XVII
After passing the old mill and the deep, dark pool, she turned aside from her homeward path, and crossed to a cottage by the roadside. She entered the garden by a wicket in the hedge; oak-trees spread their broad boughs above the thatched roof, and the border of the garden was gaudy with tulips, wallflowers, and parti-coloured daisies. Every inch of the enclosed ground was green with some vegetable or other; a minute and microscopic care had evidently been spent on every spadeful of earth the garden contained. One would hardly believe that so small a plot could produce so great a variety.
The flagstones before the door were white and clean; there was no porch, and the door was open. Felise looked in, but there was no one within; she sat down, however, on a stool outside the door, and soon noticed something moving behind the screen of green which concealed the small extent of the garden.
An aged man, much bowed, supporting himself with a hoe and a walking-stick, slowly came towards her; he had been weeding.
тАЬShe beanтАЩt at home, she beanтАЩt,тАЭ he said, alluding to his wife. тАЬI was a-trying to do a little bit of weeding. And how do Abner do, miss? Do he do now? AтАЩ was a sprack boy. I hope he suits Mr.┬аGoring.тАЭ
This hope he had expressed every time Felise had called these four years, during which his son, who was still a boy in his eyes, had assisted Mr.┬аGoring in the garden. Felise petted the old people; Godwin, the estate-agent or land-steward, had been heard to say that she spoiled the whole village.
тАЬSit down,тАЭ said Felise, offering him the stool; but the old man, with trembling eagerness, refused it, and brought himself out another, upon which he crouched, his elbows on his knees.
тАЬYou didnтАЩt have much luck a-fishing, now, did you?тАЭ he said. тАЬBless you, miss, there beanтАЩt half the fish there was in the brook when I was a boy, and they beanтАЩt so eager for the fly. As I was a-saying, I hopes Abner be useful now; I donтАЩt know what we should do if it werenтАЩt for he, for I canтАЩt do no work, nor my old missus neither. She be gone to get some wood to bile the kettle; hope as Mr.┬аGodwin wonтАЩt catch her. He be a hard man, Miss Goring; тАЩtis amazing how he can be so hard.тАЭ
тАЬYou are not allowed to gather the dead wood now, then?тАЭ
тАЬNot since Lady Day, miss. No; Mr.┬аGodwin he came round and give them all notice that he should summon any of them as took the wood. There was something I wanted to tell you, missтБатАФdidnтАЩt Abner tell тАЩee? Maybe you havenтАЩt seen him today. But as I was saying, I hoped to get about and do a bit of hoeing this springтБатАФbut bless you, I canтАЩt do it. I got out in the road, and I was obliged to sit down on the flint-heap. тАЩTis hard to be old, miss, and be twisted with the rheumatism. Perhaps my missus will recollect what it was when she comes in, if you will wait a moment, miss.тАЭ
тАЬThe garden looks very nice,тАЭ said Felise.
тАЬWhat a lot of trouble you take with it!тАЭ
тАЬAh, that I do,тАЭ said the old man brightly. тАЬI bides in un aтАЩmost all the day, and I thinks about un most of the nightтБатАФI kind oтАЩ lives by he. They will never take me away from my garden, will they, miss? They couldnтАЩt do that now, surely.тАЭ
тАЬI should think not, indeed.тАЭ
тАЬHow be the barley looking, miss? Did you notice as you was agoing along. There be generally some barley at the foot of the hill on Mr.┬аBarnardтАЩs land. AтАЩbe a likely young man, but they do say the farm beanтАЩt looked after as it should be. Young blood is young blood, and what with riding about and sportingтБатАФlet me see, what was I going to say? You knows the barley, miss; it have got black knots on the stalk. Bless you, I could use to do everything with the barleyтБатАФI was a barleycorn man in my time. I could plough, that was the first thing; and sow the seed, miss; and hoe it, donтАЩt you see, when it came upтБатАФit be a pretty plant now the barley, beanтАЩt it? And I could reap it, and thrash it when we used to have the flails, and malt itтБатАФthatтАЩs what a-many couldnтАЩt do. ManyтАЩs a winter IтАЩve spent a-maltingтБатАФthereтАЩs always a good fire. And I could brew the beer, and drink it too, afterwardsтБатАФha! ha!тАЭ
The barleycorn man chuckled at the thought of his exploits with the beer.
тАЬHave you got any ale for your dinner?тАЭ said Felise.
тАЬBless тАЩee now, where should we get any ale from? Abner donтАЩt bring any home, except what he carries in hisself.тАЭ
Felise opened her purse; there was a solitary half-crown in it. The coin had been there this month past, while she deliberated what she should do with it. Coins were very scarce at Beechknoll.
