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FROM THE BROAD ACRES


BY ‘THE SAME AUTHOR
Wan: CnAxLxs THE FIRST WAS KING. 35. 6d.
TH: Buxumns. 6s.
Tax PATHS OF TH: Pnunuw. 6s.
Lln m ARCADIA. 5s.
Gon’s FAILURES. 3s. 6d.
THE WONDERFUL \VAPENTAKE. 58. 6d.
Tm: MAKING or MATTHIAS. 5s.
MISTRESS SPITFIRE. 4s. 6d.
Wan: HIGHWAYS Cnoss. 2:. 66.
THE QUARRY FARM. 6s.


FROM
THE BROAD ACRES
STORIES ILLUSTRATIVE OF
RURAL LIFE IN YORKSHIRE
BY
J. s. FLETCHER
LONDON
GRANT RICHARDS
9 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
1899





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To
ALFRED PARSONS, A.R.A.
IN MEMORY OF VARIOUS HAPPENINGS
May 1899





CONTENTS
THE ADVENT OF JULIA ANN
THE MAN FROM BALLYKIPPAS.
THE MAN CHILD
FOR THE 6001:) OF HIs SOUL
THE REAPING MACHINE .
THE LAST OF THE WIsE MEN
THE RETURN OF MICHAEL O’MEARA
THE YEAR OF BITTER CHAsTENINc .
FOR CERTAIN PIECES OF SILVER
THE LIAR
THE WICR-FIRE
PAGE
II
43
55
67
83
9s
[09
123
137
ISI
ON THE THRESHOLD
FOR WHAT sHALL IT PROFIT? .
RETRIBUTION
HEARTS IN ARCADIA
173
185
I95


viii CONTENTS
OUT 0’ Wonx
FOR Lovz on MONEY
Tm: BACKSLIDER
FROM DEEP T0 DEEP
A CAST OF THE DIE
T n: F OSTER-MOTHBR
PAGE
20 5
215
227
239
251
267


2 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
stolid Englishmen they were, and had
supped together in brotherly love that
vhad long continued, and their damp
clothes had been exchanged for dry;
and there was naught to do but sit,
each in his own easy-chair, staring at
the grateful glow of the fire. It was
eight o’clock, and the brothers were
sleepy; but bedtime was yet an hour
and a half away, and the hour and a half
must be spent in nodding at each other
across the hearth. James opened his half-
closed eyes and looked about him. He
saw the firelight gleaming on the ancient
appointments of the kitchen—on the great
brass warming-pan, the clock-face, the tall
candlesticks on the mantelpiece, the old
blunderbuss which hung on the wall. He
had seen it gleam like that a thousand
times—and he yawned sleepily at the sight.
The yawn was audible; it roused John
from his light slumbers. He looked at
James and blinked his eyes. Then he
glanced at the clock.
“I think we might as well hev’ an odd


THE ADVENT OF JULIA ANN 3
glass,” said John apologetically. “ It’s not
quite the usual time, but ”
“ I think we might,” said James. “ It’s
been a cowdish day—I feel a bit chilly i'
mi bones, like.”
John rose lazily and went over to a cup-
board which stood in the recess behind his
brother’s chair. He produced therefrom a
bottle of whisky, a sugar-bowl, and a lemon,
and placed them on the table. James
watched this proceeding with apathetic
eyes, which gradually lightened as John
placed the kettle on the fire and set out
two glasses with spoons in them. He
yawned again when the kettle poured
forth a hissing cloud of steam, but when
John deftly mixed two glasses of toddy
and handed one of them over to him he
woke up and began to take a new interest
in his surroundings.
“ Good health,” said James.
“Good health,” said John.
Then they set their glasses side by side
on the hob and folded their hands over
their waistcoats in peace and contentment.


4 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
The rain dashed furiously against the
windows, and a few stray drops came down
the wide chimney and hissed in the red
fire.
“Nice sort 0’ night to be out in,’
James, laconically.
“ Ay, it is so," replied John. “ It’s
At that moment a sharp knock came at
the door—a knock which was evidently
intended. to inform those within that the
person without was in something of a
hurry. James and John looked at each
other wonderingly. The knock sounded
again before John slowly rose to his feet
and went across to the door. James's head
turned in the direction whence the sound
came and his mouth slightly opened with
surprise.
John opened the door with obvious
reluctance. The wind dashed itself and a
storm of rain in his face, causing the flame
of the table-lamp to leap violently in the
glass. He peered into the blackness.
There, on the step, vainly trying to protect
herself with an umbrella, stood a woman,
,
said


THE ADVENT OF JULIA ANN 5
whose rain-soaked garments were wrapped
about her figure by the wind.
“Please let me come in and shelter
awhile," said the stranger, advancing on
John without waiting for his permission.
“ I’m just about done up—I can’t go any
farther till the rain’s stopped a bit.”
She was in the house by that time, and
John made haste to close the door. He
turned, to find James risen from his chair
and staring at this strange visitor. Then
John stared in his turn, for the woman had
put down her umbrella and was shaking
the rain from her cloak, and he saw that
she was young and of an exceeding pretti-
ness. Wet and bedraggled as she was,
there was no mistaking the graciousness of
her plump figure, the attraction of her
frank brown eyes, the witchery of her full
lips and white teeth. John and James
stared hard, and John’s fingers went
instinctively to his head and scratched ,a
certain bump of which he invariably sought
counsel when in doubt or perplexity.
The young woman looked up and glanced


6 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
from one man to the other, and burst into
a merry laugh.
“ Well, if it isn’t a wet one!” she said.
“ I’ve walked all the way from Sicaster
Station, but I’ve had enough. And it’s
such a lonely road. l haven’t seen a light
for I don’t know how long till I saw yours.”
“Ay, it’s a bit lonely like,” said James.
“ A bit lonely like,” said John.
Then they looked at each other, and each
man scratched his head. A brilliant idea
was much needed ; it came to James first.
“ Come near the fire,” he said suddenly.
“ It’s a main good ’un ; it’ll dry your clothes
like.”
John felt somewhat aggrieved; he had
wished to be first with a suggestion. His
eyes wandered about the room, and sud-
denly fell on the whisky-bottle; he was
conscious on the instant of another and
happier thought than James’s.
“ An’ tak’ a sup 0’ whisky wi’ hot water
and sugar,” said he hospitably. “It’s a
rare good thing for keepin’ t’ cold out.”
The young woman laughed, and drew


THE ADVENT OF JULIA ANN 7
nearer the fire, looking at the entertainment
set forth on the table with not unfriendly
eyes.
“You’re very kind,” she said. “I don’t
mind if I do, as the sayin’ goes. Not too
much of the spirit, please, and two lumps
0’ sugar. Thank you. Here’s my best
respects, and I’m much obliged.”
“Don’t mention it,” said James. He
shook his head, remembering his own
dreary ride from Cornchester. “ It’s a
poor night for travellers,” he added.
“Ay,” said the young woman. “ How
far might it be yet for King’s Painton ? ”
“Matter 0’ nigh on to three miles,” an-
swered James.
“ An’ a bit over,” said John.
“ Well, a goodish three,” said James.
“Dear, dear! ” sighed the stranger.
“ That’s a long way OH in such a downpour
as this. An’ I’ve walked all the way from
Sicaster already.”
“That’s near five mile,” said John.
Then there was silence. The young
woman sat near the stove and occasionally


8 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
sipped at the contents of her glass; James
and John watched her furtively, and now
and then tipped their noses in their own
glasses.
“Yes, I’m going to see a relative o'
mine," said the stranger at last. “Name
0’ Ann Hepburn—widow woman, living
at King’s Painton. Happen you’ll know
her?”
James looked at John; John looked at
James; James took down a church-
warden pipe from the mantelpiece, and
filled it with grave solemnity.
“ Near relation 0’ yours ? " he said, ques-
tioningly, between the first puffs of smoke.
“Why, not so near—sort of first cousin
to my father, or summat 0’ that."
“ Humph!" said James. “But she’s
dead.”
“ Nay, not dead, surely? ”
“Dead—died t’ last Easter,” answered
James.
“ Ay—she’s dead," added John.
The young woman seemed in no wise
surprised. She looked from one brother


THE ADVENT OF JULIA ANN 9
to the other, and then took another sip at
the whisky-and-water.
“Well,” she said, “it is a licker how
awk’ard some things does turn out! Here
I’ve travelled right away out o’ t’ East
Riding to see her, and I’d aimed at stoppin’
a bit wi’ her, an’ all. However, if she’s
dead, why, she’s dead, an’ there’s an end
on’t.”
“ Ay, for sure,” said James.-
“ But it’s awk’ard, for all that,” said the
young woman. “ I’d no idea she was dead,
or else I shouldn’t ha’ come. You see, my
father’s married again, and me and my step-
mother doesn’t hit it off very well, and so
I thought I’d come away from home a bit,
like, and so I naturally thought 0’ Ann
Hepburn. I shall be in rather a fix for a
night’s lodgin’ too,” she added.
John took down another pipe, and joined
James in worshipping the blessed Saint.
The situation was rapidly becoming em-
barassing, and the brothers recognised it
vaguely.
' “ I've money to pay for a lodging,” said


IO FROM THE BROAD ACRES
the girl, looking round her with eyes that
seemed to see nothing. “ Happen ”
“ I’m afeard there’s nowt no nearer than
Darthington,” said James, hastily.
“ N o, nowt nearer nor that,” said John,
with equal haste.
The girl stared.
“ Why, that’s the village I came through
on the way from Sicaster,” she said.
“ Ay, it is,” replied James.
“ And it’s a good mile back on the road,”
she continued, with a certain amount of
ruefulness.
Neither James nor John made answer
to this remark, and a period of silence
ensued, which was finally broken by the
young woman remarking :
“My name’s Julia Ann Twibey. John
Twibey, my father, used to work about
these parts at one time.”
“I recollect him,” said James, nodding
his head gravely. “ ’A wor shepherd to
owd George Robey at one time, as you
say.”
“ I thought somebody ’ud remember


