another to the chief constable
of Worcestershire; and, feeling he had done all he could for the moment,
returned to the 'House,' where they were debating the rural housing
question. He sat there, paying only moderate attention to a subject on
which he was acknowledged an authority. To-morrow, in all probability,
the papers would have got hold of the affair! How he loathed people
poking their noses into his concerns! And suddenly he was assailed, very
deep down, by a feeling with which in his firmness he had not reckoned—a
sort of remorse that he was going to let a lot of loafing blackguards
down onto his land, to toss about his grass, and swill their beastly
beer above it. And all the real love he had for his fields and coverts,
all the fastidiousness of an English gentleman, and, to do him justice,
the qualms of a conscience telling him that he owed better things than
this to those born on his estate, assaulted him in force. He sat back
in his seat, driving his long legs hard against the pew in front. His
thick, wavy, still brown hair was beautifully parted above the square
brow that frowned over deep-set eyes and a perfectly straight nose. Now
and again he bit into a side of his straw-colored moustache, or raised a
hand and twisted the other side. Without doubt one of the handsomest and
perhaps the most Norman-looking man in the whole 'House.' There was a
feeling among those round him that he was thinking deeply. And so he
was. But he had decided, and he was not a man who went back on his
decisions.
Morning brought even worse sensations. Those ruffians that he had
ordered down—the farmers would never consent to put them up! They would
have to camp. Camp on his land! It was then that for two seconds the
thought flashed through him: Ought I to have considered whether I could
agree to that demand? Gone in another flash. If there was one thing
a man could not tolerate, it was dictation! Out of the question! But
perhaps he had been a little hasty about strike-breakers. Was there
not still time to save the situation from that, if he caught the first
train? The personal touch was everything. If he put it to the men on the
spot, with these strike-breakers up his sleeve, surely they must listen!
After all, they were his own people. And suddenly he was overcome with
amazement that they should have taken such a step. What had got into
them? Spiritless enough, as a rule, in all conscience; the sort of
fellows who hadn't steam even to join the miniature rifle-range that he
had given them! And visions of them, as he was accustomed to pass them
in the lanes, slouching along with their straw bags, their hoes, and
their shamefaced greetings, passed before him. Yes! It was all that
fellow Freeland's family! The men had been put up to it—put up to it!
The very wording of their demand showed that! Very bitterly he
thought of the unneighborly conduct of that woman and her cubs. It was
impossible to keep it from his wife! And so he told her. Rather to his
surprise, she had no scruples about the strike-breakers. Of course,
the hay must be saved! And the laborers be taught a lesson! All the
unpleasantness he and she had gone through over Tryst and that Gaunt
girl must not go for nothing! It must never be said or thought that the
Freeland woman and her children had scored over them! If the lesson were
once driven home, they would have no further trouble.
He admired her firmness, though with a certain impatience. Women
never quite looked ahead; never quite realized all the consequences of
anything. And he thought: 'By George! I'd no idea she was so hard! But,
then, she always felt more strongly about Tryst and that Gaunt girl than
I did.'
In the hall the glass was still going down. He caught the 9.15, wiring
to his agent to meet him at the station, and to the impresario of the
strike-breakers to hold up their departure until he telegraphed. The
three-mile drive up from the station, fully half of which was through
his own land, put him in possession of all the agent had to tell: Nasty
spirit abroad—men dumb as fishes—the farmers, puzzled and angry, had
begun cutting as best they could. Not a man had budged. He had seen
young Mr. and Miss Freeland going about. The thing had been worked very
cleverly. He had suspected nothing—utterly unlike the laborers as he
knew them. They had no real grievance, either! Yes, they were going on
with all their other work—milking, horses, and that; it was only the hay
they wouldn't touch. Their demand was certainly a very funny one—very
funny—had never heard of anything like it. Amounted almost to security
of tenure. The Tryst affair no doubt had done it! Malloring cut him
short:
“Till they've withdrawn this demand, Simmons, I can't discuss that or
anything.”
The agent coughed behind his hand.
Naturally! Only perhaps there might be a way of wording it that would
satisfy them. Never do to really let them have such decisions in their
hands, of course!
They were just passing Tod's. The cottage wore its usual air of
embowered peace. And for the life of him Malloring could not restrain a
gesture of annoyance.
On reaching home he sent gardeners and grooms in all directions with
word that he would be glad to meet the men at four o'clock at the home
farm. Much thought, and interviews with several of the farmers, who
all but one—a shaky fellow at best—were for giving the laborers a sharp
lesson, occupied the interval. Though he had refused to admit the notion
that the men could be chicaned, as his agent had implied, he certainly
did wonder a little whether a certain measure of security might not in
some way be guaranteed, which would still leave him and the farmers a
free hand. But the more he meditated on the whole episode, the more he
perceived how intimately it interfered with the fundamental policy of
all good landowners—of knowing what was good for their people better
than those people knew themselves.
As four o'clock approached, he walked down to the home farm. The sky was
lightly overcast, and a rather chill, draughty, rustling wind had risen.
Resolved to handle the men with the personal touch, he had discouraged
his agent and the farmers from coming to the conference, and passed the
gate with the braced-up feeling of one who goes to an encounter. In
that very spick-and-span farmyard ducks were swimming leisurely on the
greenish pond, white pigeons strutting and preening on the eaves of the
barn, and his keen eye noted that some tiles were out of order up there.
Four o'clock! Ah, here was a fellow coming! And instinctively he crisped
his hands that were buried in his pockets, and ran over to himself
his opening words. Then, with a sensation of disgust, he saw that the
advancing laborer was that incorrigible 'land lawyer' Gaunt. The
short, square man with the ruffled head and the little bright-gray eyes
saluted, uttered an “Afternoon, Sir Gerald!” in his teasing voice, and
stood still. His face wore the jeering twinkle that had disconcerted
so many political meetings. Two lean fellows, rather alike, with lined
faces and bitten, drooped moustaches, were the next to come through the
yard gate. They halted behind Gaunt, touching their forelocks, shuffling
a little, and looking sidelong at each other. And Malloring waited. Five
past four! Ten past! Then he said:
“D'you mind telling the others that I'm here?”
Gaunt answered:
“If so be as you was waitin' for the meetin', I fancy as 'ow you've got
it, Sir Gerald!”
A wave of anger surged up in Malloring, dyeing his face brick-red. So!
He had come all that way with the best intentions—to be treated like
this; to meet this 'land lawyer,' who, he could see, was only here to
sharpen his tongue, and those two scarecrow-looking chaps, who had come
to testify, no doubt, to his discomfiture. And he said sharply:
“So that's the best you can do to meet me, is it?”
Gaunt answered imperturbably:
“I think it is, Sir Gerald.”
“Then you've mistaken your man.”
“I don't think so, Sir Gerald.”
Without another look Malloring passed the three by, and walked back to
the house. In the hall was the agent, whose face clearly showed that he
had foreseen this defeat. Malloring did not wait for him to speak.
“Make arrangements. The strike-breakers will be down by noon to-morrow.
I shall go through with it now, Simmons, if I have to clear the whole
lot out. You'd better go in and see that they're ready to send police if
there's any nonsense. I'll be down again in a day or two.” And, without
waiting for reply, he passed into his study. There, while the car was
being got ready, he stood in the window, very sore; thinking of what he
had meant to do; thinking of his good intentions; thinking of what was
coming to the country, when a man could not even get his laborers to
come and hear what he had to say. And a sense of injustice, of anger, of
bewilderment, harrowed his very soul.