THE ACCIDENT
Though Lawrence Maynard was a man of intelligence far deeper than
Thomas Palk, yet the latter began to arrive at a juster conclusion
concerning his new life and his new master than did his fellow worker.
Nor was it experience of life that led the horseman to his judgment.
Experience of life has little to do with duration of life; and as a
gutter-snipe of eight will often know more about it and be quicker to
read character than a rural boy of fifteen, so, with men, it is the
native power to grind what life brings to the mill that makes the
student. Maynard had both seen and felt far more than Palk, yet in
the matter of their present environment, Thomas it was who divined
the situation correctly. And this he did inspired by that most acute
of prompters: self-interest; while precisely in this particular
Lawrence Maynard was indifferent. His interests, for one with the
greater part of his life still to live, were unusually limited. His
own life, by the accident of circumstances, concerned him but little.
Chance had altered the original plan and scope so largely that he was
now become impassive and so emptied of his old former apprehension
and appetite for living, that he did not at present trouble himself
to use the good brains in his head. The very work he had chosen to
do was not such work as he might have done. It was less than the
work he once did; but it contented him now. Yet his activities of
mind, while largely sharing an apathy from which it seemed unlikely
the future would ever awaken him, were not wholly sunk to the level
of his occupation. Sometimes he occupied himself with abstract
speculations involving fate and conduct, but not implicating humanity
and character.
So he took people at their own valuation, from indifference rather
than goodwill, and in the case of his new master, found this attitude
create a measure of satisfaction. He liked Mr. Stockman, appreciated
his benevolence and took him as he found him, without any attempt to
examine beneath the smiling and genial surface that Joe invariably
presented. He had proved exceedingly kind and even considerate. He
had, in fact, though he knew it not, wakened certain sentiments in
the younger man's heart and, as a result of this, while their
acquaintance was still of the shortest, moved by a very rare emotion,
Maynard challenged his master's friendship by the channel of
confidence. Nor did it appear that he had erred. The farmer proved
exceedingly understanding. Indeed, he exhibited larger sympathies
than he was in reality capable of feeling, for Mr. Stockman, among
his other accomplishments, had a royal genius for suggesting that the
individual who at any time approached him could count upon his entire
and single-hearted attention--nay, his devotion. He appeared to
concentrate on his neighbour's welfare as though that were the vital
interest of his own life; and it was only the harder-headed and
long-memoried men and women who were not deluded, but had presence of
mind to wait for results and compare Joe's accomplishment with his
assurance.
Thus, after a month at Falcon Farm, Lawrence Maynard honestly felt
something like enthusiasm for the master, while Thomas Palk failed of
such high emotion. Not that Thomas had anything to quarrel about
actively; but weighing Joe's words against his deeds, he had slowly,
almost solemnly, come to the conclusion that there was a disparity.
He voiced his opinion on a day when he and Lawrence were working
together on the great fern slopes under the Beacon. There, some
weeks before, the bracken had been mown down with scythes, and now
the harvest was dry and ready to be stacked for winter litter. They
made bales of the fern and loaded up a haycart.
"The man tighteneth," said Palk. "I don't say it in no unkind spirit
and I've nought to grumble at; but it ain't working out exactly same
as he said it was going to. I wouldn't say he was trying to come it
over me, or anything like that; but he's a masterpiece for getting
every ounce out of you. If he worked a bit himself, he wouldn't have
so much time to see what we was doing."
"Can't say he asks anything out of reason."
"No, no--more I do; but I warn you. He edges in the work that
crafty--here a job and there a job--and such a scorn of regular
hours. 'Tis all very well to say when our work's done we can stop,
no matter what the hour is; but when is our work done? Never, till
'tis too dark to see it any longer."
Maynard laughed.
"We must suit ourselves. It's a free country. I find him a very
understanding man, and friendly."
"So do I, so do I; but I mark the plan he goes on. 'Tis the same
with the hosses. I won't say it's not a very good plan for a farmer.
Feeds well and pays well and treats well; but, behind all that, will
have a little more than his money's worth out of man and beast."
"Can't say I've found him grasping."
"Then I hope to God I'm wrong and 'tis my fancy. Time will show.
I'm satisfied if you are; and if his daughter don't feel no call to
be uneasy, why for should us?"
"For my part I like work," declared Lawrence. "I may not have been
so keen once; but there's very little to my life but work. I've got
used to looking at work as about the only thing in the world."
