The Squire's Daughter
"Not all, surely, father! There are the crops and cattle and implements."
David shook his head.
"Over against the crops," he said, "are the seed bills, and the manure bills, and the ground rent, and over against the cattle is the mortgage. I never thought of telling you, Ralph, for I never reckoned on this trouble coming. But when I started I thought the money I had would be quite enough not only to build the house and outbuildings, and bring the farm under cultivation, but to stock it as well. But it was a much more expensive business than I knew."
"And so you had to mortgage the farm?"
"No, my lad. Nobody would lend money on a three-life lease."
"And yet you risked your all on it?"
"Ah, my boy, I did it for the best. God knows I did! I wanted to provide a nest for our old age."
"No one will blame you on that score," Ralph answered, with tears in his eyes; "but the best ships founder sometimes."
"Yes. I have kept saying to myself ever since the news came that I am not the only man who has come to grief, and yet I don't know, my boy, that that helps me very much."
Ralph was silent for several minutes; then he said —
"Is this mortgage or note of hand or bill of sale – or whatever it is – for a large amount?"
"Well, rather, Ralph. I'm afraid, if we have to shift from here, there'll be little or nothing left."
"But if you are willing to remain as tenant, Sir John will make no attempt to move you?"
"I'm not so sure, my son. Sir John is a hard man and a bitter, and he has no liking for me. At the last election I was not on his side, as you may remember, and he never forgets such things."
Ralph turned away and bit his lip. The memory of what the squire said to him a few days previously swept over him like a cold flood.
"I'm inclined to think, father," he said at length, "that we'd better prepare for the worst. It'll be better than building on any consideration we may receive from the squire."
"I think you are right, my boy." And they turned and walked toward the house side by side.
They continued their talk in the house, and over the dinner-table. Now that the ice was broken the stream of conversation flowed freely. Ruth and Mrs. Penlogan let out the pent-up feelings of their hearts, and their tears fell in abundance.
It did the women good to cry. It eased the pain that was becoming intolerable. Ralph talked bravely and heroically. All was not lost. They had each other, and they had health and strength, and neither of them was afraid of hard work.
By tea-time they had talked each other into quite a hopeful frame of mind. Mrs. Penlogan was inclined to the belief that Sir John would recognise the equity of the case, and would let them remain as tenants at a very reasonable rent.
"Don't let us build on that, mother," Ralph said. "If he foregoes the tiniest mite of his pound of flesh, so much the better; but to reckon on it might mean disappointment. We'd better face the worst, and if we do it bravely we shall win."
In this spirit they went off to the evening service at the little chapel at Veryan. The building was plain – four walls with a lid, somebody described it – the service homely in the extreme, the singing decidedly amateurish, but there were warmth and emotion and conviction, and everybody was pleased to see the Penlogans in their places.
At the close of the service a little crowd gathered round them, and manifested their sympathy in a dozen unspoken ways. Of course, everybody knew what had happened, and everybody wondered what the squire would do in such a case. The law was on his side, no doubt, but there ought to be some place for equity also. David Penlogan had scarcely begun yet to reap any of the fruit of his labour, and it would be a most unfair thing, law or no law, that the ground landlord should come in and take everything.
"Oh, he can't do it," said an old farmer, when discussing the matter with his neighbour. "He may be a hard man, but he'd never be able to hold up his head again if he was to do sich a thing."
"It's my opinion he'll stand on the law of the thing," was the reply. "A bargain's a bargain, as you know very well, an' what's the use of a bargain ef you don't stick to 'un?"
"Ay, but law's one thing and right's another, and a man's bound to have some regard for fair play."
"He ought to have, no doubt; but the squire's 'ard up, as everybody knows, and is puttin' on the screw on every tenant he's got. My opinion is he'll stand on the law."
No one said anything to David, however, about what had happened, except in the most indirect way. Sunday evening was not the time to discuss secular matters. Nevertheless, David felt the unspoken sympathy of his neighbours, and returned home comforted.
