The Buccaneer Farmer - Harold Bindloss
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With something of an effort Kit pulled himself up. He was a small
farmer's son and the Osborns were important people. He knew Osborn's
family pride, which he thought his daughter had inherited. In Osborn, it
was marked by arrogance; in the girl by a gracious, half-stately calm.
For all that, the pride was there, and Kit, resolving that he would not
be a fool, went to the post office and put Janet's letter in the box.
CHAPTER IV
THE PEAT CUTTERS
Osborn was dissatisfied and moody when, one afternoon, he stood, waiting
for the grouse, behind a bank of turf on Malton moor. To begin with, he
had played cards until the early morning with some of his guests and had
been unlucky. Then he got up with a headache for which he held his wife
accountable; Alice was getting horribly parsimonious, and had bothered
him until he tried to cut down his wine merchant's bill by experimenting
with cheaper liquor. His headache was the consequence. The whisky he had
formerly kept never troubled him like that.
Moreover, it was perhaps a mistake to invite Jardine, although he
sometimes gave one a useful hint about speculations on the Stock
Exchange. The fellow went to bigger shoots and looked bored when Osborn's
partridges were scarce and wild; besides, he had broken rules in order to
get a shot when they walked the turnip fields in line. Osborn imagined
Jardine would not have done so had he been a guest at one of the houses
he boasted about visiting.
As they climbed Malton Head another of the party had broken Dowthwaite's
drystone wall and the farmer had said more about the accident than the
damage justified. In fact, Dowthwaite was rather aggressive, and now
Osborn came to think of it, one or two others had recently grumbled about
things they had hitherto borne without complaint.
In the meantime, Osborn and Thorn, who shared his butt, looked about
while they waited for the beaters. The row of turf banks, regularly
spaced, ran back to the Force Crags at the head of the dale. The red
bloom of the ling was fading from the moor, which had begun to get brown.
Sunshine and shadow swept across it, and the blue sky was dotted by
flying, white-edged clouds. A keen wind swept the high tableland, and the
grouse, flying before it, would come over the butts very fast.
In the distance, one could distinguish a row of figures that were
presently lost in a hollow and got larger when they reappeared. They were
beaters, driving the grouse, and by and by Osborn, picking up his
glasses, saw clusters of small dark objects that skimmed and then dropped
into the heath. It was satisfactory to note that they were numerous.
Although the birds were rather wild, he could now give his friends some
sport. After a time, however, the clusters of dark dots were seen first
to scatter and then vanish. Osborn frowned as he gave Thorn the glasses.
"What does that mean? Looks as if the birds had broken back."
"Some have broken back," said Thorn. "If they've flown over the beaters,
we have lost them for the afternoon." He paused and resumed: "I think the
first lot are dropping. No; they're coming on."
Picking up his gun, he watched the advancing grouse. They flew low but
very fast, making a few strokes at intervals and then sailing on
stretched wings down the wind. In a few moments they were large and
distinct, but there were not enough to cross more than the first two
butts. When they were fifty yards off Thorn threw up his gun and two pale
flashes leaped out. Osborn was slower and swung his barrel. The sharp
reports were echoed from the next butt and a thin streak of smoke that
looked gray in the sunshine drifted across the bank of turf. Two brown
objects, spinning round, struck the heath and a few light feathers
followed. The grouse that had escaped went on and got small again.
"Missed with my right," said Osborn. "Had to shoot on the swing. Don't
know about the other barrel."
Thorn did know, but used some tact. "I may have been a trifle slow; my
last bird was going very fast."
"I expect you saw whose bird it was," Osborn said to the lad who took
their guns.
"Yes, sir; Mr. Thorn's, sir."
"Oh, well," said Osborn, forcing a smile as he turned to Thorn, "you have
youth upon your side. Anyhow, I don't imagine the others have done much
better, and it looks as if we might as well go home. When the birds broke
back we lost the best chance we'll get. I wonder what spoiled the drive?"
"Something on the old green road, I think. The grouse turned as they
crossed the hollow."
A short distance off there was a fold in the moor, and while Osborn
wondered whether he would walk to the top a man came over the brow,
leading two horses that hauled a clumsy sledge. Another team followed and
presently four advanced across the heath.
"Now you know what spoiled the drive," Thorn remarked with some dryness.
"You can't expect a good shoot on the day your tenants move their peat."
Osborn, who was very angry, picked up the glasses. "The first two are not
my tenants. They're the Askews, and the boundary of their sheepwalk runs
on this side of the green road."
"Then I suppose there's nothing to be said!"