"The first thing, not the only thing," answered Thomas. "There's
religion and, in the case of many people, there's their families and
the rising generation. We'm bachelors and ban't troubled in that
way; but I believe in regular hours myself, so far as you can have
'em in farming. I like to get away from work and just do
nothing--with mind and body--for a good hour sometimes. 'Tis a
restful state."
Palk started with a full cart presently, while Maynard began to
collect fresh masses of the dry fern and bind it. He found himself
well content at Falcon Farm. He was settling down and liked the
place and the people. He did not observe, or attempt to observe,
anything beneath the surface of his new neighbours; but they proved
agreeable, easy, friendly; they satisfied him well. He liked John
Bamsey; he liked Melinda Honeysett, and had visited her father and
found a spirit who promised to throw light on some of his own
problems.
Now he was to meet yet another from his new circle. He worked two
hundred yards above the road that ran slantwise across the hillside
to Buckland; and from below him now, whence the sound of a trotting
horse's footfall ascended, he heard a sudden, harsh noise which spoke
of an accident. Silence followed. The horse had ceased to trot and
had evidently come down. Maynard dropped his hay fork, tightened his
leather belt and descended swiftly to the hedge. Looking over into
the deep lane below he saw a pony on the ground, the shaft of a light
market-cart broken, and a girl with her hat crushed, her hair fallen
and a bloody face, loosening the harness.
She was a brown, young woman with a pair of dark grey eyes and a
countenance that preserved a cheerful expression despite her
troubles. She wore a tweed skirt and a white flannel bodice upon
which the blood from her face had already dropped. She was kneeling
and in some danger of the struggling pony's hoofs.
"Stand clear!" shouted Lawrence. Then he jumped the sheer eight feet
of the wall, falling for his own comfort on the mass of beech leaves
that filled the water-table below. The girl rose. She was filled
with concern for the pony.
"Poor chap; he's been down before. How's his knees? All my fault.
I got thinking and forgot the road was slippery."
"You're badly cut I'm thinking."
"It's nothing much. I fell on top of him when he came down. 'Twas a
buckle done it I expect."
The man freed the pony and pulled back the trap. The animal had not
hurt itself, but was frightened and in a mood to run away. The cart
had a shaft broken short off, but was not otherwise injured.
Its driver directed Lawrence.
"Thank you I'm sure. That comes of wool-gathering when you ought to
be minding your business. Serve me right. I'll take the pony--he
knows me. D'you think you could pull the trap so far as Buckland, or
shall I send for it? I can put it up there in a shed and send to
Lower Town for a new shaft."
"I'll fetch it along. Is your face done bleeding?"
"Very near. You'll be Mr. Lawrence Maynard I suppose?"
"So I am then. How d'you know it?"
"Guessed it. I'm Dinah Waycott. I expect my young man has told you
about me. 'Orphan Dinah' they call me. I'm tokened to John Bamsey,
the water-keeper, my foster-father's son."
He nodded.
"I've heard tell about you. John Bamsey often drops in at Falcon
Farm."
He pulled the trap along and she walked beside him leading the pony.
She spoke kind words to the creature, apologised to it and told it to
cheer up.
Maynard had leisure to observe her and quickly perceived the nature
of her mind and that outspeaking quality that had occasioned
argument. Ac their present meeting it took the form of a sort of
familiarity that impressed Lawrence as strange from a woman to a man
she had never met before.
"I was wishful to see you, because Johnny likes you. But he's not
much of a hand at sizing up people. Perhaps if he was, he wouldn't
be so silly fond of me."
This was no challenge, but merely the utterance of her honest
opinion. Nothing of the coquette appeared in Dinah. She had
received his succour with gratitude, but expressed no dismay at the
poor figure she cut on their meeting.
"He's a good chap," he said, "and terrible fond of you, miss."
Thus unconsciously he fell into her own direct way of speech. He did
not feel that he was talking to a stranger; and that not because he
had already heard so much about her, but because Dinah created an
atmosphere of directness between herself and all men and women. She
recognised no barriers until the other side raised them. There was a
frank goodwill about her that never hid itself. She was like a wild
thing that has not yet fallen in with man, or learned to distrust him.
"Are you a chap with a pretty good judgment of your fellow
creatures?" she asked. "You've got a thoughtful sort of face as if
you might be."
He smiled and looked at her.
"Your fellow creatures make you thoughtful," he answered.
"Don't they? Never you said a truer word! Your life all depends
upon the people in it seemingly."
"They make or mar it most times."
"Yes, they're the only difficult thing about it."
