Michael Dockeray was waiting on the bank when they pulled in, spare and upright, with wise, quiet eyes and little to say. A totally different type from old Wolf—this; refined and tactful where the other was blunt and unafraid; strong enough, too, but with none of Wolf’s added violence. Yet the two had always been friends, often disagreeing, but turning to each other for help as naturally as to one of their own.
He met Lanty’s grasp warmly, and they moved on up to the house, leaving Rowly to get the boat ashore, for the tide would be on the turn before long. The agent came but seldom to the far marsh, and he caught a wave of welcoming excitement as he approached—figures passing from kitchen to dairy in a cheerful flurry that yet allowed time for a peep through the nearest window at the coming guest. Mrs. Dockeray’s voice could be heard running the full gamut of agitated instruction, dropping to a last whisper behind the pantry door concerning the new strawberry jam. Then she appeared, all pleasant smiles and hearty kindness, and Lanty’s homelessness was taken up into her motherly arms and smothered out of existence. Through the half-open door he had a glimpse of a smooth, dark head and a trim figure, and a desire for flight came upon him, in spite of the new strawberry jam. His task, vaguely irritating before, became suddenly impossible and grotesque. He consented to sit in the parlour, making polite conversation with his host while the ordered ceremonies went forward beyond, but he refused to be given tea there, and was glad when the summons came at last from the atmosphere of wool mats and honesty to the artistic rightness of the kitchen. Across the cool picture of yellowed walls, white-stoned flags, shining linen and china, Francey Dockeray’s face stood out cooler still, and as he shook her by the hand he felt painfully clumsy and inadequate before her pleasant self-possession. She knew why he had come—he guessed it from the faint satirical twist in her otherwise charming smile, from the swift summing-up of her gray eyes. The business-matter which he had put forward to her father would not pass muster with her, he felt certain of that. He could have dealt with the ordinary farmer’s daughter; he knew to a turn the phrase and manner to adopt with success, but they would not apply here. Wolf had been right when he used the word “quality” of Francey Dockeray. Her ease of manner had the simplicity of true good breeding, and it was to this that he had unwillingly paid tribute. But she was aloof, as he had said. Affectionate towards her parents, thoughtful for the guest, interested and attentive, she was yet, in some inexplicable fashion, outside and away from them all. Lancaster liked his errand less with every minute that passed.
It was inevitable, of course, that the conversation, veering from land-politics to wrestling and singing-practice for the benefit of the young folks, and back again to the farm, should turn at last to their neighbours. As soon as Whinnerah’s name was mentioned, Lanty took his first tentative step.
“You’ll know, I suppose, that Wolf’s talking of leaving?” he asked casually. “Lup’s off to Canada, he tells me, and that means the old folks clearing out of the farm. I’m sorry for both pieces of news. Whinnerahs are old friends. We can always do with the right sort, and Lup’s one of the best.”
He sent a straying glance round the group, only to meet the same blank impassiveness that had resisted his efforts crossing channel. It seemed as if, in the eyes of her family at least, Francey could do no wrong.
“Ay, the pneumonia did for Wolf!” Dockeray admitted sadly. “I’ll be loth to see the Whinnerahs go. We’ve known each other a sight o’ years, now, and when it comes to old company taking its hand off the plough, I’m like to think my own time won’t be so long, neither.”
“Nay, now, master!” Mrs. Dockeray put in quickly. “What, you’re a deal younger than Wolf, and as lish as a whip! You’ve no call to talk of giving up yet awhile. Not but what you’ll be missing them all sadly, I doubt, as I will myself. I’m not one for taking up with new stuff, an’ I’ve sort of grown with Whinnerahs. I’m not saying, though, but what it’ll do young Lup a deal o’ good to see a bit of the world. He sticks away in the old groove till he gets that tied with his tongue you’d think he hadn’t two brains to rub one at back o’ t’other!”
“Lup’s right enough, mother!” young Rowly put in indignantly. “Lup’s head’s as full o’ meat as most. You’ve no need to call him out of his name!”
“Nay, why I’ve nowt against the lad, not I! But he’d do with a shake an’ a slake an’ a shine with a polisher, after a manner of speaking. Look at Brack Holliday, now! Yon’s a lad worth running to see of a Saturday night! Canada done that; happen it’ll do something for the other an’ all. He hadn’t much in the way of schoolin’, hadn’t Lup—he was that stuck on the farm—and it doesn’t do not to keep a few manners put by when there’s call for ’em. Why, there’s whiles I’ve heard him talking with our Francey there, he so rough and she that nice-spoken—though I say it as shouldn’t, she being my own lass—there’s times I’ve felt right-down sorry Lup shouldn’t have no more chance of bettering himself than his own hired man.”
Lanty’s circular glance caught the faintest flush on Francey’s cheek, and passed to meet Mrs. Dockeray’s glance seeking his own; and it came to him, in a flash of inspiration, that she was on Lup’s side and her men-folk with her, that the wise mother-mind had its own method of pulling the strings, while the others stood apart, committing themselves to nothing. The matter struck him suddenly as a charming, homely comedy of courtship—no more; and he planted a further step with a firmer tread.