In the meantime, Osborn's friends had left the other butts and come up,
with Jardine in front. He was a fat, red-faced man, and as he got nearer
remarked to his companions: "I call it wretched bad management! Somebody
ought to have turned the fellows off the moor."
Osborn heard and glanced at Thorn as he left the butt. "There is
something to be said; I'm going to relieve my mind."
He went off and signaled the farmers to stop. They waited, standing
quietly by their horses. On the open moor, their powerful figures had a
touch of grace, and their clothes, faded by sun and rain, harmonized with
the color of the heath. Peter Askew's brown face was inscrutable when he
fixed his steady eyes on Osborn.
"You turned back the grouse and spoiled the beat. Do you call that
sporting?" Osborn asked.
"I'm sorry," Peter replied. "If I'd kenned you were shooting, mayhappen
we could have put off loading the peat."
"You knew we were shooting when you saw the beaters."
"Aw, yis," said Peter. "It was over late then. I wadn't willingly
spoil any man's sport, but we had browt up eight horses and had to
get to work."
"You have plenty of work at Ashness."
"It's verra true; but the weather's our master and we canna awtogether do
what we like. The peat's mair important than a few brace of grouse."
"Important to you!" Osborn rejoined. "But what about me and my friends?
One has come from London for a few days' sport."
"Then I'm sorry he has lost the afternoon," Kit interposed quietly. "But
you well know the wages laborers get in the dale, and there are old folks
and some sick at Allerby who need a good fire. The winter's hard and some
of the cottages are very damp."
"The farmers pay the wages."
"None of them make much money. They pay what their rent allows."
"I don't force up the rents. They're fixed by the terms new tenants are
willing to offer when a lease runs out."
"That is so," Kit agreed. "I don't know that my neighbors grumble much
because the rule works on your side. But peat is plentiful and we don't
see why it can't be used when coal is dear."
"I imagine you can see an opportunity of selling the right to cut it,"
Osborn sneered.
"We are willing to sell at the buyers' price. Anybody who can't pay may
have the peat for nothing. None of the day laborers has paid us yet and
none shall be forced to pay."
Osborn did not know whether he could believe this statement or not, but
he said ironically, "Then it looks as if you were generous! However, you
are not a friend of my agent's and no doubt see a chance of making
trouble. When you meddle with my tenants you play a risky game, and they
may find they were foolish to join you."
One of the farmers who had stood quietly by Peter Askew looked up with a
slow smile; another's weather-beaten face got a little harder. They were
seldom noisily quarrelsome, but they were stubborn and remembered an
injury long. Peter, however, interposed:
"We won't fratch; there's not much in arguing. You can beat moor t'ither
side o' green road. Good day to you!"
He spoke to the horses and the sledge lurched forward with its
chocolate-colored load. The other teams strained at the chains; there was
a beat of hoofs, and the row of sledges moved noisily away. Osborn waited
for a few moments, but his face was very red when he went back to the
butts. The farmer's refusal to dispute with him was galling. For all
that, he must try to find his friends some sport, and after consulting
with his gamekeeper sent the beaters on across the moor.
The new drive was not successful, and in the evening the party came down
the hill with a very poor bag. When they reached the Redmire wood Osborn
stopped beside a broken hedge. Red beeches shone among the yellow birches
and dark firs, the sun was low and its slanting rays touched the higher
branches, but the gaps between the trunks were filled with shadow. A few
bent figures moved in the gloom, and Osborn frowned when three or four
children came down a drive, dragging a heavy fallen bough. An elderly
woman with a sack upon her back followed them slowly, and it was obvious
that cottagers from Allerby were gathering fuel.
"Confound them! This is too much!" he exclaimed and beckoned his
gamekeeper. "If that is Mrs. Forsyth, tell her to come up."
The woman advanced and rested her sack upon the hedge. Her wrinkled face
was wet with sweat, but she did not look alarmed.
"Eh!" she said, "sticks is heavy and I'm none so young as I was."
"You have no business in the wood," said Osborn sternly.
"There's nea place else where we can pick up sticks."
"That is your affair. You know you're not allowed to gather wood in my
plantations."
"We canna gan withoot some kindling; when you canna keep it dry, peat is
ill to light. Terrible messy stuff, too, and mak's nea end o' dirt."
The children came up and when they stood, open-mouthed, gazing at the
party one of the sportsmen laughed.
"Then burn coal and the dirt won't bother you," Osborn rejoined.