"If we could live it all to ourselves, it might be easy enough."
"So I think when I look at a squirrel. But I dare say, if he could
talk, he'd tell us the other squirrels was a nuisance, and cadged his
food and worried him."
"I dare say he would."
"I'm one of the lucky ones," she said.
"Ah!"
"Yes. If I could put my finger on a trouble, which I can't, I should
find it was of my own making."
"Like to-day?"
"This don't amount to a trouble--just an accident with nobody the
worse. Only a cranky mind would call this a trouble."
"You might have broke your neck, however."
"But I didn't, nor yet the pony's knees--my luck."
"You may have marked your cheek for life."
"And what does that matter? Suppose I'd knocked half my teeth down
my throat: that would have been something to worrit about."
"You're the hopeful sort. Perhaps that's your best luck--that you're
built to take a bright view, miss."
"Perhaps it is. Aren't you?"
"We may be built to one pattern and then life come along and unbuild
us."
"I wouldn't let life unbuild me."
He did not answer, and presently she asked him a question.
"What d'you think of Johnny Bamsey, Mr. Maynard?"
"Hardly know him well enough to say."
"You know him as well as he knows you--better, because Johnny will be
talking more than thinking, same as me. But you're not like that
seemingly. In fact, though he's took to you and sees you've got a
brain, he says you're rather glum for a young man."
"I expect I am to the eyes of my own generation."
"Why? People ain't glum for nought."
"Oh yes, they are--often for less than nought. It ain't life, it's
nature makes many downcast. You see chaps, chin-deep in trouble,
always ready to forget it and laugh with the loudest."
"So you do then."
"And others--prosperous men, with nothing to grizzle about--always
care-foundered and fretty."
"You'd say you was glum by nature then?"
"I wouldn't say I was glum--you've only got John Bamsey's word for
it. Miss Stockman wouldn't tell you I was glum."
"She likes you very much. She told me so when she was over to my
home last week. Soosie-Toosie's a woman quick to welcome a bit of
luck, because she don't get much, and she likes you, and Mr. Palk
also."
"I'm glad she does."
"And what d'you think of Johnny?"
"A very good chap I'm sure. Rather excitable, perhaps."
"He is, you might say a thought unreasonable sometimes."
"Never where you are concerned I'm sure."
"He's got the loveliest hair ever I saw on a man."
"Fine curly hair, sure enough."
"I believe temper always goes with that fashioned hair. I've noticed
it."
"I'm sure his temper is good most times."
"He's sulky if he's crossed."
"He's young. Perhaps he hasn't been crossed often."
"Never--never once in his life--until now. But he's a thought vexed
because I won't name the day."
"Who shall blame him?"
"Nobody. I'm sure I don't."
"I expect you will name it pretty soon, miss?"
"I expect so. How d'you like Cousin Joe?"
"Mr. Stockman? Very much indeed. I feel a lot obliged to him--a
kindly, understanding man. He looks at life in a very wise way, and
he's got a thought to spare for other people."
"I'm glad you like him. He's cruel lazy; but what does that matter?
It takes all sorts to make a world."
"Everybody tells me he's lazy. I shouldn't call him particular lazy
for his time of life. He's done a deal of work in the past."
"Glad you're so well suited. Where d'you come from, if I may ask?"
"Somerset."
They had reached Buckland, and Dinah hitched her pony to the hedge,
opened a gate and directed Lawrence to wheel the trap into a byre
close at hand.
"I'll tell Mr. Budge what's happened and he'll let father's cart bide
there for the minute. Then I'll take the pony and my parcels home."
"You're all right?"
"Never righter. And thank you, I'm sure--a proper good Samaritan. I
won't forget it; and if ever I can do you a good turn, I will."
"I'm sure you will. Very pleased to meet you, miss. And you see
doctor for that cut. 'Tis a pretty deep gash and did ought to be
tended."
"Foster-father'll put me right. And if you're in a mind to come over
one day to Sunday dinner, I hope you will. He'll be wishful to thank
you."
"No need at all. But I'll come some time, since you're so kind as to
offer."
"Mind you do then. I want for you to."
They parted and Lawrence returned to his work in the fern. He came
back as swiftly as he might, but the better part of an hour was past,
during which he had been absent. He found Thomas Palk and his
master. Joe had taken his coat off and placed it on a stone. He was
handling Lawrence's fork and assisting Thomas to fill the haycart.
As Maynard entered a gate beneath and ascended to the fern patch, Mr.