THE ADVENT OF JULIA ANN II
him,” said Julia Ann, with a palpable
thankfulness. “It’s a poor job to be
wi’out a night’s lodgings in such weather
as this. So happen ”
James leaned forward and knocked the
ashes out of his pipe. He turned slowly
towards John, and an appealing look
passed between them. Then John spoke
—diffidently, but with an unmistakable
firmness:
“We’m lone men,” said John. “ We’ve
no women folk about t’ place. Ther’s just
me an’ James there—ever sin’ mi mother
died we’ve never had a woman to live i’ t’
house: we hev’ one ’at comes to clean up
for us, like, every day. And so we’re all
alone, an’—”
“Mercy on us!” said Julia Ann. “I
thowt ’at happen your mother, or your
sister, or your wife wor in t’ back
kitchen. Eh, dear—an’ I’ve made myself
$05. free ! ”
“ Now, there’s no harm done,” said
James. “But there it is—we hevn’t a
woman about t’ place. Or else we’d ha’


12 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
offered hospitality, as they call it—what,
John P ”
“ Ay, for sure ! ” said John, heartily;
“ we wo’d.” ‘
After a short silence, bursting with em-
barrassment, Julia Ann said :
“Well, I must away back to t’ public—
house at Darthington and see if I can’t get
lodgings for t’ night.”
“I’ll go wi’ you,” said James. “ It’s
noan fit for a woman to be out at this time
0’ night by herself."
“Oh, I couldn't think of it,” said Julia
Ann. “It seems such a shame to drag
you out when you’re so comfortable by the
fire.”
“ Nowt o’ t' sort—nowt o’ t’ sort,” de-
clared James.
“ And you’ll have to come back all that
way alone,” said Julia Ann.
“Why, I wor just thinkin’ I’d go an’
all,” said John, sheepishly. “It is lonely
along t’ road at nights.”
James and Julia Ann received this offer
in silence; it seemed to John that neither


THE ADVENT OF JULIA ANN 13
of them was impressed by his generosity.
“I don’t know ’at there’s any ’casion
for both on us to go out,” said James.
“ You’d best stay at home and keep t' fire
in.”
“ I'll bank it up,” answered John. “ It’ll
keep in for an hour or two," and he put a
shovelful of slack coal on the glowing
embers. This proceeding determined the
next event, and both brothers attired them-
selves in great coats and prepared to escort
Julia Ann Twibey to the shelter of the inn
at Darthington.
“ Eh, but it does seem a shame to take
two gentlemen out at this time 0’ night ! "
said Julia Ann. “I feel right concerned
about it. If you should happen to catch
cold and die! ”
James and John sighed in company.
The prospect was not cheerful, but they
plodded bravely forward along the sloppy
roads until they saw the lights of the inn.
Then they shook hands awkwardly with
Julia Ann and returned homeward.
“ She wor a fine-looking lass, yon,” said


14 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
James, after John had mixed a second
glass of toddy.
“Ay, she wor,” said John, thoughtfully.
“A rare fine ’un. I don’t know ’at I ever
seed a finer,” he added.
After that the brothers retired to bed,
and for some days neither of them men-
tioned Julia Ann. But on the fourth day
it chanced that John was busied with his
sheep in a turnip-field adjacent to the
village, and it suddenly occurred to him
that he might walk up to the King
George and make furtive inquiry as to the
stranger. Thither, then, he bent his steps,
and as he came abreast of the open door
he saw James descending the hill from
Sicaster, and evidently bent on calling at
the inn. John paused, and the~brothers
met in the middle of the cross-roads.
“ Now, then ?” said John.
“Now, then ?” said James.
“ What art doin’ here, like?” inquired
John, curiously.
“Nay,” answered James, with a certain
amount of apology, “I wor comin’ this


THE ADVENT OF JULIA ANN [7
“That’s nowt,” said James. “ I’m t’
biggest.”
“I spok’ to her t’ first,” said John.
“ Shoo shak’d hands wi’ me t’ last," said
James.
A longer silence followed upon this.
Both men breathed hard ; the eyes of each
sought anything rather than the other’s
face.
“I don’t want to have no unpleasant-
ness,” said James; “but I aim at weddin’
wi’ Julia Ann. I’m bahn to t’ inn to fin' out
her direction, and then I shall go see her."
“That’s what I come for, too,” said John.
“ I’ve as much reight as thee! An it wor
me ’at oppened t’ door to her, an’ all.”
“Shoo consaited herself wi’ me t’ best,”
affirmed James. “ I’m a head and shoulders
bigger nor thee, and t' wimmen likes a
proper man.”
“ Niver thee mind,” said John. “I can
stan’ up to thee onny time, and I’ll feight
thee for Julia Ann just now if thou likes!
Shoo wodn’t niver ha’ cum into t’ house if
I hedn’t oppened t’ door ! ”
B


18 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
James stared hard at his brother.
“ l’m noan fain’ o’ feighting thi,” he said.
“I wodn’t like to hurt thee, John, but if
thou hits me I shall knock t’ stuffin’ out on
thi—so theer! ”
“Well, thee hit me! ” said John, invit-
ingly. He began to dance round his
brother in irregular circles. “Thee hit
me 1 Hit me! Hit me ! ”
“ Nay, thee hit me ! ” said James. “ Now,
hit me—nobbut hit me ! ”
At that moment Robert the Mouldy-
warp Catcher came out of the inn and
walked along the road. John and James
caught sight of him and behaved them-
selves. Robert was laughing heartily.
When he came up to them he leaned
against the fence and chuckled until his fat
sides shook.
“Eh, dear, eh, clear!” he said. “ There’s
no fooil like an’ owd fooil! Ye know owd
Dick ’at keeps t’ King George? He’s
sixty year owd at t’ least, an’ he’s been a
widdyer thisten year—shoo wor a decent
owd lass wor his missis—shoo’s gi’en me


THE ADVENT OF JULIA ANN 19
many a pint o’ ale —an’ what do ye think
t’ owd fooil’s bahn to dew? Theer wor a
lass come there for lodgin’s t' other neet, and
owd Dick wor ta’en by her good looks,
and he axed her to stop on for t’ barmaid,
and shoo’d nowt to do, so shoo did.
An’ now—eh, dear l—he’s axed her to wed
him, an’ they’re bahn to be married as
sooin as t’ parson can get ’em axed to ’t
church. Jewlia Ann they call her—eh,
dear, dear ! ”
John and James walked slowly down the
road to the inn. James untied his horse
and rode homeward. When John arrived
there the dinner was all ready, and two
foaming pints of ale stood by each cover.
They sat down and fell to.
“I’ve no opinion 0’ wimmen,” said
James, with amouth full of boiled beef and
carrots.
“Nor me, ayther,” said John. He took
a deep pull at his pint. “But shoo’s a
rare fine made un, is Julia Ann," he added,
somewhat regretfully.





THE MAN FROM BALLYKIPPAS
TERENCE SWEENY walked along the plain
monotony of the English highway with a
fine scorn of the dust that had gathered on
the cart track in its middle and on the
broad stretches of turf at the sides. It
was a blazing hot July afternoon, and he
had tasted nothing but water since morn-
ing; for what is there in the way of enter-
tainment for either man or beast between
Cornchester and Sicaster save the Fox
and Hounds, which stands too far from
the former and too near the latter? And
Terry was still miles from the Fox and
Hounds, and within his ken there was
neither village nor farmstead to be seen.
It seemed to him that he had come into as
strange a land as ever man heard of, for


22 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
he had now walked what he vainly
imagined to be several miles, and had seen
no more sign of human habitation than an
occasional farmstead or cottage by the
wayside. Had he but known it, there
were villages and hamlets all along the
way, concealed from him by thick belts of
trees, where he might have assuaged his
thirst and inquired for the work which he
was truly desirous of finding. But Terry
was a stranger in the land of the Saxon,
and knew naught of this particular district,
and so he trudged on, kicking up the
white dust, and now and then changing
his bundle and the cudgel which supported
it from the left shoulder to the right, just
by way of relief.
“Faith!” said Terry to himself for the
hundredth time, “ ’tis a sthrange counthry
this where a man may walk six mile on
end and nivir wet his lips! Av it was the
wildest bog land in Galway it couldn’t be
lonelier thravellin’.”
But there the road took a sharp turn
and a sudden dip, and he found himself


MAN FROM BALLYKIPPAS 23
gazing on a tiny hamlet, where the houses
clustered about a little bridge which
spanned a narrow brown—hued stream.
Terry stood and looked, and counted two
farmsteads, a dozen cottages, a black-
smith's shop, and a general repository of
sweetstuff and small groceries. But he
sought in vain for any sign of a public-
house ; and at that he scratched his head,
and turned with a sigh to the nearest of
the two farmsteads, a great, rambling
house whose gable overhung the highway.
There was a little door in the ivy-covered
wall. He pushed it open, and thrust an
inquisitive head into the garden.
It was a rare picture that Terence
Sweeny thus set eyes on. In the middle
of as quaint a garden as a man might find
in a long day’s march sat a girl, whose
light dress made a show of bright colour
against the glossy green of the trees and
shrubs. She was half curled up on a rustic
seat at the foot of an ancient yew, and by
her side stood a basket in which she had
evidently carried vegetables from the


24 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
kitchen garden. Just then, however, she
had forgotten the vegetables and their
destiny, for she was so deep in a book that
she paid no attention to the sound of the
latch falling behind the Irishman's entrance.
Terry stood wide-mouthed, gazing at her.
There was a glint of red gold in her hair,
the lashes of her downcast eyes were thick
and silky, a delicately-rounded chin was
half sunk in the billowy muslin that draped
her ripe bosom. One hand, shapely and
strong, hung over the arm of the rustic
seat
Terry ventured on an apologetic cough,
and scraped one dusty foot on the gravel
of the side-walk. The girl looked up—
oh! but her eyes were blue as the lift of
heaven itself ! The old, ineradicable
Celtic admiration leaped fierce and strong
' in the harvester’s breast, and he pulled off
his ragged cap like the gentleman he was.
The girl stared at the action and rose
instinctively to her feet. Terry uttered
the customary formula.
“God save ye kindly, miss,” said he.


