CHAPTER XIV.—IN HARVEST-TIME.
Meanwhile the harvest-work on the lands of Ringsford Manor was progressing rapidly—to the surprise of the neighbours, who had heard that Mr Hadleigh could not obtain hands, owing to his craze about the beer question. He did not obtain much sympathy in the district in this attempted social revolution. It was known that he was not a teetotaler himself; and most of the proprietors and farmers and all the labourers took Caleb Kersey’s view, that apart from the question whether beer was good or bad for them, this autocratic refusal of it to those who preferred to have it was an interference with the liberty of the subject. As he passed through the market-place, a band of labourers had shouted in chorus the old rhyme: ‘Darn his eyes, whoever tries, to rob a poor man of his beer.’
But in spite of this determined opposition, here was a strong troop of men and women clearing the ground so fast that it looked as if the Ringsford cutting and ingathering would be completed as soon as that of any other farm. And the beer was not allowed on the field.
This was wonderful: but a greater wonder still was the fact that the hands who had been so swiftly brought together were working under Caleb Kersey himself—Caleb, the peasants’ champion, the temperance defender of every man’s right to get drunk if he liked! There were mutterings of discontent amongst his followers: there were whispers that he had been heavily bribed to desert their cause; and those who had previously deserted him, shook their heavy heads, declaring that they ‘knowed what was a-coming.’
‘It ain’t fair on him—he ain’t acting square by me,’ Jacob Cone, the Ringsford bailiff, had been heard to say in the Cherry Tree taproom. ‘He comes and he takes my place, and does whatever master wants, when I was a-trying to get master to let folk have their own way, as they’ve been allays ’customed to.’
That was Jacob’s first and last grumble; for Caleb, hearing of it, took him to every one of the hands, and each made the same statement:
‘We can do without the beer. We gave it up because we choose to, and not because we’re forced to.’
For the rest, Caleb contented himself with saying simply: ‘I ain’t working for Mr Hadleigh, and I wasn’t hired by him.’
‘Daresay he contracted with some un?’
A nod would be the response to his inquisitive friend; and Caleb would proceed with his work as earnestly as if his life depended upon accomplishing a given task within the day. His example inspired the younger men with some spirit of emulation, and the women, old and young, with admiration. The old stagers bluntly told him at the close of the first day that they could not keep pace with him, and did not mean to try.
‘Do the best you can, lads, and you’ll satisfy me,’ was all he said.
The whispers as to his treason to the cause of the ‘Union,’ which floated about, and of which he was perfectly conscious, had no other effect upon him than to make him labour with increased zeal. But he smarted inwardly; for, like all popular leaders, he felt keenly the signs of waning favour amongst his followers—felt them the more keenly because he had so often, to his own serious detriment, proved his integrity, and knew that he was faithful as ever to the cause he had espoused.
It is doubtful if he would have been able to hold up so stoutly against the swelling tide of unpopularity, if there had not been a compensating influence upon him, strengthening his arm, although it did not always keep his head cool, or his pulse steady.
Every morning, when the white mist was rising from the hollows, and the trees appeared through it like shadows of themselves, whilst the long grass through which he tramped to the field sparkled and glowed around him, as the sun cleared the atmosphere, his way took him by the gardener’s cottage. Every evening, when the harvest-moon was rising slowly over the tree-tops, his way homeward took him again by the cottage. He frequently caught a glimpse of Pansy, and generally had an opportunity of exchanging greetings with her.
‘A fine morning,’ he would say; and he was under the impression that he spoke with a smile, but always looked as solemn as if he were at a funeral.
‘Yes, a fine morning,’ she would say with a real smile, and a tint on her cheeks as if they reflected the radiance of the sun.
Then he would stand as if he had something more to say; but first he had to look up at the sky; next strain his eyes over the rolling-ground in the direction of the Forest, as if much depended upon his noting the development of the trees through the mist; and again up at the chimney-top, to observe which way the wind was blowing. The result of all this observation being:
‘We’ll have a rare drying wind to-day.’
Then she, in a modified way, would go through the same pantomime and answer pleasantly; ‘Yes, I think you will.’
And he would pass on, leaving that great ‘something’ he wanted to say still unspoken. Yet Caleb was reputed to be a man possessed of a special gift of speech. He showed no lack of it in the presence of any one save Pansy.