Stockman laboriously lifted a mass of litter up to Thomas on the
cart. Then he heaved a heavy sigh, dropped the fork and rubbed his
side.
He spoke to Lawrence as he arrived.
"Here's the man! Well, Lawrence, you've been taking the air I see;
but I can't help feeling, somehow, that it's a thought ill-convenient
in the midst of a busy working morning, with the dry litter crying to
be stored, that you should make holiday. I've filled the breach, of
course, as my custom is. I've been doing your work as well as I was
able--an old man, gone in the loins through over-work; but what d'you
think? What d'you think about it, my son?"
"There was a good reason, master."
"Thank God! I'm glad of that. I told Palk I hoped there was; for,
if I'd thought just for a thirst, or some wilful fancy to see a maid,
or suchlike nonsense, you'd forgot your duty, I should have felt a
lot cast down in my mind and wondered how I'd come to misread you.
And what was the reason? Work while you tell me."
The young man explained, and Stockman was instantly mollified.
"Enough said as to you. You could do no less. A female in trouble
is a very good excuse for leaving your duty. In fact you may say a
female in trouble is everybody's duty."
The silent man in the cart made a note of this admirable sentiment,
while Joe continued.
"To think that Orphan Dinah should let the pony down--such a very
wide-awake young thing as her! Dreaming about Johnny no doubt. And
hurt you say?"
"Miss had got a bad cut across her face; but she made nothing of it,
for joy the pony wasn't scratched."
"A nice maid. Too large-minded for safety some might think; but she
ain't. Hope she's not marked. Not that her face is her fortune by
any means; her fortune's in her heart, for by the grace of God her
heart is gold. But she's got a nice sort of face all the same. I
like a bit hidden in a woman myself--for the pleasure of bringing it
to light. But she's so frank as a young boy, and I dare say, to some
minds, that would be more agreeable than tackling the secret sort."
"She says what she means, master."
"She does, and what's a lot rarer even than that, she knows what she
means--so far as a human can. Many never do. Many in my experience
find the mere fact of being alive such a puzzle to them that they
ain't clear about anything--can't see clear and can't speak clear.
They go through their days like a man who've had just one drop too
much."
"Life be a drop too much for some people," said Lawrence.
"It is. Keep working, keep working. An hour lost is an hour lost,
even though you'd knocked off to help the Queen of England. Oh, my
poor side! There's a muscle carried away I'm fearing. Shouldn't
wonder if I was in bed to-morrow. What a far-reaching thing a
catastrophe may be! Orphan Dinah gets mooning and lets down her
pony. Then you, as needs you must, go to the rescue, and drop your
work and make a gap in the orderly scheme of things in general. Then
I come along, to see how we'm prospering, and forgetting my age and
infirmity, rush in to fill the gap. Then once more my rash spirit
gets a reminder from the failing flesh, and I'm called to suffer in
body as well as pocket. That's the way how things be always
happening. Nobody to blame, you understand, but somebody to pay.
Somebody's got to pay for every damn thing. Nature's worse than they
blasted moneylenders."
"I'll put my part right."
"Yes, exactly so, Lawrence; and somebody always do offer to put their
part right. Good men are always offering. But 'tis in the cranky
nature of things that oftener than not the wronger ban't the righter.
You can't call home sixty minutes of time, any more than you can
order the sun to stay in his tracks. And you can't right my twisted
thigh. So the harm's done for all eternity."
"The fern will be in to-night before milking."
"That's a brave speech, such as I should have spoken at your age,"
said Joe. "Now I must limp back afore I'm stiff, and see what my
daughter can do for me. I dare say a valiant bout of elbow grease on
her part may stave off the worst. If you use 'Nicholson's
embrocation'---the strength they make it for hosses--it will often
save the situation. Many a day when I've been bone-tired after
working from dawn till moon-up, I've refreshed the joints with
'Nicholson's'--hoss strength."
He left them, going slowly and relying much upon his stick. Then,
when he was out of ear-shot, Thomas spoke.
"What d'you think of that?" he asked.
"Did he do much work?"
"Pitched three forks of fern, or it might be four--not a darned one
more."
"He's a clever old man, however."
"I never said he weren't," answered Palk. "He's the cleverest old
man ever I saw. I'm only telling you us may find out he's too
clever."
"We'll get the fern in anyway."
Mr. Stockman had sat down two hundred yards from them by the grassy
track to the farm.
"He's waiting for me to give him a lift home," said Thomas.