26 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
“ Kitty! Kitty ! Don’t you know we’re
waiting for those vegetable? Be quick ! ”
“ Oh, bother—in a minute ! ” cried Kitty.
She burst into a little parlour and dis~
covered old Dick Joyce reading the
newspaper over his tankard of ale. Old
Dick looked up. The girl seized him
by the lapels of his coat and shook him
playfully.
“ Dad! There’s the most lovely Irish;
man in the garden—all rags and dust and
things—‘ wantin’ worruk,’ as they call it—
and you’ve got to come out and hire him
just now! Come!”
“Don’t want any Irishmen,” growled'
old Dick. “Tell him to go away at
once.”
“ Now, dad, and you said at breakfast
that you wanted another hand I ”
“I’ve hired Tom Beckett since then,
lass.”
Kitty frowned.
“I don’t care,” she said. “You’ve got
to hire this man—he’s a beauty. Come
along, father! ”


MAN FROM BALLYKIPPAS 27
“ Humph ! ” said old Dick. “ I don’t
want him.”
“ But, father, he’s walked ever so far ”
“ Let ’un walk farther.”
“ Father! And he’s thirsty ”
“ Gi’ ’un a pint 0’ beer, then."
“Now, father, come out and hire him;
and then I’ll give you a kiss. Father—
father ! ”
“ Lor’ bless the gel l” said old Dick, lift-
ing himself out of the chair. “ But what
mun I do Wi’ him?” he asked, in ludicrous
doubt
“Oh—tell him to look round him; he
can do something or other,” said Kitty,
and drew him, grumbling and groaning, to
the garden door. “ See, there he is, dad.
Look at his golden hair sticking out of the
holes in his cap ! ”
Old Dick looked and frowned.
“Now, my lad,” he said. “Wantin’ a
job, eh ? ”
“ Av ye plase, sor,” answered Terry.
“ Humph! ” said old Dick. “ We’m
pretty full-handed, but ”


28 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
So old Dick got his promised kiss, and
Terry Sweeny went round to the farm
buildings to take up his quarters in the
hayloft and start on his labours for the
harvest month. That evening he borrowed
needle and thread from the dairymaid, and
occupied himself until dusk in mending his
rags and tatters. Kitty saw him thus en-
gaged and talked to the dairymaid about
it. There was something in Terry’s pic-
turesqueness that appealed to her: she was
not sure that she did not like him best in
his rags.
Terry, on his part, duly questioned the
dairymaid as to the young missis. Thus
he discovered that she was the only child
and that everybody worshipped and gave
way to her, and he joined the devotees and
prepared to exceed them in fervour and
worship. And indeed, there was good
reason why he should be thus converted,
for Kitty Joyce was undoubtedly the finest
girl in the wapentake, and went about her
small world with a gracious ease and aban-
don that would have melted the heart of an


MAN FROM BALLYKIPPAS 29
anchorite. Whether she was singing about
the house or riding through the land at her
father’s side, she was always reminiscent
of a sunbeam that lights up a whole hill-
side with its kindly warmth. And Terry
Sweeny saw it, and behaved himself ac—
cordingly.
On the fourth day from his coming old
Dick Joyce started the corn harvest, and at
“drinking time” that morning he and
Kitty rode into the field where the men
and women had laboured since an early
hour. The harvesters sat under the shade
of a grove of trees to drink their ale and eat
their bread and cheese, and Kitty heard
the babble of their voices as she tied up
her pony to the bough of a low-branched
elm. Old Dick was tethering his horse
at a little distance. The grove of trees
stood between him and the harvesters. He
suddenly turned and called softly to his
daughter:
“ Kitty, come here! ”
Kitty went nearer, treading lightly
among the fallen sheaves as if she antici-


30 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
pated the revelation of some secret. Old
Dick lifted his hand: an amused, half-sly
expression crossed his face and gleamed in
his eye.
“They’re having a bit 0’ fun wi’ your
Irishman, lass,” he whispered. “Listen.”
Kitty peeped through the lattice-work of
the intervening branches. The men and
women were grouped in picturesque fashion
at the foot of the stooks of corn : the great
can of ale and the basket of bread and
cheese formed their centre point. There
were old men and young, with two or three
women and as many farm lads, and Terry
Sweeny was the only Irishman among
them. And so Terry sat apart from the
rest—what self-respecting English rustic
would sit bya heathen Irishman ?——and ate
his “drinking” in solitude. And he would
fain have added peace to the solitude, but
that was asking too much of the gods who
pull the strings. In those days an Irish
harvester was fair game to the English
labourers. What right had he to obtrude
himself upon their own preserves and work


MAN FROM BALLYKIPPAS 3r
for two shillings a week less than they
did ?
An impudent-faced farm lad was teasing
Terry in the approved fashion. His vicious
little face, the cheeks of it bulbed out with
a mouthful of bread and cheese, was turned
to the Irishman with an expression of
malicious glee. The insolent little voice
spat forth an insult at every word, and the
foolish laughter of the men and women
came in as chorus, and spurred the lad on
to fresh efforts. Terry sat in silence. He
might not have heard a word. But a
sudden, filthy jest at his rags sent the blood
flushing over his face, and the old farmer
and his daughter saw the Irishman’s hand
half lift itself from the mug of ale that
stood on the ground beside him. Then
it dropped back quietly, and the men and
women ceased their laughter as the lad
began another jest. It was rare good fun
to bait a wandering Irishman in this way.
It made the “drinking ” go down sweeter.
The farm lad turned his attention to
Terry’s supposed religion, imitating the


32 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
Irishman’s brogue with wickedly-ludicrous
faithfulness.
“ Be th’ Howly Vargin,” he began, “ ’tis
sore afraid I am that ye’ll all—ow—ow ! ”
The dog-whip which Miss Kitty carried
was of an astonishing quality, and the little
knot at its end stung like a hornet as it bit
into the lads bare arm. He sprang to his
feet in astonishment, only to find his young
mistress standing before him with blazing
eyes and the whip descending once more.
Once—twice—thrice it came, with light—
ning swiftness,about his arms and shoulders,
making him dance and caper in a fashion
that set the men and women screaming
with laughter. The lad wore naught but
shirt and breeches, and the shirt was thin.
He strove hard to rub away the smart;
and as he rubbed, the dog—whip came down
once more, fair and square across his
shoulders, drawing out of him a piteous
howl. Then Kitty looked about her.
Terry had risen to his feet, looking troubled
and half afraid.
“ Faith, missis ! ” he said, in a low voice,


MAN FROM BALLYKIPPAS 33
“ I wouldn’t thrubble meself—sure, he’s
not worth it.”
The lad began to swear and curse, rub-
bing his stinging shoulders meanwhile.
“ A’m nooan bahn to be knocked about bi
her, nor noabody else ! A’ll tak’ t’ law ”
Down came the dog-whip again with a
force that sent surprise and indignant
misery welling up in fierce waves to the
victim’s heart. He burst into a storm of
furious tears, and old Dick thought it time
to step into the arena.
“There, there, lass! ” he said in a low
voice to his daughter. “That’ll do; thou’s
done rather too much as it is.” He turned
to the lad and motioned him off with an
indignant gesture. “ Now, then, thou can
go and tak’ t’ law, as thou calls it,” said old
Dick, “and much good it’ll do thee, thou
foul-mouthed young rapscallion. Let me
catch thee plaguing any 0’ my men agen
and I’ll gi’ thee some 0’ my whip—dost
hear ? Now, then, lads and lasses, get to
your work, and don’t tease each other.”
The men and women went off, and old
0


34 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
Dick looked at his pretty daughter
admiringly.
“Shouldst ha’ been a man, lass!” he
said. “ Ay, ay, shouldst ha’ been a
man,” and he began to chuckle and laugh
until Kitty had to slap his back for him.
“Sarved un reight! ” said old Dick. “Sarved
un reight, it did! ”
That night Kitty met Terence Sweeny
in the gloom of the apple-orchard, whither
the cook had despatched him for a basket
of apples. She looked at him dubiously.
“Why didn’t you give that boy a good
thrashingthis morning, Sweeny ?”she asked.
Terry laughed—a rich, full-voiced laugh
that suggested infinite possibilities of fun
and merriment.
“Thrash um, is it, missis? Faith, I’d
no wish to stir up a divarsion in that way.
’Twas amusin’ himself and the men and
women he was; and sure he did me no
hurt. And ye’ll remember, missis, it’s all
be meself I am in this place.”
Kitty’s cheeks flamed in the darkness.
“Why, you are a poor-spirited sort of


MAN FROM BALLYKIPPAS 35
man,” she cried. “I wouldn’t have cared
if I’d been alone among fifty strangers. If
they’d insulted me—-”
“I’d ha’ thrashed ’em hard enough then,”
said Terry in a whisper that Kitty did not
catch.
“—I’d have fought every man of them,"
continued Kitty. “ I wouldn’t have sat by
quietly, as you did.”
“Sure, ’twas best,” said Terence Sweeny.
“Av it had been at home, now, at Bally-
kippas, I’d ha’ given the young spalpeen
a lesson ; but was it any good to be
fightin’ and brawlin’ here where I’m a
stranger ? ”
For a moment Kitty said nothing. She
was a bit vexed with the beautiful Irishman.
She felt that he ought to have been a hero
with such good looks and proud eyes as he
possessed.
“I’m afraid you’re a bit of a coward,
Sweeny,” she said, and walked away into
the gloom of the apple-trees.
Terry’s fingers tightened round the
handle of the bucket with a sudden grip.


