The Buccaneer Farmer - Harold Bindloss
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"Thank you," said Grace. "I have relations who would not agree! But why
do you dislike people who take their own line?"
"It would be awkward if one's tenants did so; but perhaps my feeling
springs from envy. The rest of us can't do what we want. You can't,
for example!"
Grace gave him a keen glance, and then laughed. "On the whole, that is
true. We have a number of rules at Tarnside, but one now and then gets
some satisfaction from breaking them."
"Rebellion doesn't pay," Thorn rejoined with a touch of dry humor. "You
are young and adventurous, but you'll find it prudent, so to speak, to
accept your environment and submit. Some people call submission duty,
but that's really cant; they mean it saves them trouble. Anyhow, you
cannot make your own code; when you're born at a place like Tarnside,
it's made for you."
"Ah!" said Grace, "I wonder--Well, you know I am sometimes rash."
Then she was careful to talk about something else, for she thought Alan
had not philosophized without an object and it was not difficult to see
where his hints led. When they reached the lodge, she firmly sent him
away, although he looked as if he wanted to come to the house.
CHAPTER II
A DANGEROUS TALENT
Dinner was nearly over at Tarnside. The meal was served with some
ceremony, although the bill of fare was frugal except when game could be
shot and, as a rule, nobody but Osborn talked much. Now he had satisfied
his appetite he looked about the spacious room. The handsome, molded
ceiling was dark from neglect and the cornice was stained by damp. The
light of the setting sun streamed in through the long casement window
which commanded the shining tarn and the woods that melted into shadow at
the mouth of the dale. It was a noble view, but it did not hold Osborn's
eyes, for the quivering sunbeams searched out the faded spots on the
curtains and the worn patches on the rugs on the polished floor.
"We need a number of new things and I don't know how they're to be
got," he remarked, and when Mrs. Osborn said nothing knitted his brows.
He had put away some money for renovations, but it had gone. One could
not keep money at Tarnside; it vanished and left nothing to show how it
had been spent.
"I understand young Askew is back at Ashness," he resumed, looking
hard at Grace.
"Yes," said Grace. "I met him not long since."
Osborn frowned. He knew she had met Kit, but did not know if he liked her
candor. The girl was independent, but he thought she now understood the
responsibilities of her rank.
"The fellow is obviously prosperous, since he's spending a large sum on
draining. I saw a big stack of pipes and a number of men at work. My
opinion is it's a ridiculous waste of money."
"Perhaps there are worse extravagances," Grace rejoined. "I expect he has
some hope of getting his money back by growing better crops. Ours goes
and never returns."
Mrs. Osborn gave her a warning glance. Osborn hated contradiction and
Grace and he often jarred, but the girl smiled.
"Father and I are not going to quarrel about Mr. Askew's farming; it is
not worth while," she said and studied Osborn with half-penitent
sympathy.
The strong light touched his face, forcing up the deep lines and
wrinkles, and she thought he was getting older fast. His eyes were dull
and his shoulders were slightly bent. She knew about some of his troubles
and suspected others, but the stamp of indulgence that had got plainer in
the last year or two disturbed her.
"The Askews seem fated to give me trouble," he went on. "Now the fellow
has begun to drain, his neighbors will expect me to do so. In fact, Black
and Pattinson bothered Hayes about some plans for buying pipes when they
paid their rent. Besides, the contrast hurts; I don't see why a fellow
like Askew should be able to waste money on rash experiments when we have
not enough. However, this leads to another matter; Gerald comes back
tomorrow, and will no doubt, grumble about his poverty. If he does, you
must give him nothing. He has his pay and I make him an allowance. I
won't have his extravagance encouraged."
Grace smiled as Mrs. Osborn got up with a disturbed look. "Mother cannot
have much to give and I have nothing at all. I'm afraid Gerald's talent
for begging will be used in vain."
She went out with Mrs. Osborn and when they had gone Osborn, crossing
the floor to the sideboard, filled his glass to the top. This was his
regular habit and its futility escaped him, although he knew his wife and
daughter knew. He felt he did enough if he exercised some self-denial
when they were about.
In the meantime, Mrs. Osborn sat down on the terrace and looked across
the untidy lawn.
"We need a new pony mower; Jenkins cannot keep the grass in order with
the small machine. He was very obstinate about the bedding plants he
wanted to buy and the borders look thin, but I felt I must be firm," she
said and added drearily: "I wonder when we shall be forced to get a
sporting tenant and live in a smaller house."