"Hoo can we burn coal?" the woman asked. "Noo Tom Bell has lease o' baith
yards, he's putten up t' price, and when you've paid what he's asking
there's nowt left for meal. I canna work for Mrs. Osborn as I used, and
with oad Jim yearning nobbut fifteen shilling--"
She paused for breath and wiped her hot face, and Osborn signed to the
keeper. The woman was making him ridiculous.
"Turn them all out, Holliday," he said and went on with his friends.
"The old lady's talkative," one remarked. "Quite frank, but not at all
angry; I thought her line was rather dignified. I've met country folks
who'd have been servilely apologetic, and some who would have called you
ugly names."
"These people are never apologetic," Osborn said dryly. "As a rule,
they're not truculent, but they're devilish obstinate."
"I think I see. After all, it's possible to stick to your point without
abusing your antagonist. I suppose you turned them out because of the
pheasants?"
"Yes; good cover's scarce, and if the birds are disturbed they move down
to Rafton Woods. For a sporting neighbor, Hayton hardly plays the game.
To put down corn is, of course, allowable, but he uses damaged raisins!"
"Then you don't feed?"
"Very little," Osborn replied. "Corn's too dear. The Tarnside pheasants
live on the country."
"I expect that really means they live on the farmers!"
Osborn frowned. It was Jardine's habit to make stupid remarks like that;
Osborn wondered whether the fellow thought them smart.
"The farmers knew my rules when they signed the lease," he said. "Anyhow,
pheasants do much less damage than ground game, and I don't think my
tenants have left a hare in the dale."
Jardine began to talk about something else, and no more was said about
Osborn's grievances until the party met on the new terrace in the
twilight. The tarn glimmered with faint reflections from the west, but
thin mist drifted across the pastures, and the hills rose, vague and
black, against the sky, in which a half moon shone. Osborn, sitting at
the top of the shallow steps that went down to the lawn, grumbled to his
wife about the day's shooting.
"I don't think I'm an exacting landlord," he remarked. "In fact, since I
ask for nothing but a little give-and-take, it's annoying when people
spoil my sport. Dowthwaite made himself unpleasant about his broken
wall, the Askews turned the grouse back, and then I found the Allerby
cottage children, ransacking Redmire Wood when the pheasants were going
to roost."
Grace, who stood close by with Thorn, indicated the smooth gravel and the
low, wide-topped wall on which red geraniums grew.
"This," she said, "is a great improvement on the old grass bank. The wide
steps and broad slate coping have an artistic effect. However, you can't
often get the things you like without paying."
"Very true, but rather trite," Osborn agreed. "I don't see how it
applies."
"Well, I'm really sympathetic about your spoiled day, but it looks as if
all your disappointments sprang from the same cause."
"Ah!" said Osborn, sharply; "I suppose you mean the coal yards' lease?"
"I think I mean Bell's greediness. If he didn't charge so much for his
coal, Askew would not have cut the peat, and the children would not have
been sent to gather wood. Then Dowthwaite might not have grumbled about
his wall; he feels the farmers have not been treated justly, and I
imagine he blames you."
Osborn knitted his brows. "Then it's an example of the fellow's
wrong-headed attitude! He and one or two others are treated better than
they deserve, and would not be satisfied with anything I did. If you had
to manage the estate, pay extortionate taxes, and make the unnecessary
repairs the farmers demand, it would be interesting to see the line you
would take."
"Perhaps the right line isn't easy," Grace admitted. "Still, if I wanted
a guide, there's the motto of our county town: 'Be just and fear not.'"
Osborn looked at her with indignant surprise, and then shrugged
scornfully. Thorn smiled.
"It's an excellent motto; but they chose it some time since. One imagines
it's out of date now."
Grace colored and moved away, feeling embarrassed. She had made herself
ridiculous, and perhaps sentiment such as she had indulged was cheap; but
it hurt to feel that she, so to speak, stood alone. Although she had, no
doubt, been imprudent, she had said what she felt, and Thorn had smiled.
She turned to him angrily when he followed her along the terrace.
"I daresay I am a raw sentimentalist, but I'm glad I'm not up to date,"
she said. "I hate your modern smartness!"
Thorn, noting the hardness of her voice, stopped with an apologetic
gesture and let her go.
CHAPTER V
RAILTON'S TALLY
Winter had begun, and although the briars shone red along the hedgerows
and the stunted oaks had not lost all their leaves, bitter sleet blew
across the dale when Grace went up the muddy lonning to Mireside farm.
Railton's daughter had for a time helped the housekeeper at Tarnside, and
Grace, hearing that the farmer had been ill, was going to ask about him.