36 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
He looked after the white figure disap-
pearing in the thick gloom.
“A bit of a coward am I, thin ? ” he said
to himself. “Ah, well, well—but ’tis
wimmin that are the quare things—so they
are!”
During the rest of the harvest month
Terry Sweeny saw but little of the young
mistress. She never spoke to him again,
and his adoration of her was perforce per-
formed from afar off. He did his work
and slept in the hayloft, and the folks in
the harvest-field said little to him. At
“ drinking ” and meal-times he sat apart
from them; but at night, when the dusk
fell, he “collogued” with the maids at the
kitchen door, and thus enjoyed social con-
verse and harmony. The maids admired
his beauty, and wished that the stolid
Hodges and Dicks were fashioned in such
a mould. Whether Terry admired the
maids was another matter. They thought
he did, and were satisfied accordingly.
On a cool September day, when the
leaves were just beginning to turn from


38 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
the men chattered and laughed as they
lounged forward, forks and rakes on
shoulder, on either side of it. The road
dipped there to a sharp turn, and at the
foot of the dip, and at the most difficult
angle of the turn, was a disused quarry,
lying fifty feet beneath, with flimsy posts
and rails loosely driven into the strip of
grass at its edge. Within a hundred yards
of it the men suddenly paused, and as
suddenly turned, to stare back along the
straight, sloping highway. As they turned,
their faces blanched with a fear that
quickly deepened into horror. And, last
of all, Terence Sweeny turned, and cried
out at what he saw.
Along the highway, gathering speed at
every yard, came the dog-cart which Kitty
Joyce was fond of driving about in. It
was being propelled towards the harvest
waggon and the group of labourers at a
terrifying speed by a horse that was
evidently beyond all control. Kitty sat
straight up, pulling at the reins: behind
her, urging his nag to its greatest speed,


MAN FROM BALLYKIPPAS 39
but hopelessly out of the running, came
Old Dick. ‘
A murmur of horror rose from the
men.
“Runnin’ away wi’ her! T’ gaffer
warned her ageean takin’ t' young hoss
out. A’ heeard him warn her. It’s
nobbut just brokken in! What mun we
do? God! it’s maistered her!”
A man suddenly darted at the horses
which pulled the waggon, and drew them
and their load Out of the way. Whether
it was wise or not nobody stayed to
deliberate upon ; but when the road stood
clear a cry of warning rose from all the
men.
“T’ quarry! They’ll be ovver t’ quarry!
shoo’ll nivir turn yon corner. Lord ha’
massy ”
Then the infuriated beast was upon
them—a great, raking bay, eyes staring,
teeth set, rushing on, on
Terry Sweeny had said naught. From
the first moment he had not moved. But
now every muscle and sinew seemed to


40 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
tighten itself. The great beast was
coming— coming—coming— ah, it was
here! He sprang right at its head, pretty
much as a faithful dog springs at its
master’s enemy.
It was all over very quickly—too
quickly for a great tragedy, Kitty thought
afterwards. It scarcely seemed a minute
before the horse, trembling in every limb,
was being unharnessed from the dog-cart,
and she herself was kneeling beside the
Irishman, lying very still and quiet on the
grass by the roadside. What had exactly
happened she did not know, but she her-
self was safe and sound, wind and limb,
while Terry Sweeny
“T’ horse fell reight on to him as he
pulled it down just on t’ edge 0’ t' quarry,”
said the foreman in a low voice to old
Dick. “ I'm afeard it’s all over wi’ him,
maister; it mun ha’ crushed his chest in.”
The Irishman opened his eyes. Kitty’s
face was close to his. She was never sure
of it, but she thought he smiled, and she
bent still closer to him. She was some-


MAN FROM BALLYKIPPAS 41
thing more than glad afterwards that she
let the generous emotions of her impulsive
heart have their own way for once, and
that she spoke her gratitude to the dying
Irishman in that farewell kiss. For
suddenly the wandering harvester was
dead by the roadside; and the strangers
among whom he had lived for a short
month stood staring at each other’s sor-
rowful faces across his body—tattered and
torn and dirty as to his habiliments as
when he had come down the road that
summer morning and peeped into the cool
garden to catch a glimpse of Kitty Joyce
sitting under the yew-tree.





THE MAN CHILD
IT was not until Yordas Scrope's wife had
borne him their third child that the great
trouble of his life fell fairly upon him.
Disappointment he had twice known, but
the man who is disappointed twice looks
to the third time for the certainty of com-
pensation. He hopes and is disappointed;
then he hopes still more earnestly and is
disappointed once more; and after that his
hopes become fiercely strenuous, and he
says to himself, “This is the third time,
and with the third time Fortune must
surely come. Icannot, will not, be dis-
appointed again!” Thus it was in the
case of Yordas Scrope : once and twice he
was disappointed, and the second time
hardened him to disbelieve in the possi-


44 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
bility of a third shattering of his hopes.
What he desired must come, he said, deep
down in his heart, and he was so much
master of his thoughts as to put the matter
aside and wait the event. And so he
waited, and at last the moment came, and
then Yordas Scrope found, scarce believ-
ing the messenger who told him of it, that
he was disappointed yet again. That was
the third time. He was conscious, when
he recognised the import of the news, that
the third disappointment was infinitely
worse than the first or second. Something
surged high in his breast, and a feeling as
of sickness overwhelmed him. So he sat
in his elbow-chair by the farmhouse fire,
while the North Sea sobbed and moaned
beneath the headlands at the edge of his
land, and as he sat he thought, and his
thoughts were sore and uneasy.
The manner of Yordas Scrope’s dis-
appointment was this: He was one of the
last of the yeomen, and all around the
ancient house beneath whose roof he had
slept every night of his life lay a thousand


THE MAN CHILD 45
acres of good corn land that had been owned
by Scropes for more years than any of them
could reckon. Yordas Scrope succeeded
to Yordas Scrope in due order, and each
married at an early age in order that the
succession might be kept on. This Yordas
Scrope married at twenty-one, and soon
after his marriage his father died, and the
land was his. Then he looked forward to
the birth of his first child, hoping fora boy.
The child came, and a feeling of bitter
disappointment passed over Yordas’s soul
when they told him that he was the father
of a fine girl. He wanted no girls, he
growled to himself; at least, not until he
had seen his boy on his knees. And so
he set his hopes on the next child, and
something like anger rose in his heart
when that turned out to be a girl too. His
wife saw the trouble in his eyes, and was
half afraid and full of sorrow, for he was a
masterful, headstrong man, and she a weak,
colourless woman, that compared to him
but as a shadow to substance. Yordas
Scrope spoke no word to her, however, and


46 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
yet somehow she felt as if a certain blame
lay at her door. And so she prayed, as
women will, that the next child she bore
him might be a boy, and she wore herself
to a shadow with her anxiety and her
vigils, and Yordas Scrope, man—like, saw
naught of it. And now the third child was
come and it was a daughter, and the
mother lay nigh unto death in the great
chamber upstairs, and Yordas sat by the
fire, sick at heart and full of unreasoning
anger against the fates or powers, what-
ever they were, that had thus far baffled
him.
“As if I wanted a lass ! ” growled he,
staring at the dull glow of .the driftwood
fire. “ Did ever I ask for one ? and here I
have three mewling and whining about the
house. Why was not one of them a lad-—
big, strong, lively—to carry on the old
name and take over the land 'when my
time comes? A lad—a lad—I wanted a
lad! Surely, there were lasses enow ! ”
So the trouble of his life came upon him.
He grew morose, restless, moody, and ill-


48 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
the autumn twilight from the lonely church-
yard, where he had buried the dead
woman, that he would never marry again.
There was some curse on him, he said to
himself bitterly, and he would no more
expose himself to its malevolence. But
there and then, his heart, which was not
without cunning, began to devise ways and
means of circumventing the fate which
had so relentlessly pursued him thus far.
A Yordas Scrope there must be to succeed
him, and that Yordas Scrope must come
from the Scrope stock. And then an idea
struck him, and he looked round at the
two elder girls, who had followed to the
funeral with him, and the idea took root in
his heart and flourished.
That night Yordas Scrope, as he smoked
by the driftwood fire, took his pipe out of
his mouth and spoke to his eldest daughter,
who was weeping quietly to herself as she
bent her head over her sewing.
“How old art thou, lass?” he asked
gruffiy.
The girl lifted her head in surprise. She


THE MAN CHILD 49
was a well-grown lass, of ample shape and
fine features, and just then trouble made
her look older than she was.
“I am nearly seventeen, father,” she
answered. -
Yordas Scrope bowed his head. -
“ It is time thou wert married, lass,” he
said. “ Is there any lad in thy mind of all
the lads hereabouts P”
The girl’s eyes opened wide, half in fear
and half in amazement. She shook her
head; there were so few young men' in
those lonely parts, and, besides, she was so
young! .
“I will find thee a husband, lass,” said
Yordas. To himself he said, “She shall
bear him a son, and we will call him
Yordas Scrope. He shall have no other
name but that.”
The girl said nothing; only she wept
the more for her dead mother. But there
was no gainsaying Yordas; amongst his
own folk his word was law, and one might
as well have bidden defiance to the wild
North Sea as to question him. Moreover,
D


5o FROMZQTHE BROAD ACRES
she was a woman, and women, she had
been told, were made to obey.
The next day Yordas Scrope went
across his land to a farmstead where dwelt
a young man who found it sore work to
make ends meet. His name was Ulf
Broxa, and he was the best-looking lad in
those parts, and of well-proved honesty.
He stared wonderingly at Yordas when
the latter entered the farmstead kitchen.
Yordas went straight to the point.
“I have come to offer thee my lass,
Hilda, in marriage,” he said. “ My wife
is dead, and we had ne’er a son, and a
Yordas Scrope there must be to keep up
my name and take my land when my time
comes. But I will marry no more—I have
sworn it. Ulf Broxa, if thou wilt marry
my lass she shall have a rich portion with
her, and I will help thee when it is needed,
and your son shall take my name. Is it
yes, or no ?”
Now Ulf Broxa had often cast eyes of
admiration on Hilda, and his heart leapt
within him on hearing these words from


THE MAN CHILD 51
Yordas Scrope. And he said that if Hilda
were willing he would do all that Yordas
asked. Yordas stared at him.
“What has the lass to do with it?” he
said, curtly. “ Then, ’tis a bargain. You
two shall be wed this day month.” And
he strode away homewards and told his
daughter of what he had done, and gave
her money and bade her make ready for
the marriage. And that night Ulf Broxa
came courting, and he was gentle and full
of sympathy, and the girl’s heart went out
to him, and so, by the end of the month,
and before they were man and wife,
these two loved each other and were
haPPY-
After they were wedded Yordas Scrope’s
hopes began to rise afresh in his heart.
The months went by and he pictured him-
self with Hilda’s boy sitting on his knees.
And at last the time came and Yordas and
Ulf waited for news. Ulf thought Of
naught but his wife’s safety, but Yordas
could not speak for the excited desire
within him. It seemed a long time, and
UBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS


