CHAPTER III.—WHAT IS TO BE.
The master of Willowmere, Dick Crawshay, was recognised throughout the county as a perfect specimen of the good old style of yeoman farmer. He was proud of the distinction, and proud of upholding all the traditions of his rapidly diminishing class. It was not so much owing to eccentricity or vanity, as to simple faith in what he believed to be due to his position, that his dress invariably combined the characteristics of the past and the present. His top-boots and breeches were like those worn by his father; his long waistcoat was after the pattern of his grandfather’s; whilst his short coat and billycock hat belonged in some degree to his own day.
Rough and ready, outspoken in friendship or enmity, quick-tempered, but never bearing malice, his whole creed was that a man should mean what he says and say what he means. He was huge in person, height and breadth, and many people had good reason to know that he was equally huge in kindliness of heart.
Legends of his feats of strength in wrestling, boxing, horse-training and riding, were often recounted by the old men of the district as worthy examples of skill and prowess for their grandchildren to emulate, or to amuse their cronies in the taproom of the Cherry Tree.
‘Ah, when I thinks on that day of the Hunt Cup Steeplechase, thirty year ago!’ old Jerry Mogridge used to mumble over his jug of foaming ale. ‘The young Maister—he were the young Maister Dick in them days—entered his ’oss against some o’ the best blood out o’ Yorkshire, not to mention what our own county turned out, and we had some rare uns. We don’t have no such riding nor no such ’osses, I do believe, nowadays.’
Then Jerry would pause to reflect over departed glories, press down the ashes of his long clay-pipe carefully with his third finger and draw a long breath.
‘You was there, Jerry,’ his neighbour observed.
‘There I was, for sure. And there was Maister Dick with his horse Goggles that he was ready to back agin anything on four legs. It were a sight, I tell you. Nine on ’em started, and Goggles took the lead right away’—here old Jerry, with the stem of his pipe serving as a pencil, began to trace on the table the imaginary lines of the course—‘he cleared the water-jump pretty, and maybe half a dozen came after. On the flat they was nigh equal, but—Lor’ bless you—Goggles was only laughin’ at ’em. He knowed as he could get away as soon as the Maister pleased to give him head. They was a’most abreast when they came near the ugly fence down by Farmer Tubbs’s land. Then Goggles got his way. He were as brave as a lion—or a unicorn, for the matter o’ that—and he took the fence at the nighest but the worst part. We see him rise in the air as it might be, and dip again. Then—well, then, if he didn’t roll right over, and Maister Dick turned a somersault into the ditch.’
There Jerry would stop again in order that his listeners might realise the full horror of the position, emitting half-a-dozen deliberate puffs of smoke from his mouth, and proceed with the pride of a bearer of good news.
‘But the Maister was on his feet again afore you could count your fingers. So was Goggles. The Maister give him a pat on the neck and, says he: “If you can do it Goggles, I’m game.” With that he jumps into the saddle and went tearin’ after them as was proud to think that he was out o’ the chase, and he caught ’em up, and when they were about a quarter of a mile from home, Goggles put on an extra spurt and came in first by a neck. But that weren’t the end on it, for while everybody was a-crowdin’ round about him, Dr Mauldon says:
‘“What’s the matter with your right arm, Dick, that it’s hangin’ so limp-like at your side?”
‘“Dunno what it may be,” says Dick; “but it’s been no use to me since we tumbled over the fence.”
‘“Broken, sure-ly,” says the doctor angry-like, “and you went on riding the race—you’re a fool.”
‘“But I won it,” says Dick, “and I’m main proud on it, for there’s summat more nor the cup hanging on to Goggles this blessed day.”
‘Six months after that steeplechase, he married Hesba Loughton,’ the old man concluded with subdued but suggestive emphasis.
From that day the homestead of Willowmere had been a merry one, notwithstanding the dark shadows which had from time to time crossed it. Three children had been born, but one by one had passed away, leaving a blank in the lives of mother and father which nothing could fill. But it made them the more ready to welcome the child of Mrs Crawshay’s sister when misfortune fell upon her. Madge had been at once taken into their hearts as their own child, and had grown up with as much love and respect for them as she could have given to her parents proper.