It was nearly dark when she entered the big kitchen. The lamp had not
been lighted, but a peat fire burned in the wide grate, where irons for
cooking pots hung above the blaze. A bright glow leaped up and spread
about the kitchen, touching the people in the room, and then faded as she
shut the massive door.
Grace thought her arrival had embarrassed the others, because nobody said
anything for a moment or two. Railton sat in an old oak chair by the
fire, with a stick near his hand; Tom, the shepherd, occupied the middle
of the floor; and Kit Askew leaned against the table, at which Mrs.
Railton and Lucy sat. Grace wished she could see them better, but the
blaze had sunk and the fire burned low, giving out an aromatic smell, and
throwing dull reflections on the old oak furniture, copper kettles, and
tall brass candlesticks. As a rule, the lonely homesteads in the dales
are furnished well, with objects made long since and handed down from
father to son.
Then Mrs. Railton began to talk, rather nervously, and Grace turned to
the farmer as the light spread about the room again. He had a thin, lined
face; his shoulders were bent, and his pose was slack. Sickness no doubt
accounted for something, but Grace imagined his attitude hinted at
dejection.
"How are you to-day?" she asked.
"No varra weel. I'm none so young, and the wet and cold dinna agree with
my oad bones. Mayhappen I'll be better soon, but noo when I'm needed I
canna get aboot."
"He'll not can rest," Mrs. Railton interposed. "He was oot in sleet,
boddering among t' sheep aw day."
"And weel you ken I had to gan," the farmer rejoined.
Mrs. Railton's silence implied agreement and Grace's curiosity was
excited because of something she had heard at home. Railton's lease of
the sheepwalk ran out in a few days, but he was by local custom entitled
to its renewal after a review of the terms. Moreover, it was usual for
the tenant to take the sheep with the farm, and leave them equal in
number and condition when he went. The landlord could then demand a
valuation and payment of the difference, if the flocks had fallen below
the proper standard.
"Why are you forced to go out in this bitter weather?" she asked.
Railton hesitated, and then saw his daughter's meaning glance. Lucy was
clever, and he thought she wanted him to be frank.
"I had to see how sheep were," he answered dully. "Not that it was o'
mich use. T' lambs niver get over wet spring and t' ewes is poor. Then
flock is weel under tally; I've lost two score Swinset Herdwicks, and the
mak-up's next Thursday."
"But how did you lose forty sheep?" Grace asked.
"There was a hole in fell dyke and Swinset sheep are thief sheep, varra
bad to hoad. I bowt ewes there and t' lambs followed when they wandert
back to their heaf."
Grace pondered. She had noted some reserve in Railton's manner when he
mentioned the broken dyke and knew the flockmasters were careful about
their dry walls. The rest was plain; the _heaf_ is the hill pasture where
a lamb is born, and Swinset was fifteen miles away. It was a very large
sheepwalk and much time would be needed to find the sheep on the wide
belt of moor.
"If you know the sheep are at Swinset, they would be allowed for in the
count," she said.
"I have my doubts. Mr. Hayes sent me notice tally would be taken on
Thursday and he's a hard man."
Grace colored. Although she did not like Hayes, he was Osborn's agent.
There was much she wanted to know, but she could not ask.
"Mr. Hayes cannot do exactly as he likes; he must get my father's
consent," she said. "However, as I am going home by the field path, I had
better start before it's dark."
"There's a broken gate that's awkward to open. I will come with you until
you reach it," Kit remarked.
They went out together. The sleet had stopped, but leaden clouds rolled
across the hills that glimmered white in the dusk. As they struck across
a wet field Grace said:
"I suppose Railton's flock is below the proper standard and the count
is short?"
"Yes; the two or three wet years have hit flock-masters hard and Railton
had to sell more stock than was prudent, in order to pay his debts."
"Then if he can't pay the difference in number and value, the lease can
be broken?"
Kit made a sign of agreement and Grace asked: "But do you think Hayes
would break the lease and turn him out?"
"It's possible," Kit answered cautiously.
Grace gave him a sharp glance. "What do you really think, Mr. Askew? I
want to know."
"Then, my notion is Hayes would like to get Mireside for Jim Richardson."
"Richardson is his nephew."
"Just so," said Kit, with some dryness. "All the same he'd make a good
tenant. His father is rich enough to start him well."
Grace's eyes sparkled, for she saw where the hint led, but she hid her
resentment, because, after all, she had doubts. Osborn needed money and
Hayes was cunning.
"I imagine it would hurt Railton to leave."
"It would hurt him much. He was born at Mireside and his father took the
farm from your grandfather, a very long time since. Then he's an old man
and has not enough money to begin again at another place."