52 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
the voice seemed a long way off which
brought them the news at last.
, “ It is a woman-child !”
Yordas went out into the night. He
looked up at the stars and cursed his fate.
As he walked across his land it seemed to
him as if the soil were crumbling away
from him, and his heart was full of bitter-
ness.
. When he next met Ulf the young father
was full of joyous gaiety. His wife was
doing well, and the girl-child was healthy
and promising, and had its mother’s eyes.
“ Better luck next time,” said Ulf, gaily,
smiling at Yordas. But Yordas glared at
him and went away without a word. . Next
time! This was the seventh time he had
hoped for a boy that would come of the
Scrope blood and bear the Scrope name,
and all his hopes had been disappointed.
Nay—he began to lose faith, or, rather,
he began to believe firmly that fate was
against him, and had laid him under a
curse for ever.
So the years went on until Ulf and


THE MAN CHILD 53
Hilda had been married five summers,
and by that time there were three children
in the little farmstead on the borders of
Yordas Scrope’s land, 'but they were all
girls.. And the bitterness grew in Yordas’s
heart until it settled down in a fierce re-
sentment against all things. For a year
he spoke to neither Ulf nor Hilda; at
their three children he would not look.
They should have been lads—lads—lads!
he said to himself. Thus he became a
lonely man, for his other daughters were
sore afraid of him, and kept out of his way,
and so he sat by his hearth and aged faster
than a man should.
But as he sat in solitude one winter
night, listening to that perpetual sobbing
of the sea, Yordas Scrope heard the sound
of hurrying feet in the kitchen, of loud,
excited voices amongst the women, and
then of a man’s heavy step making for the
parlour. Then the door was thrown open,
and Ulf Broxa stood on the threshold,
excited and breathless. He lifted his
hands towards Yordas Sorope.


54 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
“A son !” he cried. “We have a son !
At last! ”
Yordas Scrope stood staring at him.
All the disappointed hopes of the long
years seemed to crowd into his brain in
one fierce torrent, and something burst in
his heart. He strove to speak, and raised
his hand, but at the movement suddenly
fell forward, and when they lifted him he
was dead. And Ulf Broxa, staring at
him, looked back fearfully in his mind
across the dark moor, and heard ringing
in his ears the feeble wailing of the long-
desired man-child, which had come at last
and whose face the dead man would now
never set eyes on.


FOR THE GOOD OF HIS SOUL
JOSIAH woke in the darkness of the winter
morning and suddenly remembered what
day it was upon which he thus entered. It
was Sunday, and in the afternoon he was
to make his first essay as a local preacher.
Thus was a long cherished ambition of
Josiah’s heart to be realised. From his
youth upwards he had betrayed to the
world a deeply-religious frame of mind,
and for some years the Methodists had
looked upon him as a promising herald of
the truth. In prayer-meeting and class-
meeting Josiah had always been an object
of mark, and the itinerant ministers who
succeeded each other were unanimous in
affirming that young Brother Briggs would
eventually become not merely a credit but


56 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
a valuable addition to the preaching power
of the local ministry. Josiah heard all
these things, and said little. In his heart
he knew that his ideas and ambitions went
far beyond local preaching. His dearest
hope, yieldedto. at first with a delightful
sense of fear, and afterwards with more
certainty and assurance, was that he might
become a travelling minister. He let this
hope Carry him away So much that he
began to build daydreams out of it. He
saw himself» a student, a fully-ordained
minister, 'popular preacher, circuit Super-
intendent, perhaps even—this was a
thought'that only came in the wildest
moments—perhaps even President of the
Conference. And why not? he said to
himself, defending his own thoughts—had
there not been other examples of men
rising from the plough to high place? And
he was not a ploughman, but a journey-
man carpenter, earning good wages, and
therefore able to buy books and study
them. - f
Josiah rose and attired himSelf in the


THE GOOD OF HIS SOUL 57
new suit of sober black in which he was to
make his (MW! in the pulpit. He had
wished to look1 as well as possible, for one
of the circuit ministers was coming to hear
him preach, and there would be several
local brethren present, in whose'eyes he
wished to I' present a good appearance.
When he was fully dressed he went down-
stairs into the little living-room. vHis
sister, who kept house for him, was
bustling about the table, and there was a
pleasant odour of bacon and eggs. The
sister looked sharply at him.
“You’ve been having a poorish night,
lad,” she said. “ It’ll be a good job when
all this excitement’s over. I don’t know
’at it’s a good thing for a man that has his
business to attend to should spend so much
time in reading and studying, not to say
preaching. It’s trying work.”
Josiah sighed. His sister was not of his
way of thinking, and it was a sore point
between them that she never attended any
place of worship. But he knew from long
experience that it was useless to expostu-


THE GOOD OF HIS SOUL 59
toast—t’ idea 0’ tryin' to preych wi’ nowt i’
your belly ! ”
When Eliza was roused out of her usual
phlegmatic state she invariably relapsed
into the vernacular, much to the sorrow of
Josiah, who had laboured painfully to
correct his own shortcomings in the matter
Of speech and pronunciation. And so,
knowing by this unmistakable sign that she
was roused, Josiah made an effort to eat
and drink, and succeeded miserably.
“Thou doesn’t look very happy about
it, lad! ” exclaimed his sister presently.
“ About what, Eliza ? ”
“Why, about occupying t’ pulpit at t’
chapel. I’m sewer thou’s looked forward
long enow to it, but now ’at it’s come
thou’s gotten a face as long as a fiddle! ”
“It’s a serious matter, Eliza. I can’t
help feeling anxious about it.”
“Why ? Tak’ care not to knock thysen
up, lad. T’ Methodies ’11 none keep thee
if thou runs thi blood to water for ’em—
don’t mak’ no mistake about that!”
Josiah said nothing. He finished his


60 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
breakfast, returned thanks to the Lord for
providing it, and took up his Bible again.
Until eleven o’clock he read and thought,
and every moment the agitation at his
heart grew stronger. At last he could
bear it no longer. He rose, and took
down his coat and hat from the rail on the
wall. ‘
“ Now, then, where are you going?”
asked Eliza. .
“ I’m going for a long walk," answered
Josiah. “ I want to think over my
sermon.” '
“Deal better think over it here,” she
said sharply. “It’s bitter cold out 0’ doors.
However, wilful folk must have their own
way. But remember ’at t’, dinner ’11 be
ready at half-past twelve.”
Josiah stood fingering the catch.
“ Eliza,” he said, “ I daresay I shan’t be
home to dinner. I think I shall walk a
long way, and just get back to the chapel
in time. 1—1 must keep moving about
to-day. I’m—I’m a bit excited, Eliza.”
Then, before the indignant surprise on


THE GOOD OF HIS SOUL 61
Eliza's face could be translated into words,
he closed the door and left the cottage,
and she heard him stride rapidly away.
Eliza banged her saucepan on the hob with
righteous violence. -
“ Drat them Methodies ! ” she said.
“An’ me tewin’ and toilin’ to get him
summat to tempt his appetite wi’» Eh,
dear—religion’s a deal to answer for!”
Meanwhile Josiah went striding towards
the dark belt of wood that closed the east-
ward prospect. There was a strong frost
on the ground, and the gloomy sky over-
head seemed to threaten snow. He
scarcely perceived either; he walked on
with bent head and moody eyes, choosing
unfrequented paths, until he came to a
retired corner of the woods. There was a
little cleared space there where he had
often come to study and think. He now
began to pace up and down, up and down
its length, his head still bent, his eyes fixed
on the ground. As he walked his lips
moved, but there was nothing joyful in
Josiah’s face.


62 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
He had thus walked and muttered to
himself for nearly two hours, when he
suddenly threw up his arms with some-
thing between a shout and a sob.
“ I can’t do it! I can’t do it! ” he cried.
“I shall be lost for ever if Ido. Lost!
Damned—beyond forgiveness! What
must I do? God knows all, and nobody
else. What will He say if I don’t tell
them ?—and what will they say if I do ? ”
And he wrung his hands in an agony of
thought.
It was nearly half-past two, which was
the hour for beginning service, when
Josiah entered the vestry of the chapel.
The class-leader met him with a beaming
face, and rubbed his hands with pious
enjoyment of the greatness of the occasion.
“Eh, Brother Briggs!” he exclaimed.
“There’s the grandest congregation—t’
chapel’s filled to t’ doors! There’s t’
Super here, and six locals—praise the
Lord. I hope there’ll be blessin’s in
abundance.”
Josiah made no answer. He was taking


THE GOOD OF HIS SOUL 63
off his overcoat while the class-leader
spoke, and when he turned round the old
man noticed his drawn features and haggard
eyes.
“'Eh, mi lad!” he said. “You’re ill.
You’d better ”
“ It’s nothing," answered Josiah. “I
shall be all right—presently. Isn’t it time
to begin service?”
Josiah walked up the pulpit steps with
downcast head, but as he trod that sacred
eminence for the first time he lifted his
eyes and looked round the congregation.
He saw a sea of eager, excited faces, but
here and there one of them stood out from
the rest. There was Eliza in the front
pew, and there the gravely encouraging
face of the superintendent minister, and
there other familiar faces, all showing a
certain proud interest in him. And all
over the chapel there was that curious hum
which betokens intense spiritual feeling.
For a moment Josiah knelt to pray, and
when he rose to his feet every eye in the
chapel was drawn to his white face and


64 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
burning eyes as needles are drawn to a
magnet. Every one grasped a hymn book,
eager to relieve the pent-up feelings in
song as soon as he should give out the
opening hymn. But Josiah gave out no
hymn. His hands sought the desk before
him, and his fingers ~cloSed convulsively
over- its edge as he bent forward. And at
his first words a dead silence fell over the
people. , -
“My friends!- You have come here
to-day, into God's house, to hear me preach
my first sermon. I ought to begin the
service of praise and prayer now. I can-
not—I dare not. I am not fit to lead your
devotions nor to preach to you. And yet
I’d prepared asermon. Eh! "—his speech
drew nearer and nearer to the vernacular
of his youth as the excitement grew
stronger within him—'“eh! if you only
knew how I’d toiled at- it and prayed ower
it. And I should ha’ been prayin’ about
something else. For I've been a hypocrite
and a liar these four years—professin’ to
be something ’at I’m not, and lettin’ you