On their part Mr and Mrs Crawshay were devoted to the girl, and allowed her from the first to be mistress of the whole house. She wanted books, they were at once obtained: she wanted a piano, and her wish was gratified. In her education, they spared neither care nor money, but Crawshay would never consent to her being banished to a boarding-school.
So she had grown up quite a home-bird, as her uncle used to say; being endowed with mental capacity, however, she had made the most of every opportunity for reading and learning. And through it all she took her share in the household work, and her guardians had reason to be proud of her.
Until the present occasion her uncle had never hinted that he expected to be consulted in her choice of a husband. Even now he only warned her that he would not approve of any of the Ringsford family. But the warning came late, and surprised her the more as no distinct reason was advanced for it. Although there had been no formal announcement that she and Philip had come to the conclusion that they had been born for each other and were dutifully ready to accept their fate, he had for some time been regarded as her chosen suitor.
Their wooing had been free from petty concealments, and there had not been much formal discussion on the subject between themselves. Unconsciously they realised the fact that man or woman can no more be in love and not know it than have the toothache and not feel it. They may coquette with fancy but not with love. They may in modesty try to hide it, but they know it is there. So there had been no ‘set scene’ of asking and granting. A flash of the eyes—a touch of the hand—a quick, joyful little cry—a kiss and all was known. They loved: they knew it; and were happy in their hope of the future that lay before them.
This sudden change of her uncle’s mind in regard to Philip—for of course he could refer only to him when he spoke of the Ringsford people—presented a problem with which she had never expected to be tried. Suppose her guardians should forbid her to marry Philip, would she be able to obey them? Ought she to obey them?
There was no present answer for the questions, and yet they could not be dismissed from the mind. She was glad to find that Philip was innocent of any conscious cause of offence, and pleased that he should go at once to seek an explanation.
The stables, the barn, with their red-tile roofs washed with varying shades of green, the cow-house and piggeries with a white row of labourers’ cottages, formed a cosy group of buildings by the side of the green lane which led from Willowmere to the main road between the village of Kingshope and the little town of Dunthorpe.
Crawshay was standing in the gateway with a tall gentleman whose features were almost entirely concealed by thick black beard, whiskers, and moustache. By way of contrast perhaps, he wore a white hat. His dark-blue frock-coat was buttoned tightly; in his claret-coloured scarf was a horseshoe pin studded with diamonds; his boots were covered by yellow gaiters. A smart man, evidently of some importance. He was discussing with Crawshay the merits of a horse which was being trotted up and down the lane for their inspection.
‘You won’t find anywhere a better bit of horse-flesh for your purpose,’ Crawshay was saying whilst he held the stem of an acorn-cup in the side of his mouth like a pipe.
‘When you say that, Crawshay, I am satisfied, and he would be a fool who was not. We’ll consider it a bargain.’
‘Give her another turn, Jerry.—There’s action for you!’ he added with enthusiasm as the animal was trotted up and down the lane again. ‘There’s form!—proper, ain’t it? Seems to me that I can’t part with her.’
‘You cannot help it now: we have struck the bargain,’ rejoined the purchaser, grinning. He was aware that the farmer’s exclamation was in no degree akin to any of the horse-dealer’s tricks to enhance the animal’s value.
‘Well, you are a neighbour, Mr Wrentham, and that is always a sort of comfort.’
‘I’ll be good to her, never fear. Now, I’m off.—Hullo, Hadleigh, how are you? I am just bolting to catch my train. Good-bye.’
Mr Wrentham walked smartly into the stable-yard, got into his gig and drove off, waving his hand to his two friends as he passed through the gateway.
Philip, who just then had entered the gateway, was glad to see him go: first, because he did not like the man, although frequently forced into contact with him; and, second, because he wanted to be alone with Crawshay.