The next week passed as the previous one had done, and the week after that. The squire had not come across, nor sent his steward. David began to fear that the long silence was ominous. Mrs. Penlogan held to the belief that Sir John meant to deal generously by them. Ralph kept his thoughts to himself, but on the whole he was not hopeful.
The weather continued beautifully fine, and all hands were kept busy in the fields. Except on Sundays they scarcely ever caught a glimpse of their neighbours. No one had any time to pay visits or receive them. The harvest must be got in, if possible, before the weather broke, and to that end everyone who could help – little and big, young and old – was pressed into the service.
On the big farms there was a good deal of fun and hilarity. The village folk – lads and lasses alike – who knew anything about harvest work, and were willing to earn an extra sixpence, were made heartily welcome. Consequently there was not a little horse-play, and no small amount of flirtation, especially after night came on, and the harvest moon began to climb up into the heavens.
Then, when the field was safely sheafed and shocked, they repaired to the farm kitchen, where supper was laid, and where ancient jokes were trotted out amid roars of laughter, and where the hero of the evening was the man who had a new story to tell. Supper ended, they made their way home through the quiet lanes or across the fields. That, to some of the young people, seemed the best part of the day. They forgot the weariness engendered by a dozen hours in the open air while they listened to a story old as the human race, and yet as new to-day as when syllabled by the first happy lover.
But on the small farms, where no outside help was employed, there was very little mirth or hilarity. All the romance of harvest was found where the crowd was gathered. Young people sometimes gave their services of an evening, so that they could take part in the fun.
As David Penlogan and his family toiled in the fields in the light of the harvest moon they sometimes heard sounds of merry-making and laughter floating across the valley from distant farmsteads, and they wondered a little bit sadly where the next harvest-time would find them.
On the third Saturday night they stood still to listen to a familiar sound in that part of the country.
"Listen, Ralph," Ruth said, "they're cutting neck at Treligga."
Cutting neck means cutting the last shock of the year's corn, and is celebrated by a big shout in the field, and a special supper in the farmer's kitchen.
Ralph raised himself from his stooping posture, and his father did the same. Ruth took her mother's hand in hers, and all four stood and listened. Clear and distinct across the moonlit fields the words rang —
"What have 'ee? What have 'ee?"
"A neck! A neck!"
"Hoorah! Hoorah! Hoorah!"
Slowly the echoes died over the hills, and then silence reigned again.
Ralph and David had also cut neck, but they raised no shout over it. They were in no mood for jubilation.
Sir John Hamblyn had not spoken yet, nor had his steward been across to see them. Why those many days of grace, neither David nor Ralph could surmise.
It was reported that the squire's daughter was slowly recovering from her accident, but that many months would elapse before she was quite well and able to ride again.
"We shall not have to wait much longer, depend upon it," David said, on Monday morning, as he and Ralph went out in the fields together; and so it proved. About ten o'clock a horseman was seen riding up the lane toward the house. David was the first to catch sight of him.
"It's the squire himself," he said.
CHAPTER VII
DAVID SPEAKS HIS MIND
Sir John alighted from his horse and threw the reins over the garden gate, then he walked across the stockyard, and looked at the barn and the cowsheds, taking particular notice of the state of repair they were in. After awhile he returned to the dwelling-house and walked round it deliberately, looking carefully all the time at the roof and windows, but he did not attempt to go inside.
David and Ralph watched him from the field, but neither attempted to go near him.
"He'll come to us when he has anything to say," David said, with a little catch in his voice.
Ralph noticed that his father trembled a good deal, and that he was pale even to the lips.
The squire came hurrying across the fields at length, slapping his leg as he walked with his riding-crop. His face was hard and set, like a man who had braced himself to do an unpleasant task, and was determined to carry it through. Ralph watched his face narrowly as he drew near, but he got no hope or inspiration from it. The squire did not notice him, but addressed himself at once to David.
"Good-morning, Penlogan!" he said. "I see you have got down all your corn."