THE GOOD OF HIS SOUL 65
all think—never mind ; you shall now know
what I am.
“My friends, you’re lookin’ at a thief!
Stop ! ”—an excited murmur rose amongst
the people, relieved here and there by a
sharp cry of women—“ Stop, you’ll hear
me out. A thief—yes, just as much as
any that’s in the gaol to-day. And worse,
for I was never found out, and never con-
fessed. I’m going to confess now—to you.
I’ve confessed to God many a time, but
happen not in the right way, for it wasn’t
till to-day ’at He seemed to hear me.
“You all know how fond I’ve been 0’
readin’ and studyin’ good books, and some
0’ you knows ’at I’d not over-much to
spend on ’em. It’s four years since Mr.
Jones, ’at were Superintendent i’ this circuit
at that time, advised me to get a certain
book—it were expensive, he said, but it ’ud
be a deal 0’ use to me i’ my studies. Well,
t’ next time Iwent to Clothford I saw that
book in a second—hand shop where I some-
times bowt a book or two. And I asked
its price, and it were expensive—a pound.
E


68 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
came, to find yourself looking on a well-
ordered farm, with a homestead and a
little village at its rear, where you would
have expected to find naught but heather
and loneliness. There is nothing to be
seen of that homestead now, nor yet of
the village. The gulls and the curlews
are circling where they stood, and instead
of the voices of the ploughmen calling to
their horses across the brown land, you
will hear only the sobbing of the sea as
it frets its heart against the white beach
beneath the headlands.
There was but one man in Hardrade’s
Holme that had any power over the rest
of the folk there, and that was Thustin-
away Hardrade himself. The three hun-
dred acres of land were his; the homestead
was his; the little cots at the rear were
his. Hundreds of years before his time
some ancestor of his had sailed his ship
into Thorburn Wyke, or been cast away
there—whichever it was. There he had
stayed, to make war upon the moorland
and gradually win from it the good corn


THE REAPING MACHINE 69
and grass-land at which men came to
marvel. As the centuries went on the
Hardrades remained in their new holding
and no man ever questioned their title.
The homestead grew, and was replaced
more than once as age and necessity came
upon it. The cottages were built at the
rear, and Hardrade’s Holme was marked
in the surveyor’s map as a hamlet or
village. But however the years went by
the place never seemed to expand after it
had once reached its due proportions. No
Hardrade ever reared a great family.
With the birth of a son all desire for
children seemed to die away from him.
Daughters were looked upon with dis-
favour, and sent out into the world as
soon as possible with a marriage portion
and a stern command to find husbands and
settle their own futures. The dominant
notion of the family was—one Hardrade
for Hardrade’s Holme. And since domi-
nant notions prevail more frequently than
not it was not strange that for five gene-
rations no daughters, and only one son,


70 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
came to each Hardrade, and thus Thustin—
away Hardrade succeeded to Thustinaway
Hardrade in unbroken succession.
As for the folk that lived in the cots
behind the grim homestead there was little
difference between them and the ancient
serfs. There were seven or eight families
of them, and they had traditions even as
the Hardrades had. None but the head
of the family worked for the Master; all
others, male or female, if they werea super—
abundance in the land, must needs go away
across the moor and find work for them-
selves. Thus it came to be that the popula-
tion of Hardrade’s Holme never increased
to any appreciable extent. The folk married
and intermarried, and had children, and the
children grew up and went away, but as
the head of the family grew towards his
end the eldest son came back — it was
seldom the case that he did not come back
-—and took his father’s place, and there
was a younger man instead of an old
one, and so things went on. But as for
knowing aught of the world outside, the


72 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
ever he had taken in all his life before.
He had dressed himself in his suit of grey
cloth a week earlier, and had gone away
south and west to Driffield and Market
Weighton, and finally by way of the great
levels of Thorne Waste and Hatfield Chase
to Doncaster, where was being held what
he had never seen in all his sixty years’
experience—an agricultural show. There
he stayed some days, seeing many strange
things and hearing much talk among the
farmers about him. He saw new inven-
tions for the saving of labour, and was dis-
trustful of them, reckoning them as naught
but new-fangled gewgaws. But, just as
some men will take to themselves some
strange thing as a toy, so did Thustinaway
Hardrade set eyes upon areaping machine,
and covet it as a child covets a rattle in a
toy-shop window. They had been in use
some ten years at that time, these wonder-
ful contrivances that mowed down the corn
with so little effort, but Thustinaway Hard-
rade had never seen one before. He
watched the reaping machine at work, and


THE REAPING MACHINE 73
longed to possess one, and to set it in
motion against the waving crops that were
already white unto harvest in the rolling
acres between Hardrade’s Holme and the
North Sea. And in the end he bargained
with the implement makers ; and they sold
him a reaping machine, and he set out
homewards, and was as pleased with him-
self as a country wench who goes to the fair
and buys some fal-lal for her bedizening.
It was then early August, and the corn
was ready for scythe and sickle. Nothing
but scythe 0r sickle had ever been used for
its reaping in Hardrade’s Holme before,
and for three days ere Thustinaway Hard-
rade came home his men had been using
the whetstones wherewith the blades were
ground to keenness. And two of them
were feeling the edges of their scythes
when he strode into the barn, as proud of
his new implement as a child with a new
toy.
“No need of scythe or sickle again,
lads!” shouted Thustinaway Hardrade.
“ There is something waiting us at Grindle-


74 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
ford Station that will save us all the labour
that ever we knew before. To-morrow,
early in the morning, we will take a pair of
horses and go over to fetch it home.”
The men stared one at the other. They
had never heard of anything that would do
away with scythe and sickle, for news came
slowly to Hardrade’s Holme, and not a
man among them could read. So they
stared at each other, and from each other
they turned to Thustinaway.
“ ’Tis a machine, lads!” said he. “A
marvellous thing that cuts the corn by
itself, and lays it on the ground in regular
sheaves. No more labour with scythe or
sickle for you—all that you will have to do
in future will be to tie up the sheaves and
stook them. A wonderful thing! and so
let us have two stout horses at six in the
morning, and we will away to Grindleford
and fetch it home.”
Then he strode away, chuckling with
delight. But the men hung up their
scythes on the barn wall and went home-
ward in silence, And that night while


THE REAPING MACHINE 75
Thustinaway Hardrade sat at meat in his
parlour, the men and their women folk
talked in low whispers at their cottage
doors, and if he had heard what they said
Thustinaway would have felt the meat
taste bitter in his mouth. _
But Thustinaway heard naught, and he
went to his bed and slept soundly; and
the next morning he set off betimes for
Grindleford, taking one of his men with
him. All the way there Thustinaway
Hardrade talked of his new possession,
but the man was silent. When they
came to Grindleford and saw the reaping
machine in the station-yard, the man stared
at it with curious, sullen eyes. It was a
gaudily-painted affair of blue and red, and
the wheels and cog-wheels and chains and
appliances seemed to the man suggestive
of witchcraft. But he helped his master
to yoke the horses to the shafts of the
reaping machine, and they set Off home to
the farmstead. And again the man said
nothing. He kept silence, and looked at
the reaping machine. And Thustinaway


76 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
looked at it too, and never noticed his
companion's silence.
It was late afternoon when they came
home, and at the gate of the farmstead
they were met by every living soul in the
place. Men and women alike gathered
about them, and gazed at the machine.
Ancl Thustinaway Hardrade, sitting on
the driver's seat, felt himself swelling with
pride in his new possession; and he
beckoned all to come nearer and gaze.
“Look your fill, lads!” said he. “No
more bending of your backs with scythes
and sickles—this is the thing that is going
to do all that for you. Is it not a marvel-
lous contrivance? But you shall see it
work—ay, this very day !”
And he gave orders that, while he and
the man who had journeyed with him ate
and drank, the other men should open out
a field of barley and make ready for com-
mencing the harvest month. And so, as
the evening began to draw near, the first
rattle of the first reaping machine was
heard in the land between Hardrade’s


THE REAPING MACHINE 77
Holme and the sea, and the grain fell in
regular sheaves before the glittering, shark-
toothed blade.
But where the sheaves fell there they
lay. Not a man stepped forward to take
them up and tie them. Thustinaway
Hardrade, completing his first round of the
field, saw naught but sullen and suspicious
faces greet him. And suddenly his blind-
ness left him, and he began to perceive
what lay before him.
“ How is this, lads ?” said he. “ Come,
take up the sheaves and bind them.”
But not a man stirred.
Then T hustinaway Hardrade’s face grew
black with passion.
“By God!” said he. “ Am I dis-
obeyed? Take up the sheaves, I say, and
bind them ! ”
But still no man stirred, nor did any
man speak until the eldest among them
lifted his eyes to Thustinaway’s scowling
face.
“We will have naught to do with witch-
craft, master,” said he. “Send back the


78 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
thing to where it came from, and we will
reap the harvest as we always reaped it,
with scythe and sickle. But with magic
and witchery we will have naught to do,”
he said, and stepped back amidst a murmur
of approval. -
“Fools!” said Thustinaway. "There
is neither magic nor witchery in this. But
I see how it is. You are all afraid that I
shall cut down your wages, because you
will have less to do. Now, hearken.
To-morrow morning every man will follow
this machine, taking up the corn, or it
shall be the worse for him. For the
present—begone ! ”
Now, if he had said naught about the
wages Thustinaway had been wise. But
when they were out of the field the men
talked, and the women talked still more,
and at last they said that the machine was
meant to save labour, and that ere long
there would be work for none of them.
And in the night two men went to the
'shed where the machine was kept, and
while Thustinaway slept they broke the


THE REAPING MACHINE 79
machinery to pieces, and he came out in
the morning to find his new possession
useless.
Thustinaway would not be beaten. The
corn was ready, even to ripeness, but he
would only reap it in the new way. He
sent off for a new machine, and until it
came he raved and cursed to see the corn
dropping out of the ears. And that week ‘
there were no wages paid in Hardrade’s
Holme, and the men sat, sullen and fierce,
outside the cottages in idleness while the
women wept inside. And both cursed.
Thustinaway and hated him. -
Then came the new machine, and when
it was within the Holme Thustinaway
called them all together and addressed
them. Reap the harvest in his own way
he would, whether they liked it or no.
They had ruined one machine, but he
should take no special care of the other.
They might ruin that too, if so they
pleased. It was their own look-out; it
concerned them more than him.
“But this I swear, by God!” he said.