‘I wonder what gars him come round this way ilka mornin’ and night,’ said Sam Culver one day to his daughter, looking at her suspiciously. ‘He’d be far sooner hame if he gaed round by the wood, like other folk.’
‘I cannot tell, father,’ she answered, her gypsy cheeks aglow: ‘maybe he has to go up to the House for something.’
Sam shook his head thoughtfully: he did not relish the idea which had entered it.
‘Kersey is a decent enough lad; but he is wildish in his notions of things, and a’ the farmers round about are feared to trust him with ony work. That’s no the right way to get through the world, my lass, and I wouldna like to see you with sic a man.’
Pansy was a little startled by this plain way of suggesting why Caleb chose to take the longest route to his work; and she proceeded hurriedly to clear away the breakfast dishes. That evening, Caleb did not see her as he passed the cottage.
Whatever Sam Culver’s opinion of Caleb Kersey might have been, it underwent considerable modification, if not an entire change, as he watched him work and the harvest rapidly drawing to a close under his care. At anyrate, one evening, as Caleb was exchanging that stereotyped greeting with Pansy, and was about to pass on, her father came up and asked him in to supper.
‘It’s just a plate o’ porridge and milk, you ken; but you’re welcome, if yer not ower proud to sup it. Mony’s the great man has sought naething better.’
A little shyness on Caleb’s part was quickly overcome. He entered the cottage, and was presently seated at the same table with Pansy. He was amply compensated for all that he had suffered on account of yielding to Madge’s request that he should take the Ringsford harvest in hand.
The gardener, since he had settled in the south, had, like many of his countrymen, considerably loosened the Puritanical stays which he had been accustomed to wear in the north. Indeed, it was said that he had been discovered in the greenhouse on a Sabbath, when he ought to have been in church. He still, however, felt the influence of old habits, and so he said grace in this fashion:
‘Fa’ tae, fa’ tae, and thank the Lord for a guid supper.’
When the meal was finished, Sam took his guest out to see a new geranium which he was cultivating; and then he revealed to him a fancy which he had been cultivating as largely as his geranium.
‘I was thinking, Kersey, that you have been getting on bravely with the harvest. Noo, if you could just manage to cut the last stook on the day of Mr Philip’s dinner, it would be a real surprise to the folk at the house, and a grand feather in your cap.’
‘I think it can be done,’ said Caleb quietly.
And it was done. On the evening fixed for the festival, the last sheaf of the Ringsford grain was placed on the lawn in front of the Manor. Whilst the guests were arriving, Madge had been told by Sam Culver that this was to be done; so she went out with Uncle Dick and Mr Hadleigh to congratulate Caleb on the good harvest he had gathered in, and to thank him on her own part for having undertaken the task.
‘It’s the best job you have ever done, Caleb,’ cried Uncle Dick, giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder. ‘Stick to this kind of thing, my lad, and leave speechifying to them that cannot do any better.’
‘I am always ready to work,’ replied Caleb, avoiding the second part of his well-wisher’s speech.
‘I offer you my sincere thanks, Kersey,’ said Mr Hadleigh in his reserved way; ‘and it would please me to hear of anything I could do for you.’
‘I am obliged to you.’
This ungraciously, but with a slight movement of the head, which might be called half a nod.
‘You can bear it in mind. Had I known that you would be finished to-day, I should have arranged for our harvest-home gathering to take place this evening. I am sure that would have gratified Miss Heathcote and my son.’
Another half-nod, and Caleb moved away.
The gong sounded. Mr Hadleigh gave his arm to Madge, and led her towards the house.
As they entered the hall, they were met by the butler.
‘Do you know where Mr Philip is, sir?’ asked the man nervously. ‘Dinner is quite ready, and he is not in the house; and nobody has seen him since he started for town this morning.’
The butler’s anxiety was equally divided between the danger of having the dinner spoiled and the question as to what had become of Philip.
‘Have you sent to his room?’
‘I have been there myself, sir. His things are all lying ready for him; but he is nowhere about.’
Mr Hadleigh frowned.
‘This is very annoying. I told him he should not go to town to-day. He has missed his train, I suppose. Give him a quarter of an hour, Terry, and then serve dinner.... Excuse me, Miss Heathcote, one moment.’
He beckoned to a footman, who followed him into a small sideroom.
‘Send Cone to the station,’ he said in a low voice; ‘and bid him inquire if there has been an accident on the line.’