"Father would not leave Tarnside. I suppose you don't know how things are
really going?"
"I know they are not going well and suspect they get worse; but he will
not tell me. One could help if one did know."
"I'm afraid I have disappointed father and given you anxieties you need
not have had," Grace replied with some bitterness. "After all, however,
the fault is hardly mine. I wanted to make my own career, but was not
allowed; to work at a useful occupation, would somehow have humiliated
our ridiculous pride, and there was, of course, only one hope left for
you." She paused, and colored as she resumed: "Well, although I am not
sorry, it looks as if that hope had gone."
"It would have been a relief if you had made a good marriage," Mrs.
Osborn admitted. "Still, since you met nobody you like--"
"The men I might perhaps have liked were poor. Father would, no doubt,
think it my natural perversity, or our bad luck; but I don't believe in
luck. It's an excuse for weak makeshifts and futilities; one can conquer
bad fortune if one is resolute."
"None of us, except you, has much resolution," Mrs. Osborn remarked and
sighed. "So far, your firmness has not helped much; I imagine you know
your father has not given up hope."
"Yes," said Grace, rather harshly. "I do know, and that is why I am often
impatient. He will not be persuaded the thing's impossible."
"After all, Alan has some advantages."
"He has many drawbacks," Grace rejoined, and then her face softened and
she gave her mother an appealing look. "I thought you were on my side!"
"I am on your side where you feel strongly. Perhaps I am reserved and you
do not often give me your confidence."
"I'm sorry. We are seldom quite honest at Tarnside; somehow one can't be
oneself, but now we must be frank. I don't like Alan Thorn; I never liked
him. It's impossible."
"Then, my dear, there is no more to be said."
Grace made a sign of disagreement. "There may be much; that is why I am
disturbed. You and I don't count, mother; we are expected to submit. It
isn't that I don't like Alan; I shrink from him. He is cunning and knows
how to wait. Sometimes his patience frightens me."
"But why should his patience frighten you?"
"Oh!" said Grace, "can't you understand? You know father's habits and
that Gerald is following him. You know our debts are mounting up and this
can't go on. Some day we may be ruined and then I think Alan will seize
his chance. Perhaps I'm imaginative--but such things happen."
Mrs. Osborn put her hand on the girl's arm and her touch was unusually
firm. "You may be alarmed for nothing, my dear. But if the time should
come when my help is really needed, it will be yours."
Grace kissed her. "I can trust you. I was weak--I'm sometimes a
coward--but now I'm comforted."
They were silent for a few minutes and then Mrs. Osborn looked up.
"Is it prudent for you to meet Christopher Askew again?"
Grace colored, but met her mother's glance and answered with a thoughtful
calm; "I see no danger. I liked Kit before he went away, but our
friendship was really not romantic. When father met us in Redmire Wood, a
horribly silly impulse made me hide. I blush when I think about it and
imagine I forgot I had grown up--Gerald and I used to hide when father
was angry. Anyhow, I made Kit Askew hide and he was first to remember and
step into the road."
"But this happened long since and he is older."
"Yes," said Grace, "he's different, although one feels that he has
kept a promise made in his half-developed stage. He has been out in
the world and done strenuous things, while I stayed at home and played
at make-believe. He talks like a man who knows his value and there's a
touch of distinction in his look; a stupid word, but it comes near
what I mean."
Mrs. Osborn glanced at her sharply, but Grace smiled.
"Don't be disturbed, mother; I am trying to tell you all I think.
We were friends, but I imagine Kit knows his drawbacks from our
point of view. Besides, after father quarreled with Peter Askew I
never sent Kit a message, and he must have thought I acquiesced. In
a way, I did acquiesce; it was the best thing to be done. You see
what this implied? If I had loved him, it meant I had no pluck and
was ashamed to acknowledge a farmer's son. But he knew I did not
love him and understood that our friendship would not bear the
strain of father's disapproval. Either way, it hinted that I was
weak and not worth pursuing. Well, he met me without embarrassment
and we talked about nothing important. I may meet him now and then,
but that, I think, is all."
"Very well," said Mrs. Osborn, who looked relieved. "Perhaps it would be
prudent not to meet him often."
Grace smiled and was silent for a time. She had tried to be frank and
thought she had stated things correctly--so far as she knew. Then she
remembered Kit's look when she stopped and spoke, and began to wonder.
Perhaps she had not told all and the little she had left out was
important. By and by she got up and went into the house.