80 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
“If my harvest is not reaped by this
machine and with your help within the
fortnight, it shall rot in the fields, and I
will turn every man, woman, and child of
you from off my land, and there shall
never more be seed sown on these acres
from now henceforth. So help me God! ”
Then he left them to consider matters
and went indoors, and in due time he went
to his bed and slept. But when he arose
in the very early morning and went out
the new machine was not where he had
left it, for the folks had dragged it across
the meadow and pushed it over the cliffs
at their highest point, and it lay where it
had fallen, upon the rocks below, a twisted
mass of wood and metal.
And then Thustinaway Hardrade knew
that his time was over. He, of all the
Hardrades, had never had a son, and he
had often wondered why. Now he knew.
He knew, as he stood upon the cliffs,
looking out to sea, with the ruins of the
reaping machine far beneath his feet, that
the end of his race was at hand. And


THE REAPING MACHINE 8r
something whispered to him that it had
been accomplished by the Hardrade policy.
They had surrounded themselves with
savages, of pure design, and now the
savage instinct, the savage brute force,
had beaten them. If he had had a son he
might have fought on. As he had no son,
it was useless. He had finished. He
turned and walked homewards. At the
gate of the farmstead he met the men, still
sullen and spiteful, but maliciously pleased
at their second victory over him. For a
second he glanced them over; then he
said “Fools!” and went into his house.
Three days he sat within ; and three days
the men waited outside, whetting the
blades of scythe and sickle. And mean-
while the corn dropped out of the ears
from very ripeness and lay on the ground
as on a threshing-floor. But on the fourth
day came such a storm of rain as the East
Coast had never known within the memory
of man, and when it had passed there was
no harvest to reap. And after that Thus-
tinaway Hardrade sold every acre of his
F


82 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
land to the man who had long coveted it,
and Hardrade’s Holme was pulled down
and the cottages with it, and he and his
folk melted away, somehow and somewhere,
and you may walk over his ancient holding
now, and hear nought but the curlew’s
scream, or the voice of the fretting sea,
calling, calling, calling.


THE LAST OF THE WISE MEN
IN the Old days, long before there was all
the talk that one hears nowadays of such
things as progress and education, and
before steam and electricity filled the land
with railway and telegraph lines, there
were places where men believed in spells
and charms, and feared the unseen with a
great fear. Also there were wizards and
witches in those days, living among
ordinary folk and living pretty much as
they, but able to work magic if there were
need of it. Here and there, in the lonelier
corners of the land, you would hear of a
Wise Man or a Wise Woman of great
repute and power; and there were few
people who did not believe—some more,
some less, but all with a sufficient belief-.


84 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
in their ability to do things which ordinary
folk cannot do. Thus, they could work a
charm which made obstinate cream turn to
butter, or one that drove away toothache
or ague; they could compound a love-
potion for an amorous swain or cast a spell
for a love-sick wench; they could drive
away the evil eye or foretell what would
happen to a new-born babe. If there were
occasions when their arts. and subtleties
were of no effect, there were others when
they did all they were desired to do; and
so their fame grew, and the people feared
them more than a little. They were
known to read in great books by day and
to watch the stars by night; it was, there-
fore, a natural thing to believe that they
must know of things which to most people
are as a long-dead language.
When Parson John Butte came to
Lowcaster—you may see his grave in
the churchyard to this day, though it is
now old and battered at the sides of the
square box-tomb—he found that he had
entered into charge of folk who believed in


LAST OF THE WISE MEN 85
magic and witchery more than in the truths
which he had taken upon himself to deliver.
to them. They came to church like good
Christians and honest Englishmen, and
there was no disputing as to church dues
or grumbling about tithes when'the proper
season came round. Neither was there
any questioning of the parson’s authority.
But the real authority on supernatural '
matters was not John Butte, Oxford
scholar though he was, and duly ordained
by the Archbishop, but one Wise Man
Simpson, who had lived in a solitary
cottage (you see it now as you go up the
hill towards Sicaster town) for half a
century, leading the life of an astrologer
and wonder-worker. He sold medicines—
herbs and simples—for all disorders and
diseases, and could work a spell ora charm
for whatsoever deed it was desired to do.
He performed his rites and incantations in
flowing robes surmounted by a conical hat,
and from the smoke-blackened roof of his
living-room hung the dried skin of a great
lizard. Nobody went to him without awe


'56 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
and reverence, and nobody came aWay
without feeling that they had seen things
not usually unveiled before Common'people.
Thus he flourished, and was said to have
money hidden away in his oldbtocking.
‘Now, Parson Butte was one of those
hard-headed men who give a reason for
the faith that is in them, and it irked his
soul in tiresome fashion to find that the
people whose souls were in his care were
so shamefully ignorant and superstitious
as to believe in Wise Man Simpson. And
in one way or another he strove to under-
mine the Wise Man’s influence, urging
upon his folk that the mumbling of a few
words could make no difference to a cow
heavy with calf or a sheep that was sore
vexed with maggots. But the people were
staunch believers in the old things and the
old ways, and because their fathers had
had faith in Wise Man Simpson’s powers
they, too, had faith in them, and only
shook their heads when the parson tried to
show them how foolish they were. Thus
things went on until harvest was at hand,


LAST OF THE WISE MEN 87
and then Parson Butte, having finished his
sermon one Sunday afternoon, determined
to speak what was in his mind as regarded
an approaching incident. And he leaned
over the front of his pulpit and beckoned
the flock to listen more attentively.
“ There is that,” said he, “ which I have
to say to you, and say it I will in as plain
language as an honest man may find, one
to another. It is now nigh unto harvest—
the fields are white unto it, as Holy Writ
saith—and ere many days are past you will
be thrusting scythe and sickle into your
crops of grain. And I hear that you have
a custom among you that a certain impu-
dent fellow, one Simpson, whom the Lord
forgive for his boastings, should work such
spells, charms, incantations, and I know
not what of vanity, upon your fields, that
the harvest shall be good and profitable to
you. O fools and blind! have you not
heard, and your fathers before you, that
the earth is the Lord’s, and the fulness
thereof, and only He hath power over the
fruits of the earth? Spells—charms—in-


88 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
cantations? Foolish men and women,
these are not of the Lord, but of the
devil! " I
And here he hitched up his gown and
held up his hand and spoke to them with
a great severity, so that some folk hung
their heads in shame, and others dare not
face him, but all were bound to listen,
willy-nilly.
“ Now, hearken unto me," he continued.
“I solemnly warn every man here that
hath corn land and would see his dealings
prosper that it is an impious and a wicked
act. Yea, an act of a grievous and blas-
phemous nature to call upon false magic
for that help which should only be asked
of the Lord, and I do forbid it to every
such man in the name of the Almighty!
Amen. And I further warn you who
favour these blasphemies that if you call
upon this man’s magic I will pray the Lord
to show you by the terrible signs of His
anger that He hath no pleasure in such
things, and the punishment will be upon
your own heads, that you may fear the


LAST OF THE WISE MEN 89
power of Heaven in future, and trust not
in the power of Hell. Amen—and again,
Amen!”
Now, when they heard these words there
was scarce a man in the church that was
not afraid, and their fear grew all the greater
when a flash of lightning suddenly pierced
the little windows and a heavy rattle of
thunder burst over the village. And Par-
son Butte saw the fear, and when the
women and children had quietened from
their screaming he raised his hand again
and spoke solemnly. '
“Hear ye the voice of the Lord,” he
said, and turned and walked down from the
pulpit and the church and left them.
Next morning Parson Butte had three
visitors, each with a different tale. The
first was Richard Trippet, who held the
largest farm in Lowcaster, and was reputed
a grave man and one of discretion.
“ Sir,” says Richard Trippet, “you are,
as it were, a stranger to our customs, and
know little of us. We be God-fearing folk
hereabouts, and if we do aught that is dis-


“'90 'FROM THE BROAD ACRES
pleasing to the Lord we trust the Lord will
put it down to our little wit and lack of
understanding. But we see no wrong in
doing all that our fathers did before us,
and we are sore grieved that you should
threaten us with the wrath of the Lord for
the doing of it. Wherefore, Sir, we trust
that you will take away from us that threat
which you made.”
“Master Trippet,” said Parson Butte,
“ I have argued and talked with you of this
matter until I am aweary. Let us plainly
understand each other: if you persist in
your traffic with this lying prophet I shall
call down the wrath of Heaven. Yea, and
it will come, Master Trippet, even as fire
came down upon Carmel !”
Then Richard Trippet went away; and
next came John Coney, whose mind ran on
naught but the practical part of the whole
matter.
“Sir,” says he, “you are a scholar and
know all these things. For a mort 0’ years
every farmer of us has paid a golden guinea
apiece to Wise Man Simpson for charming


92 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
-“ Reverend Sir," says he, “ in this matter
of charming the crops I earn many guineas
a year. Now, if your reverence would
leave me alone in the matter, we might
arrange our affairs so that ”
“ Avaunt ! ” said Parson Butte. “ Avoid
thee, Satan! Man, get thee gone—I am
minded to lay hands upon thee ! ”
And because the parson was a great man
and of mighty thew and sinew the Wise
Man went; and, as luck would have it, he
came upon all the farmers of the place
assembled in debate, and joined them.
And there he heard John Coney declare
that he should follow the parson’s advice,
and give no more money for charms.
“Rest content with thy past earnings,
Master Simpson,” said John Coney.
“ Many a good guinea hast thou had 0' me
for small value. This year my crops shall
trust in the Lord, even as parson says." _
Then the Wise Man’s face grew black.
“Look to it, Master Coney,” says he,
“that you do not feel the power of my
art ere another sunrise.” And he turned


