Martin Poyser held Mr. Craig in honour, as a man who “knew his business” and who had great lights concerning soils and compost; but he was less of a favourite with Mrs. Poyser, who had more than once said in confidence to her husband, “You’re mighty fond o’ Craig, but for my part, I think he’s welly like a cock as thinks the sun’s rose o’ purpose to hear him crow.” For the rest, Mr. Craig was an estimable gardener, and was not without reasons for having a high opinion of himself. He had also high shoulders and high cheek-bones and hung his head forward a little, as he walked along with his hands in his breeches pockets. I think it was his pedigree only that had the advantage of being Scotch, and not his “bringing up”; for except that he had a stronger burr in his accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshire people about him. But a gardener is Scotch, as a French teacher is Parisian.
“Well, Mr. Poyser,” he said, before the good slow farmer had time to speak, “ye’ll not be carrying your hay to-morrow, I’m thinking. The glass sticks at ‘change,’ and ye may rely upo’ my word as we’ll ha’ more downfall afore twenty-four hours is past. Ye see that darkish-blue cloud there upo’ the ’rizon—ye know what I mean by the ’rizon, where the land and sky seems to meet?”
“Aye, aye, I see the cloud,” said Mr. Poyser, “’rizon or no ’rizon. It’s right o’er Mike Holdsworth’s fallow, and a foul fallow it is.”
“Well, you mark my words, as that cloud ’ull spread o’er the sky pretty nigh as quick as you’d spread a tarpaulin over one o’ your hay-ricks. It’s a great thing to ha’ studied the look o’ the clouds. Lord bless you! Th’ met’orological almanecks can learn me nothing, but there’s a pretty sight o’ things I could let them up to, if they’d just come to me. And how are you, Mrs. Poyser?—thinking o’ getherin’ the red currants soon, I reckon. You’d a deal better gether ’em afore they’re o’erripe, wi’ such weather as we’ve got to look forward to. How do ye do, Mistress Bede?” Mr. Craig continued, without a pause, nodding by the way to Adam and Seth. “I hope y’ enjoyed them spinach and gooseberries as I sent Chester with th’ other day. If ye want vegetables while ye’re in trouble, ye know where to come to. It’s well known I’m not giving other folks’ things away, for when I’ve supplied the house, the garden’s my own spekilation, and it isna every man th’ old squire could get as ’ud be equil to the undertaking, let alone asking whether he’d be willing. I’ve got to run my calkilation fine, I can tell you, to make sure o’ getting back the money as I pay the squire. I should like to see some o’ them fellows as make the almanecks looking as far before their noses as I’ve got to do every year as comes.”
“They look pretty fur, though,” said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on one side and speaking in rather a subdued reverential tone. “Why, what could come truer nor that pictur o’ the cock wi’ the big spurs, as has got its head knocked down wi’ th’ anchor, an’ th’ firin’, an’ the ships behind? Why, that pictur was made afore Christmas, and yit it’s come as true as th’ Bible. Why, th’ cock’s France, an’ th’ anchor’s Nelson—an’ they told us that beforehand.”
“Pee—ee-eh!” said Mr. Craig. “A man doesna want to see fur to know as th’ English ’ull beat the French. Why, I know upo’ good authority as it’s a big Frenchman as reaches five foot high, an’ they live upo’ spoon-meat mostly. I knew a man as his father had a particular knowledge o’ the French. I should like to know what them grasshoppers are to do against such fine fellows as our young Captain Arthur. Why, it ’ud astonish a Frenchman only to look at him; his arm’s thicker nor a Frenchman’s body, I’ll be bound, for they pinch theirsells in wi’ stays; and it’s easy enough, for they’ve got nothing i’ their insides.”
“Where is the captain, as he wasna at church to-day?” said Adam. “I was talking to him o’ Friday, and he said nothing about his going away.”
“Oh, he’s only gone to Eagledale for a bit o’ fishing; I reckon he’ll be back again afore many days are o’er, for he’s to be at all th’ arranging and preparing o’ things for the comin’ o’ age o’ the 30th o’ July. But he’s fond o’ getting away for a bit, now and then. Him and th’ old squire fit one another like frost and flowers.”
Mr. Craig smiled and winked slowly as he made this last observation, but the subject was not developed farther, for now they had reached the turning in the road where Adam and his companions must say “good-bye.” The gardener, too, would have had to turn off in the same direction if he had not accepted Mr. Poyser’s invitation to tea. Mrs. Poyser duly seconded the invitation, for she would have held it a deep disgrace not to make her neighbours welcome to her house: personal likes and dislikes must not interfere with that sacred custom. Moreover, Mr. Craig had always been full of civilities to the family at the Hall Farm, and Mrs. Poyser was scrupulous in declaring that she had “nothing to say again’ him, on’y it was a pity he couldna be hatched o’er again, an’ hatched different.”
So Adam and Seth, with their mother between them, wound their way down to the valley and up again to the old house, where a saddened memory had taken the place of a long, long anxiety—where Adam would never have to ask again as he entered, “Where’s Father?”