The latter had not displayed any coldness and had given him the customary greeting. He was patting the mare he had just sold and passing his hand affectionately over her flanks whilst he repeated various expressions of admiration, the burden of them all being:
‘He’s got a rare bargain, but he’s a smart fellow and he’ll be good to you, old girl.’
‘I have been hunting for you everywhere,’ said Philip with his frank smile and without any fear of the explanation which was about to take place. ‘Are you going up to the house just now?’
‘No; I was meaning to go down to see how the lads are getting on with the wheat. Am I wanted at the house?’
‘Not particularly; but I want to have a chat with you.’
‘Come along then. There’ll be time enough for chatting as we cross the Merefield. What is it?’
‘That is exactly what I have got to ask you. What have I been doing that you have been upsetting Madge by telling her that she is to have nothing more to do with me?’
They were in the field—an extensive plain which had been once a morass. Drainage and cultivation had converted it into valuable meadow-land. The hedges which bounded it were studded with willows, and three trees of the same kind formed a group in the centre. These trees and the nature of the ground had doubtless suggested the name of the farm. In wet seasons the Merefield justified its title by presenting a sheet of water sometimes more than a foot deep, in spite of drains and embankment to keep the river out.
‘That’s right, Philip, lad—straight from the shoulder; and I’ll make answer likewise. I never told Madge that she was to have nought more ado with you.’
‘I was sure of it,’ exclaimed the lover in cheerful confidence; ‘and now I may call you Uncle Dick again. But you have given her a scare—you know how seriously she takes things, and you will have to tell her yourself that it was only your fun.’
Crawshay’s face had at first assumed an expression of internal chuckling at some joke which amused and yet did not altogether please him. Now, however, his brows contracted slightly, and he spoke gravely.
‘Ah, but it weren’t all fun neither.’
‘Then what in the name of goodness was it? I know that you had some disagreement with my guv’nor the other day; but you are not going to make us miserable on that score.’
‘I don’t want to put you out on any score: but your father may.’
‘My father!—nonsense. What could make you fancy that he would interfere with me in this matter?’
Crawshay halted, close by the three willows, clasped his hands behind him and looked straight at his young friend.
‘I am not going to tell you ought about what passed atween your father and me,’ he said resolutely. ‘You can ask him if you like; but if you’ll take a word of counsel from me, you won’t do it. You can understand this much, however; I am not going to stand in your way with Madge; but I am not going to let you stand in Madge’s way, neither.’
‘I do not see how that can be,’ answered Philip, perplexed by Crawshay’s words and manner, ‘since we two have only one way before us.’
‘That is to say you think so now’——
‘And shall always.’
‘Ay, ay; we understand all that,’ said the elder, nodding with the regretful scepticism of experience; ‘but there never was any harm done by making sure of every foothold when passing through a bog. See if we can’t clear things up a bit. When are you going away on this grand journey that’s to make your fortune?’
‘In about a fortnight.’
‘And you’ll be away how long?’
‘Perhaps a year.’
‘Maybe two—maybe three.’
‘O no; there is no probability of that.’
‘There’s no saying. But what I want to be at now—and mind you, I’m not doubting you, and I’m not like to doubt Madge—what I want to be at is that while you are away in foreign parts you may change your mind—hold hard a minute—Madge may change hers. Heaps of things may happen. So that all I meant by what I said to her the other night is that you should both be welcome to change if you think it best for yourselves. So there are to be no bindings and pledges atween you. If you come back and are of the same mind and she is content, I will not be against you. Is it a bargain? It is a fair one, though you mayn’t think it now; but you are not the lad I take you for if you don’t own it to be common-sense and agree to it.’
‘I cannot see anything in it to disturb us,’ said Philip, ‘since you leave us free to please ourselves.’
‘Ay, but you understand that when I say free, I mean it. If you are going back to the house, you can tell Madge everything I’ve said.’
‘We could not desire any other arrangement. I am content, and she will be. Whatever your tiff with my father may be about, it will not bother us.’
‘Ah, you had better wait till you hear what he has to say,’ observed the yeoman, with a droll shadow of a grin, as if he again recalled that joke which amused but did not please him.