"Yes, sir, we cut neck on Saturday night."
"And not a bad crop either, by the look of it."
"No, sir, it's pretty middling. The farm is just beginning to show some fruit for all the labour and money that have been spent on it."
"Exactly so. Labour and manure always tell in the end. You know, of course, that the lease has fallen in?"
"I do, sir. It's hard on the parson at St. Goram, and it's harder lines on me."
"Yes, it's rough on you both, I admit. But we can't be against these things. When the Almighty does a thing, no man can say nay."
"I'm not so sure that the Almighty does a lot of those things that people say He does."
"You're not?"
"No, sir. I don't see that the parson's son had any call to go out to Egypt to shoot Arabs, particularly when he knew that my farm hung on his life."
"He went at the call of duty," said the squire unctuously; "went to defend his Queen and country."
"Don't believe it," said David doggedly. "Neither the Queen nor the country was in any danger. He went because he had a roving disposition and no stomach for useful ways."
"Well, anyhow, he's dead," said the squire, "and naturally we are all sorry – sorry for his father particularly."
"I suppose you are not sorry for me?" David questioned.
"Well, yes; in some respects I am. The luck has gone against you, there's no denying, and one does not like to see a fellow down on his luck."
"Then in that case I presume you do not intend to take advantage of my bad luck?"
The squire raised his eyebrows, and his lip curled slightly.
"I don't quite understand what you mean," he said.
"Well, it's this way," David said mildly. "According to law this little farm is now yours."
"Exactly."
"But according to right it is not yours – it is mine."
"Oh, indeed?"
"You need not say, 'Oh, indeed.' You can see it as clearly as I do. I've made the farm. I reclaimed it from the waste. I've fenced it and manured it, and built houses upon it. And what twelve years ago was a furzy down is now a smiling homestead, and you have not spent a penny piece on it, and yet you say it is yours."
"Of course it is mine."
"Well, I say it isn't yours. It's mine by every claim of equity and justice."
"I'm not talking about the claims of equity and justice," the squire said, colouring violently. "I take my stand on the law of the country; that's good enough for me. And what's good enough for me ought to be good enough for you," he added, with a snort.
"That don't by any means follow," David answered quietly. "The laws of the land were made by the rich in the interests of the rich. That they're good for you there is no denying; but for me they're cruel and oppressive."
"I don't see it," the squire said, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders. "You live in a free country, and have all the advantages of our great institutions."
"I suppose you call the leasehold system one of our great institutions?" David questioned.
"Well, and what then?"
"I don't see much advantage in living under it," was the reply.
"You might have something a great deal worse," the squire said angrily. "The high-and-mighty airs some of you people take on are simply outrageous."
"We don't ask for any favours," David said meekly. "But we've a right to live as well as other people."
"Nobody denies your right, that I know of."
"But what am I to do now that my little farm is gone? All the savings of a lifetime, and all the toil of the last dozen years, fall into your pocket."
"I grant that the luck has been against you in this matter. But we have no right to complain of the ways of Providence. The luck might just as easily have gone against me as against you."
"I don't believe in mixing luck and Providence up in that way," David answered, with averted eyes. "But, as far as I can see, what you call luck couldn't possibly have gone against you."
"Why not?"
"Because you laid down the conditions, and however the thing turned out you would stand to win."
"I don't see it."
"You don't?" And David gave a loud sniff. "Why, if all the 'lives' had lived till they were eighty, I and mine would not have got our own back."
"Stuff and nonsense!" the squire said angrily. "Besides, you agreed to the conditions."
"I know it," David answered sadly. "You would grant me no better, and I was hopeful and ignorant, and looked at things through rose-coloured glasses."
"I'm sure the farm has turned out very well," the squire replied, with a hurried glance round him.
"It's just beginning to yield some little return," David said, looking off to the distant fields. "For years it's done little more than pay the ground rent. But this year it seems to have turned the corner. It ought to be a good little farm in the future." And David sighed.