She gave the old man the silver, and told him to buy a pound or so of beefsteak and a little ale.
The poor old fellow was dried up for lack of blood in his veins; his stiffened joints cracked as he moved; his cheeks were a dull yellow like creased parchment; he was alive, but there was scarcely a drop of blood in him. Good juicy meat and the ale to which he had been accustomed in his youth was what he needed. He thanked her, but very quietly, with a subdued voice, very different to the high squeaky treble in which he had been talking; and, after thanking her, he remained silent. His chatter came from his head, which was growing feeble; his silence from his heart, which was yet alive.
тАЬWhat is it they say about Mr.┬аBarnardтАЩs farm?тАЭ said Felise.
тАЬHe be young blood, you see, miss,тАЭ began the old man, glad to be garrulous again, and to escape from feeling to gossip. тАЬThey do say he be short of money; some say he have had to borrow.тАЭ
тАЬThe Barnards are not very rich, then,тАЭ said Felise partly to herself, happy that at least there was not that obstacle between her and Martial, to whom she could bring no dowry.
тАЬBless тАЩee, no; they beanтАЩt richтБатАФтАЭ But he was interrupted by a step on the path, and his тАЬmissusтАЭ came through the wicket in the hedge. тАЬWhat, ainтАЩt you got no wood?тАЭ said the old man.
тАЬHeтАЩve took it away,тАЭ said the old lady, curtsying to Felise. тАЬI be terrable glad to see you, miss; there be something I wants to tell youтБатАФтАЭ
тАЬI knowed there was something,тАЭ said the old man.
тАЬWho took your wood away?тАЭ asked Felise.
тАЬWhy, Mr.┬аGodwin, to be sure. Do you call that a gentleman, now? He took my faggot away from me hisself.тАЭ
тАЬNot the dead sticks you had gathered?тАЭ
тАЬYes, he did; he took it away and throwed all the sticks in the hedge, and dared me to touch any more, or to step on his land or the SquireтАЩs land after тАЩem.тАЭ
тАЬIt is very arbitrary,тАЭ said Felise.
The angry old lady ran on at great length, bitterly reproaching the steward. Mr.┬аGodwin had forbidden them to touch the fallen branches; last autumn he forbade them to gather the acorns, though brought to him for sale. As they no longer worked upon the estate, being too old, they must not gather wood or acorns, or even mushrooms.
тАЬHe be the meanest man as ever lived,тАЭ said the old woman. тАЬAтАЩbe as rich as ever can be. Now, you knows MarthaтБатАФlittle Martha; she went a-blackberrying last year, and Godwin he met her and took her blackberries from herтБатАФthat he did. I suppose the Squire doanтАЩt know nothing about it, but Godwin says тАЩtis the SquireтАЩs rights. But you come in, missтБатАФyou look here!тАЭ cried the old woman, rushing indoors and returning, before Felise could follow, with a letter in her hand.
The letter contained a formal notice to quit the cottage and garden. It seemed that the steward had several times warned the aged couple that they must leave; but, no notice being taken of his verbal orders, a legal instrument had at length been sent.
тАЬAh, I knowed there was something,тАЭ said the old man. тАЬBut, bless you, they wonтАЩt turn I out of my garden, nowтБатАФwill they?тАЭ
тАЬThat they will, you old fool!тАЭ said his wife, shaking him; тАЬyouтАЩll have to go. And there beanтАЩt no place for us but the workus, as I knows on. There beanтАЩt another cottage in this place; they be all full up to the roof.тАЭ
тАЬLodgings must be got for you somewhere,тАЭ said Felise, тАЬand Abner will help.тАЭ
тАЬBut there beanтАЩt no lodgings,тАЭ said the old woman; тАЬand my old man, he wonтАЩt live away from his garden.тАЭ
тАЬThey may as well bury me,тАЭ said the old man, dropping on his stool. тАЬThey there peas be fine to-year; thereтАЩll be another dish there soon. I thinks the apples be set well to-year.тАЭ
тАЬI will speak to papaтБатАФto Mr.┬аGoring,тАЭ said Felise. тАЬPerhaps Abner has told him. We will do what we can for you, be certain. I cannot think Mr.┬аGodwin really meansтБатАФтАЭ she hesitated, for she knew the hardness of his character.