Gerald Osborn came home next day and not long afterwards Kit found him
lying on the gravel beside a tarn on the Ashness moor. Heavy rain had
fallen, but the clouds had rolled away and the water shone with dazzling
light. The sky was clear except for a bank of mist floating about the
round top of a fell, and a swollen beck sparkled among the heather. The
wind had dropped and it was very hot.
When he heard Kit's steps Gerald looked up. He was a handsome young man,
with some charm of manner, although it was obvious now and then that he
had inherited a touch of his father's pride. His glance was keen and
intelligent, but his mouth and chin were weak. Gerald had talent, but was
very like Osborn, since he was sometimes rashly obstinate and sometimes
vacillating.
"Hallo!" he said. "I expect I ought to have asked your leave before I
came to fish. I hope you don't mind."
"I don't mind. Nobody asks my leave," Kit replied. "Have you had
much luck?"
Gerald opened his creel and showed him a number of small, dark-colored
trout. "Pretty good. They rose well until the light got strong. Then I
thought I'd take a rest. Will you smoke a cigarette?"
Kit sat down and looked across the shining water at the silver bent-grass
that gleamed among vivid green moss on the side of the hill.
"You must find this a pleasant change from town. Are you staying long?"
"A fortnight; that's all I get. I wish I could stop for good. It's rot to
spend one's life working in a bank."
"I suppose one must work at something," Kit remarked.
"I don't see why, unless you're forced. The only object for working is
when you must work to live, and it isn't mine, because I can't live on my
pay. In fact, the futility of the thing is plain."
Kit laughed. Gerald's humorous candor was part of his charm, but Kit
thought it deceptive.
"Why did you go to the bank, then?"
"Because my father thought I ought. I expect you know he believes in the
firm hand. I wanted to stop at Tarnside, which would have cost him less.
Besides, I could have looked after the estate. It will be mine sometime;
that is, as much as is left."
"But Hayes transacts the business."
"Just so," said Gerald, rather dryly. "What do you think about Hayes?"
"He's your father's agent and has nothing to do with me. I imagine he's a
capable manager."
"I sometimes think he's too capable." Gerald rejoined.
Kit let this go. Before he went away he had suspected that Hayes had
plans his employer would not approve, and he knew Gerald was shrewd. It
was, however, not his business and he remarked: "You wanted to go to
Woolwich, didn't you?"
"I did not," Gerald declared. "As a matter of fact, I said so, but my
objections didn't count. I might have made a good farmer or
land-steward, but a number of us had been soldiers and that was enough.
I don't know if it was a logical argument, but I had to go, and on the
whole it was a relief when they turned me out. Too many regulations for
my independent taste! Rules are good, perhaps, so long as they're made
for somebody else."
He was silent for a few minutes and Kit mused. He thought there was some
bitterness in Gerald's humor; it looked as if Osborn had not been wise
when he planned his son's career without consulting him. This, however,
was typical. Osborn was satisfied to give orders and expected others to
accept his point of view.
"Well," said Gerald, getting up, "I must be off. Rather a bore to walk to
Tarnside, and the trout will probably rise again if there's wind enough
to make a ripple, but I forgot to ask for sandwiches."
"If you lunch with me, you could come back afterwards," Kit suggested,
and they set off down the hill.
When they reached Ashness, Gerald tried to hide his surprise. Kit had
made some changes in the old house and so far kept to the Spanish rule of
meals. Lunch was a late breakfast, well served in china and silver that
were seldom used in Peter Askew's time. The low room had been cleverly
painted and a casement commanding a view of the dale replaced the
original narrow windows. Specimens of ancient Indian pottery stood on the
sideboard, and there were curtains of embroidered silk, feather-flowers,
and silverwork that Kit had brought from Spanish America. The things gave
the lonely farmstead an exotic touch, but they implied the command of
money and cultivated taste.
"You have a beautiful room," Gerald remarked, when the meal was over.
"Don't know that I'm much of a connoisseur, but some of the things look
rather fine."
"I'll show them to you presently," Kit replied and gave Gerald a small,
dark cigar. "I wonder how you'll like the flavor."
"Our club cigars are dear and good, but the best is nothing like this,"
Gerald declared after a minute or two. "Where did they come from?"
"They were given me in Cuba; I believe the make is not offered for public
sale. In a general way, Cuban tobacco is not what it was, but there are
belts of soil that grow a leaf that can't be equaled anywhere else."