"Yes, it ought to be a good farm, and what is more, it is a good farm," the squire said fiercely. "Upon my soul, I believe I've let it too cheap!"
"You've done what, sir?" David questioned, lifting his head suddenly.
"I said I believed I had let it too cheap. It's worth more than I am going to get for it."
"Do you mean to say you have let it?" David said, in a tone of incredulity.
"Of course I have let it. I could have let it five times over, for there's no denying it's an exceedingly pretty and compact little farm."
At this point Ralph came forward with white face and trembling lips.
"Did I hear you tell father that you had let this farm?" he questioned, bringing the words out slowly and with an effort.
"My business is with your father only," the squire said stiffly, and with a curl of the lip.
"What concerns my father concerns me," Ralph answered quietly, "for my labour has gone into the farm as well as his."
"That's nothing to the point," the squire answered stiffly. And he turned again to David, who stood with blanched face and downcast eyes.
"I want to make it as easy and pleasant for you as possible," the squire went on. "So I have arranged that you can stay here till Michaelmas without paying any rent at all."
David looked up with an expression of wonder in his eyes, but he did not reply.
"Between now and Michaelmas you will be able to look round you," the squire continued, "and, in case you don't intend to take a farm anywhere else, you will be able to get your corn threshed and such things as you don't want to take with you turned into money. William Jenkins, I understand, is willing to take the root crops at a valuation, also the straw, which, by the terms of your lease, cannot be taken off the farm."
"So William Jenkins is to come here, is he?" David questioned suddenly.
"I have let the farm to him," the squire replied pompously, "and, as I have before intimated, he will take possession at Michaelmas."
"It is an accursed and a cruel shame!" Ralph blurted out vehemently.
The squire started and looked at him.
"And why could you not have let the farm to me?" David questioned mildly, "or, at any rate, given me the refusal of it? You said just now that you were sorry for me. Is this the way you show your sorrow? Is this doing to others as you would be done by?"
"I have surely the right to let my own farm to whomsoever I please," the squire said, in a tone of offended dignity.
"This farm was not yours to start with," Ralph said, flinging himself in front of the squire. "Before you enclosed it, it was common land, and belonged to the people. You had no more right to it than the man in the moon. But because you were strong, and the poor people had no power to oppose you, you stole it from them."
"What is that, young man?" Sir John said, stepping back and striking a defiant attitude.
"I said you stole Polskiddy Downs from the people. It had been common land from time immemorial, and you know it." And Ralph stared him straight in the eyes without flinching. "You took away the rights of the people, shut them out from their own, let the land that did not belong to you, and pocketed the profits."
"Young man, I'll make you suffer for this insult," Sir John stammered, white with passion.
"And God will make you suffer for this insult and wrong to us," Ralph replied, with flashing eyes. "Do you think that robbing the poor, and cheating honest people out of their rights, will go unpunished?"
Sir John raised his riding-crop suddenly, and struck at Ralph with all his might. Ralph caught the crop in his hand, and wrenched it from his grasp, then deliberately broke it across his knee and flung the pieces from him.
For several moments the squire seemed too astonished either to speak or move. In all his life before he had never been so insulted. He glowered at Ralph, and looked him up and down, but he did not go near him. He was no match for this young giant in physical strength.
David seemed almost as much astonished as the squire. He looked at his son, but he did not open his lips.
The squire recovered his voice after a few moments.
"If I had been disposed to deal generously with you – " he began.
"You never were so disposed," Ralph interposed bitingly. "You did your worst before you came. We understand now why you kept away so long. I wonder you are not ashamed to show your face here now."
"Cannot you put a muzzle on this wild beast?" the squire said, turning to David.
"He has not spoken to you very respectfully," David replied slowly, "but there's no denying the truth of much that he has said."
"Indeed! Then let me tell you I am glad you will have to clear out of the parish."
"You would have been glad if I could have been cleared out of the parish before the last election," David said insinuatingly.
"I have never interfered with your politics since you came."