тАЬAh, yes, he do mean it!тАЭ said the old lady. тАЬHe be one of they as do mean things, and do тАЩem too; I hopes as his new horse will pitch him in the road and break his neck!тАЭ
тАЬNoтБатАФno.тАЭ
тАЬAh, but I do though! ThereтАЩs the old man gone pottering down to they peas. It be shameful, beanтАЩt it, how we be served! And after we have a-worked here all our livesтБатАФhe have a-worked here nigh seventy years, and I have a-worked fifty-five afore I was took bad and couldnтАЩt do no more. It be shameful, miss, it be! and thank you very much, but it ainтАЩt no good you tryingтБатАФold Godwin be a flint!тАЭ
Felise went on homewards, eager with the impetuosity of her nature to do something to right this wrong. I have, in part, literally translated the language in which the old couple spoke, that it might be more easily intelligible; they did not say ah, but aw; un for him and it indiscriminately; they pronounced v for f, a├д for a, and so on.
Mr.┬аGodwin was a very hard man, yet he had but slightly strained the unwritten laws of country life in ordering this aged and helpless couple to leave their dwelling. Nine out of ten cottages belong to the landowner, though the immediate supervisionтБатАФthe lettingтБатАФis entrusted to the tenant on certain conditions. There are, as a rule, fewer cottages than are needed, so that there is a struggle for them, especially on the part of the young who wish to be married. From this scarcity of cottages most young couples reside for years with the parents of the wife or husband, an arrangement never very satisfactory.
The chief condition of cottage-occupation is that the cottager shall work for the farmer upon whose farm the cottage is situate. Or at least, if not for him, for someone on the estate. The moment any difference arises, the labourer has not only to leave his employment but his home. This, if he be a married man, generally means that he must leave the hamlet, because all the other cottages are full. The custom is the last relic of feudal times, for while this condition endures the labourer must still be a serf.
It is a custom fatal to the cottagerтАЩs social progress, in reality injurious to the interests of landowner and farmerтБатАФespecially to the landownerтБатАФand diametrically opposed to the interest of the country at large, because it forces the agricultural population to be nomadic instead of settled.
Injurious as it is to those who maintain it, this feudal survival will probably be fought for with the utmost bitterness when the question comes before Parliament. Once abolished, and people will wonder why it ever existed.
This aged and helpless couple broke the unwritten law, for having grown old they could no longer work. They occupied a cottage without giving any return in the shape of labour upon the estate. They were in the wayтБатАФthere was the workhouse for themтБатАФthey could not want a home at their time of life.
Many a warmhearted old farmer has such a couple in a cottage on his farm, and permits them to linger there till death. The unwritten law is not always so harshly interpreted. Still, it exists, and Godwin, a man of the hardest character, interpreted it according to his nature.
But the occupants of the cottage had broken the law in another manner; their son, Abner, worked for Mr.┬аGoring, who was not a tenant of the Squire, and consequently while Abner lived in a landlordтАЩs cottage he took the power (horsepower if you like) of his muscles off the estate. Someone else had the benefit of his strength.
There was, too, the possibility of Abner marrying and taking his wife home to his parents, after the country fashion. By-and-by he would become the actual occupant, while his horsepower was expended on anotherтАЩs land. Those who occupied houses on the estate must work for the estate; if not, they must go.
To go, to an aged and helpless couple of eighty-four and seventy, meant the workhouse.
By the most cruel and iniquitous rule it is possible to imagine, it is not permitted to give assistance from the poor-rates to the oldest, the most helpless, and deserving of the population if they dare to live at home. They must go to the poorhouse, that abomination of desolation. This most brutal regulation would arouse the indignation of every educated person in the country if what it means could be plainly exhibited.
AbnerтАЩs crime was unpardonableтБатАФhe was living in a house belonging to the estate, and working for a man independent of the estate. Mr.┬аGoring owned the land he occupied; he was not only independent, but a resolute upholder of every species of independence. He was paying Abner about two shillings a week more than he would have earned if in the employment of a farmer.
The young man was intelligent, and had a loyal mannerтБатАФI do not know how else to describe itтБатАФhe took an interest in what he was doing, and therefore to Mr.┬аGoring he was worth more than an ordinary labourer. But this was an extremely unpopular arrangement both with farmers and labourers. The labourers hated to see one of their own class paid better than themselves; the farmers objected because it was an example which might lead other men to ask for more.
Felise knew little of these mattersтБатАФshe had of course heard of them, but you could hardly expect her to enter into such affairs. She was, however, well aware of GodwinтАЩs hardness, and his character for harsh interference. Godwin and her uncle had had many and many a set-to; in fact, quarrels were continually occurring between them. Godwin had frequently threatened litigation, but had never resorted to it, yet with curious inconsistency called once a month on an average to invite Goring and Felise to his house, which was not more than half a mile distant. They had never accepted the invitation.