"I suppose they keep the crop for presidents and dictators. The quality
indicates it," Gerald suggested, and Kit smiled.
Gerald tasted his black coffee. "If it's not bad form, where did you get
this? There's nothing of the kind in Cumberland, and it's better than the
Turkish they give you in London."
"It came from a Costa Rican _hacienda,_ and was a gift. I'll get no more
when the bag is done. If you come back in a month, you'll find me living
in plain north-country style."
"I imagine you made up for that while you were away," said Gerald, who
rose and went to the side-board. "A curious little jar and obviously old!
Is this the kind of thing the Aztecs made?"
"I rather think it is Aztec, though I didn't buy it in Mexico. I gave
about a pound for the jar and found a gold onza inside."
"An _onza?_ Oh, yes, an ounce! The kind of coin some countries mint but
very seldom use. Something of a bargain!"
"I suppose it was," Kit replied incautiously. "For all that, the onza
wasn't mine, and in a sense my efforts to find the owner cost me a very
large sum."
Gerald gave him a keen glance. Askew was not boasting; he had enjoyed
the command of money.
"Well," he said, "I think I'd have kept the onza, whether it was mine or
not." He paused and pulled a knife from its sheath. The handle was
ornamented and the narrow blade glittered in the light, although its
point was dull. "But what is this? Has it a story?"
"Take care!" said Kit "It may be poisoned; the _Meztisos_ use a stuff
that will kill you if a very small quantity gets into your blood. The
fellow who owned that knife came near burying it in my back."
"It looks as if you had had some adventures," Gerald remarked, and
leaning against the sideboard he lighted a cigarette.
Kit crossed the floor and stood by the open window. The shadow of a cloud
rested motionless, a patch of cool neutral color, on the gleaming yellow
side of the hill. A wild-cherry tree hung over a neighboring wall, and
bees hummed drowsily among the flowers. He was strangely satisfied to be
at home, and it was hard to realize that not long since he had been
engaged in a dangerous trade among the fever-haunted swamps.
"Have you any more curiosities?" Gerald asked.
Kit opened a drawer in his big desk, where he kept specimens of
featherwork. As he took them out he moved some documents and Gerald
indicated one.
"_Cristoval Askew_? Your name in Castilian, I suppose. You write a
curious hand."
"A matter of precaution! Anyhow, I didn't sign this order, and that's why
I kept it. The thing was rather important and we were lucky to find out
the cheat in time, particularly as I imagined nobody could imitate my
hand. You'll see my proper signature on the next document."
"It's not a very good counterfeit," said Gerald, who compared the writing
with the other, "This is a subject I know something about. Penmanship is
one of my few talents and I keep the customers' signature book at the
bank. Yours is an uncommon hand, but it could be forged. Let's see! May I
use this paper?"
Kit nodded and Gerald, knitting his brows, wrote the name three or four
times and then looked up.
"I think I've got it. Hard to tell which is genuine, if you put them
side by side?"
"Yes," said Kit. "I'm not sure I could tell which is mine."
Gerald laughed. "One has to study these things; part of my job, you see,
and banks are cheated oftener than people think. However, I expect you
want to get to work and I'll go back to the tarn."
He went out and Kit tore up the paper. He thought a talent like Gerald's
might be dangerous if it were used by an unscrupulous man.
CHAPTER III
THE HORSE SHOW
It was a calm evening and Osborn sat on the terrace, studying a printed
notice. Mrs. Osborn poured out coffee at a small table, and Gerald and
Grace occupied the top of the broad steps to the lawn. The sun was low,
the air was cool, and except for the soft splash of a beck, a deep
quietness brooded over the dale.
"It will be a good show," Osborn remarked, reaching for a cup. "I
insisted on the rather early date, because if we had waited until the hay
was in, we might have got wet weather. Two or three objected, but I'm
satisfied I took the proper line. One must be firm with an argumentative
committee."
Gerald's eyes twinkled as he looked at Grace. Osborn generally was firm
with people who gave way, and Gerald had heard some grumbling about his
changing the date for the horse show.
"It's the last time I'll be president," Osborn resumed. "I had meant to
resign, but Thorn could not take the post, Sir George is away, and a
well-known local man is needed to give the thing a proper start."
"Rather an expensive honor!" Gerald observed. "The president's expected
to make up the shortage if the day is wet."
"That was one reason for my fixing the meeting early, when we often get
it fine," Osborn replied naively. "The expense is a drawback, but the
committee would not let me drop out."