"You had no right to; but you've intimidated a great many others, as everybody in the division knows."
Sir John grew violently red again, and turned on his heel. He had meant to be conciliatory when he came, and to prove to David, if possible, that he had dealt by him very considerately, and even generously. But the tables had been turned on him unexpectedly, and he had been insulted to his face.
"This is the result of the Board schools," he reflected to himself angrily. "I always said that education would be the ruin of the working classes. They learn enough to make them impertinent and discontented, and then they are flung adrift to insult their betters and undermine our most sacred institutions. That young fellow will be a curse to society if he's allowed to go on. If I could have my way, I'd lock him up for a year. He's evidently infected his father with his notions, and he'll go on infecting other people." And he faced round again, with an angry look in his eyes.
"I'm sorry I took the trouble to come and speak to you at all," he said. "I did it in good part, and with the best intentions. I wanted to show you that my action is strictly within the law, and that in letting you remain till Michaelmas I was doing a generous thing. But clearly my good feeling and good intentions are thrown away."
"Good feelings are best shown in kind deeds," David said quietly. "If you had come to me and said, 'David, you are unfortunate, but as your loss is my gain, I won't insist on the pound of flesh the law allows me, but I'll let you have the farm for another eight or ten years on the ground rent alone, so that you can recoup yourself a little for all your expenditure' – if you had said that, sir, I should have believed in your good feelings. But since you have let the little place over my head, and turned me out of the house I built and paid for out of my own earnings, I think, sir, the less said about your good feelings the better."
"As you will," the squire replied stiffly, and in a hurt tone. "As you refuse to meet me in a friendly spirit, you must not be surprised if I insist upon my own to the full. My agent will see you about putting the place in proper repair. I notice that one of the sheds is slated only about half-way up, the remainder being covered with corrugated iron. You will see to it that the entire roof is properly slated. The stable door is also worn out, and will have to be replaced by a new one. I noticed, also, as I rode along, that several of the gates are sadly out of repair. These, by the terms of the lease, you will be required to make good. If I mistake not, also the windows and doors of the dwelling-house are in need of a coat of paint. I did not go inside, but my agent will go over the place and make an inventory of the things requiring to be done."
"He may make out twenty inventories if he likes," David said angrily, "but I shan't do a stitch more to the place than I've done already."
"Oh, well, that is not a point we need discuss," the squire said, with a cynical smile. "The man who attempts to defy the law soon discovers which is the stronger." And with a wave of the hand, he turned on his heel and strode away.
David stood still and stared after him, and after a few moments Ralph stole up to his side.
"Well, Ralph, my boy," David said at length, with a little shake in his voice, "he's done his worst."
"It's only what I expected," Ralph answered. "Now, we've got to do our best."
David shook his head.
"There's no more best in this world for me," he said.
"Don't say that, father. Wherever we go we shan't work harder than we've done on the farm."
"Ah, but here I've worked for myself. I've been my own master, with no one to hector me. And I've loved the place and I've loved the work. And I've put so much of my life into it that it seems like part of myself. Boy, it will break my heart!" And the tears welled suddenly up into his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
Ralph did not reply. He felt that he had no word of comfort to offer. None of them as yet felt the full weight of the blow. They would only realise how much they had lost when they had to wander forth to a strange place, and see strangers occupying the home they loved.
CHAPTER VIII
CONFLICTING EMOTIONS
Two days later Sir John's agent came across to Hillside Farm, and made a careful inspection of the premises, after which he made out a list of repairs that needed doing, and handed it to David.
"What is this?" David asked, taking the paper without looking at it.
"It is a list of repairs that you will have to execute before leaving the place."
"Oh, indeed!" And David deliberately tore the paper in half, then threw the pieces on the ground and stamped upon them.
"That's foolish," the agent said, "for you'll have to do the repairs whether you like it or no."
"I never will," David answered vehemently. And he turned on his heel and walked away.
In the end, the agent got the repairs done himself, and distrained upon David's goods for the amount.