"Ah," said Grace, "it would be very hard if he had to go! But if he
hasn't money, he couldn't carry on, even if we renewed the lease."
"We have had remarkably bad weather for two or three years and the cold
rain killed the young lambs, but a change is due. A dry spring and fine
summer would put the old man straight."
Grace was silent for a few moments and then looked at Kit with some color
in her face.
"Thank you for making the situation plain. You were not anxious to do so,
were you? I think you don't trust us!"
"I don't trust Hayes," Kit said awkwardly.
"But Hayes is our agent. We are accountable for what he does."
"In a way, I suppose you are accountable. For all that, when a landlord
has a capable agent it is not the rule for him to meddle. I understand
Mr. Osborn leaves much to Hayes."
Grace pondered. Kit's embarrassment indicated that he was trying to save
her feelings, but he must know, as she knew, that a landlord was rightly
judged by his agent's deeds. Although she rather liked Kit Askew, he had
humiliated her.
"Well," she said resolutely, "something must be done. If the strayed
sheep could be found, it would help."
"Yes," said Kit. "Tom and I start for Swinset to-morrow to try to bring
them back. But if you'll wait a moment, I'll open the gate."
He walked through the mud the cattle had churned up, and, lifting the
broken gate, pushed it back so that Grace could cross a drier spot. Then,
as he stood with his hands on the rotten bars, she stopped.
"Don't start for Swinset until you hear from me," she said. "Thank you.
Good night!"
Grace went on and Kit turned back to the farm with a satisfaction that
made his heart beat. In a way, the girl had given him her confidence;
she had, at least, not hidden her feelings. Her proud calm was only on
the surface; it covered a generous, impulsive nature. Then she had
pluck, because he could understand her difficulties. She was loyal to
her father, but hated injustice and was quickly moved to sympathy. All
the same, he had noted that when she spoke of Osborn renewing the
lease she said we, and since he knew why she had done so, it gave him
cause to think.
It was the code of the old school; the family stood together, a compact
unit to which she belonged and for whose deeds she believed herself
accountable. In a sense, this was rather fine; but Kit, knowing Osborn's
pride, saw it would confine their friendship to narrow limits. Still he
had no ground for imagining she was his friend, and he tried to fix his
thoughts upon the search for the sheep. Grace obviously meant to talk to
Osborn, but Kit did not believe the latter would be moved by her
arguments.
When Kit returned to the farm kitchen Railton was sitting moodily by the
fire and his wife's face was sternly set. They are not an emotional
people in the dales, and her trouble was too deep for useless tears, but
as she glanced about the room all she saw wakened poignant memories. The
old china in the rack had been her mother's; she had brought it and the
black oak meal-chest to Mireside thirty years since. The copper kettles
and jelly-pan were wedding presents, and Tom, her son, who died in
Australia, had sent the money to buy the sewing machine. Now it looked as
if her household treasures must be sold, and to leave Mireside would mean
the tearing up of roots that had struck deep. Besides, while she would
suffer it would hurt her husband worse. When Kit came in she gave him a
keen glance.
"Weel, what had Miss Osborn to say?"
"She didn't say much; I think she means to talk to Osborn."
Railton looked up gloomily. "T' lass has a good heart, but talking to
Osborn will be o' nea use. Hayes is real master and he wants Mireside for
Jim Richardson."
Kit made a sign of agreement. "The fellow's getting dangerous and must be
stopped. I suspect he's backing Bell and now he means to use his nephew;
it's not altogether for Richardson's sake he wants to break your lease.
Some day I imagine Osborn will find his agent owns the estate; but that's
not our business. Well, Peter told me to remind you that you and he are
old friends, and if a hundred pounds would be some help--"
"It would be a big help," said Railton, and Kit turned to the shepherd
when Mrs. Railton awkwardly began to thank him.
"About the broken dyke, Tom? What d'you think brought it down?"
"I canna tell. Dyke's good and there was nea wind."
They were all silent for a few moments, and then Kit said, "Well,
Richardson is a cunning hound." He paused and picked up his hat before
he turned to Railton. "I've a job at Ashness that must be finished
to-night. There's not much time, but if it's possible Tom and I will
find the sheep."
In the meantime, Grace walked home thinking hard. Kit was Railton's
friend, but he had used some tact, until she forced him to tell her the
truth. This, however, was not important, because she had got a jar. It
looked as if Osborn had consented to a cruel plot; a landlord ought to
help his tenants and not take advantage of their need. She tried not to
blame him; he had a bad agent, who used a dangerous influence. She must
try to protect him from the fellow and, in a way, from his own
carelessness.