Harriet rose and came to the window, to behold the cob threading a Ladies’ Chain with half-a-dozen vehicles at the “Duke’s” kerb. Poor Wiggie, utterly at its mercy, chirrupped, sang and apologised in a breath.
“Why not get him to play?” Lancaster added.
“Much use!” Harriet laughed contemptuously. “He can’t do anything but sing! By the way, he wants to know if you’ll do him the favour to ask him to the dinner? I offered him my ticket, but Stubbs went out and threw bricks at the hens until I withdrew, so I had to come to you. Dandy wants to know what it’s like, so of course Wiggie’s ready to break his neck over it. He’d do anything for her—crawl into the boiler and come out with the steam!”
She did not look at him—she was too sporting for that—but she felt as if in herself the sudden twinge of jealousy that for a moment held him still. Then he said “Of course!” and handed her the ticket; and she turned to the door with a rough-and-ready greeting for the next comer. Lanty’s voice followed her.
“Two o’clock—and you’d better tell him to pass the punch! It’ll just about finish him if he isn’t used to that sort of thing, and he doesn’t look over-sturdy. The atmosphere will be pretty dangerous, too. You might mention in passing that there’s no need to make a martyr of himself. I can tell Miss Shaw anything she wants to know.”
Harriet said “Right-o!” with a queer smile, adding,—“you’ll think on about that pig-hull?” for the benefit of her successor, and went out with the ticket burning in her pocket. It was Dandy’s ticket all right, no matter who passed the punch or coughed in the smoke.
Lanty came back to business haunted by the smile and an irritating conviction that he had somehow made a fool of himself. They stayed with him all morning, marring his real contentment; for it was pleasant to have no difficult points to tackle after the good year. Not that the tenants were at pains to emphasise the luck. On the contrary, scarcely one of them would own to any special favouring of Providence. Hay might have done well, but it had been slow weather, if fine, and that meant labour at an exorbitant wage. “Why, a man could bare lig his head on t’pillow fur thinkin’ he sud be out an’ about, puttin’ the wark through!” Harvest might have been fair to middlin’, “Ay, but look at t’last two crops! What, we’ve not pulled up on that lot, yet! It’s one year wi’ another i’ farmin’, an’ like as not t’bad year’s t’yan as gits t’job! ’Tisn’t as if crops was all, neyther. Stock’s gey ticklish stuff to manish, breet as a button ya minnit, an’ deein’ off like flees t’next. Why, t’whole countryside knaas what luck I’ve had wi’ my coves!” And then would follow the usual wheedling demand for midden-steads, lime, shippon-repairs in their degree, or anything else that “Mr. Lancaster, sir” looked good for. It was all part of the game, and there was little goodwill going missing as they came and went in the wintry sun. What bitter struggle the past could show, what grinding fear the future might hold, were alike forgotten as they stood about in little groups, weather-beaten faces and ageing backs, ready to enjoy their pillgill now that the pang of “parting” was over; for though the Westmorland farmer must have a grievance even at the wonder-point of prosperity, he must also, on the very verge of ruin, crack his joke.
Brack’s beautiful entry in the S.-F.—an elaborate S bend round his Uncle Holliday and old Simon Farrer, violently exchanging views in the middle of the road—was spoilt by a large mangold at the end of a rope, attached to his back axle by Denny, somewhere en route. The mangold, not being accomplished in S bends, knocked Simon’s feet from under him and caught Uncle Willie on the knee; and while they were busy asking Brack what he meant by it, Denny himself ramped in with his high-stepper and the expression of a lily-white hen.
Taken altogether, it was a gay enough morning but for one solitary episode, when Wolf came in for the last time as tenant of Ninekyrkes. The little interview was one of those that Fate stamps with a fiery thumb.
He drove in alone, acknowledging no greeting, and, when some one came forward to take his horse, climbing down without a word. It seemed a long time before he came out of the Bank, and when at last he crossed the road it was with bitter reluctance, his head bent, ignoring salutation and outstretched hand.