"Mother and Grace will want new hats and clothes, and I expect the job
will cost you more than you think. You'll have to give them a lead by
bidding for the chapel sheep."
"If that meddlesome fellow Drysdale is going to send his sheep to
the show, the arrangement was made without my knowing," Osborn
replied angrily.
Mrs. Osborn looked disturbed, but Gerald laughed. He rather enjoyed
provoking his father when he thought it safe. Drysdale was treasurer for
a body of Nonconformists, who wanted to build a new chapel and, finding
the farmers reluctant to give money, had asked for contributions from
their flocks and herds.
"The idea was that the sale would be an extra attraction," Gerald went
on. "Still, I admit it's hard for you, because you hate chapels and will
have to bid. In fact, you'll, no doubt, have to buy the sheep at a
sentimental price and sell them at their value."
"I believe in liberty of conscience and do not hate chapels," Osborn
rejoined. "For all that, I own to a natural prejudice against people who
attend such places, largely because they mix up their religious and
political creeds. It would be strange if I sympathized with their plans
for robbing the landlords."
"Anyhow, Drysdale means to bring his flock, and I'm afraid you'll have to
pay. The situation has some humor."
Osborn knitted his brows. Hayes had been talking to him about the estate
accounts and he had resolved to practise stern economy. Economy was
needful, unless he gave a fresh mortgage to pay the interest on his other
debts; and here was an expense he had not bargained for.
"If I'd known about Drysdale, I'd have resigned," he said. "I took the
post again because there was nobody else."
"They might have tried Askew," Gerald suggested.
"Askew? A fellow of no importance, unknown outside the dale!"
"I imagine he'll be better known soon, and he's rather a good sort. Gave
me a very good lunch not long since and has obviously spent something on
the farm. His room is like a museum, and he has a number of valuable
things. Seems to have had some adventures abroad, and found them
profitable."
"You mean he tried to impress you by vague boasting?"
"No," said Gerald, "I don't think he did; the fellow's not that kind. In
fact, he's rather good form, and has somehow got the proper stamp."
Grace looked at her brother, as if she agreed; but Osborn remarked
ironically, "You imagine yourself a judge?"
"Oh, well," said Gerald, smiling, "I've had the advantage of being
brought up at Tarnside, and belong to a good London club. Anyhow, Askew's
much less provincial than some of our exclusive friends."
He strolled off and Osborn went to the library, where he spent some time
studying his accounts. The calculations he made were disturbing and he
resented the possibility of his being forced to help Drysdale's fund.
Nevertheless, the president of the show would be expected to lead the
bidding and the Osborns did things properly.
A week or two afterwards, Mrs. Osborn opened the show in a field by the
market-town, which stood in a hollow among the moors. The grass sloped to
a river that sparkled in the sun and then vanished in the alders' shade.
Across the stream, old oak and ash trees rolled up the side of the Moot
Hill, and round the latter gray walls and roofs showed among the leaves.
A spire and a square, ivy-covered tower rose above the faint blue haze of
smoke. A few white clouds floated in the sky and their cool shadows
crept slowly across the field.
The horses were not very numerous, but the show had other attractions
and was an excuse for a general holiday. The crowd was larger than
usual, Mrs. Osborn's nervous speech was cheered, and for a time Osborn
forgot that the office he had taken might cost him something. He was
carrying out a duty he owed the neighborhood and felt that he could do
so better than anybody else. He did not admit that he liked to take the
leading place.
His first annoyance came with the sheep-dog trials. He had not known
Askew was a competitor and frowned as he saw Grace go up to him when a
flock of Herdwicks entered the field. The girl ought to have seen that it
was not the proper thing for his daughter to proclaim her acquaintance
with the fellow. Then Gerald followed her, and began talking to Askew as
if he knew him well. Gerald, was of course, irresponsibly eccentric, but
his folly jarred.
Grace had found it needful to get a new dress and hat, and Kit thrilled
and tried to hide his delight in her beauty as she advanced. His
rough-coated dog ran to meet her and she stroked its shaggy head.
"I hope Bob is going to win," she remarked.
"It's doubtful," Kit replied. "He's clever, but they don't give us much
time and he's getting slow. One or two of his rivals are very good."
"You'll do your best, old Bob," said Grace, and the dog, looking up at
her with friendly eyes, beat his tail on the ground.
Then Gerald came up, and soon afterwards the judges tied a string to a
farmer's leg and fastened the other end to a post. This allowed him to
run a short distance, after which he must direct his dog by voice.