LAST OF THE WISE MEN 93
homewards, leaving the farmers sore per-
plexed as to what they should do. And
some were for this and some for that, and
finally they decided to wait another day,
and only John Coney stoutly stuck to it that
he would pay no more guineas for charms.
Next morning word went round that one
of John Coney’s cows had died suddenly
during the night, and hardly had the news
spread than folk were horrified to hear that
Parson Butte’s wife had slipped on the
damp floor of the dairy and broken her leg.
Then Wise Man SimPson walked through
the village with a dark face, speaking to
no one, and everybody whispered that he
had worked a spell on the parson and the
farmer, and he was feared more than ever.
And on the following day Wise Man Simp-
son charmed the crops as usual and re-
ceived his guineas in return, and he met
Parson Butte in the street afterwards and
sneered at him. ,
So they began to reap the harvest.
But on the first Sunday thereafter no bell
sounded from the church tower, and when


94 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
the folk went to the church door they found
it closed, and Parson Butte standing before
it to tell them that they who disobey the
Lord shall not come into His presence.
And some went away resentful, but all
were uneasy. Thus it went on for two
more Sundays, and then, when the corn
was all laid in swathes and little of it
stooked, a great storm of rain, lasting for
nigh unto a fortnight, came, and the harvest
was ruined. But no man cursed Parson
Butte for calling on the Lord to chasten the
people, for they knew that he had done
that which was right. And on the next
Sunday they came into the church and
made confession of their foolishness, and
went home sadder and wiser, but glad to
know that the strength of the Lord was ex-
ceeding great. And as for Simpson, he
was the last of the wise men in these parts,
and from that time onward folk went to him
no more, not even fora charm to make the
butter gather.


THE RETURN OF MICHAEL
O’MEARA
BEFORE the new reaping machines drove
labour away from the fields and closes in
harvest-time, there used to come into these
parts small companies of Irishmen seeking
employment during the month of the
ingathering of crops. They would come
over earlier in the year and find work on
the West Coast at the haymaking, and
when that was done they would tramp
forward another fifty miles or so and get
employment at the hoeing Of turnips, or
on such work as there was to do; and so,
little by little, they would draw near to the
corn- growing districts. Whether they
came in companies or individually, all
made a general line for some particular


96 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
village or farmstead ; and there were cases
known where a man would be coming for
the sixth, or eighth, or as many as the
tenth season. So soon as the land grew
white with harvest, as it says in Holy
Writ, the Irishmen began to come, scythe
over shoulder and bundle in hand. For
a month they toiled amidst the wheat
and barley, and then took their pay and
went home to Donegal or Connemara
until another year came round.
Upon a certain day towards the end of
July, some thirty years ago, there came up
to the door of yonder homestead, whose red
gable peeps from above the woods, a young
Irishman carrying scythe and bundle, and
obviously in search of work for the harvest
month. The mistress answered his rap at
the kitchen door, and not unkindly, for his
face was open and handsome and his eyes
were shy and honest.
“ God save all here! " said Michael
O’Meara, piously. “ Would the master be
wantin’ hands for the harvestin’, ma’am P”
“ Why, I don’t know," said the mistress


RETURN OF O’MEARA 97
dubiously. “Go round to the stackyard
and ask him yourself.”
“ Thankin’ you kindly, ma’am,” said
Michael, and turned away.
7 The mistress stopped him with a word.
“Here!” she said. “I’ll give you a
glass of ale; you look very thirsty.”
Michael O’Meara blushed and looked
hard at his feet. Then he turned his
boyish eyes full on the farmer’s wife.
“Av it was could tay, now, or butter-
milk, ma’am," he said, diffidently. “ Sure
I niver touch ale or porther.”
“You’re a difficult one to please, seem-
ingly,” said the mistress, smiling. She
went inside and presently returned with a
mug. “There!” she said. Then, with a
woman’s love of fun, she called: “Here,
Kitty, come and look at an Irishman that
never touches ale or porter! ”
Michael O’Meara looked up and saw
behind the mistress a girl of eighteen or
nineteen years, whose rosy face looked out
of a linen bonnet. She had very grey eyes
and rosy cheeks, and her slightly parted
G


98 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
lips revealed the whitest teeth. The grey
eyes looked into the blue ones, and the
blue looked into the grey, and it was all
oven
“Sure I loved ye the minit I set eyes
on ye,Kitty,darlin’,” said Michael O’Meara,
as he and Kitty kept tryst one night in
the apple-orchard, what time the moon
was at its full and all the scent of harvest
filled the air. “I looked an’ saw ye over
the mistress’s shoulder, and the sight of
your eyes was enough. Kitty, darlin’,
swear that ye’ll not forget me when I’m
clane gone out o’ sight.”
“ I’ll not forget you, Michael,” she said.
“And I’ll never marry any but you either.
There!”
“Ah, but your kisses are sweet, Kitty!
Faith, it’ll tear my heart out to leave ye,
darlin’. But there’s the ould mother at
home, and I’ll have to go there before I
can set out to make my fortune. Ah, now,
Kitty, I’ll work like a naygur when once
I’m over to the States, and in a year
or two I’ll come for ye wi’ my pockets


RETURN OF O’MEARA 99
full of gold! See if I don’t do that
same !”
At that particular moment Kitty cared
less for the gold than for one kiss from her
lover. She and Michael had fallen in love
with each other at once. She had never
had such attention shown her as that
which came from the handsome young
Irishman. The ploughmen and farm lads
who sometimes looked in at the byre when
she was milking had no notion whatever of
courtliness; to Michael, politeness to a
woman was as natural as water to a duck.
He made Kitty feel like a lady rather than
a milkmaid, and the feeling gave her more
pleasure than she had ever known. She
contrasted Michael with the loutish Eng-
lishmen about her: why, he was a prince
compared to them, though he was an
Irishman! And then his eyes, and his
rich, melodious voice, and the way he
looked at her when he spoke ! And thus,
within a fortnight, the wandering Irishman
and the Yorkshire milkmaid had confessed
their love, and now they were sore sad, for


RETURN OF O’MEARA 101
and the eligible young men—ploughmen,
shepherds, and journeymen—could not
make out what it was that made her so
difficult of access. She was by far the
comeliest lass in all the parish, but never
an old maid was more reserved or prudish.
She kept herself to herself—she would not
even be kissed at a country dance or under
the mistletoe-bough in the farmhouse
kitchen. And bit by bit the folk grew to
leave her alone ; and so she waited patiently
for Michael’s return.
In the third year after Michael had
gone, Thomas Brown met with the accident
that made him a hopeless cripple for the
rest of his life. Susannah took a small
shop; Kitty helped with three-fourths of
her wages: thus Thomas and Susannah
rubbed along. But just about the time
when circumstances were straitened and
the pinch of poverty felt, there came
temptation to Susannah and sore trial to
Kitty. For the miller, Simpson Baxter,
fell in love with Susannah’s daughter, and
being a prudent man—and much above


RETURN OF O’MEARA 103
“ Ay, lass—who does ta think it is?
Nobody else but Simpson Baxter, t’ miller!
An’ he’s gotten land, an’ money, an’ houses.
Why, thou’ll be a lady, lass ! He’s coming
to court thee to—night, and thou mun mind
an’ say yes to all ’at he says. It’ll be a
grand thing for all on us. Thy poor
feyther’s reight pleased.”
“ But, mother ” said Kitty.
“Nay, lass, theer’s nowt to say—I’ve
sattled it all wi’ Simpson. Ye're to be
wed to him just afore harvest, and he’s
bahn to tak’ thee for a weddin’ tower—eh,
dear, I doan’t knaw wheer ye aren’t bahn :
to Lundun to see the Queen, and I doan’t
knaw wheer not. Thou’ll hev’ fine times,
lass.”
“ But I shan’t! ” said Kitty, suddenly
finding her tongue and her spirits. “ Marry
an old stick like that, indeed! Courting
me? Let me catch him at it! And you
ought to be ashamed of yourself for settling
such a thing without speaking to me first!”
she concluded in a sudden blaze of wrath,
and left the cottage. '


104 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
That night the miller went courting in
vain, and for some days Susannah wept
whenever Kitty appeared, while Thomas
in his corner whined querulously about the
ingratitude of children. Then it came out
that Susannah was in debt over her shop,
and that the miller had promised to clear
her, and to settle a pound a week for life
on her and Brown if Kitty would wed him ;
and Kitty felt that she was a saleable
commodity, and that it was hard if her
father and mother could not profit by her.
But she was true to Michael O’Meara, and
loved him more than ever. Oh, if only he
would come back! And then, woman-like,
she went to the mistress and told her every-
thing. And the mistress, being a worldly-
wise woman, talked to the girl for her
good. She was sympathetic enough about
the love affair, for she remembered Michael
O’Meara’s eyes; but when the practical
part of the matter came in view she was
altogether on Susannah’s side. First of
all, she said, Michael would probably
never come back. Secondly, if he did


RETURN OF O’MEARA 105
come back it might be without money.
Thirdly, she would keep her father and
mother in their sore need. Fourthly,
Simpson Baxter was the sort of man that
a pretty woman could twist round her
finger. And, fifthly, a bird in the hand
was worth two in the bush, and such a bird
as this was worth catching. And so, in the
end, exactly three years after she and
Michael had plighted their troth, Kitty
married the miller, and Susannah was in
high glee and held her head high.
As for Simpson Baxter, he was a man of
no luck. For fifty years he had moiled
and toiled in loneliness, and at last had
taken to himself a pretty young wife, with
whom he proposed to live in comfort and
amity. Why it was ordained that he
should be so foolish as, first, to buy a young
half-broken-in horse, and, second, to ride
it home on a dark night, seems inexplic-
able; but the fact remains that within six
months of her marriage Kitty was a well-
to-do widow. She was genuinely sorry,
for some things, when they told her that


106 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
Simpson Baxter had broken his neck ; but
she was conscious of relief when they laid
him to rest in the churchyard. And after
that for six months Kitty was left alone—
and then the suitors came fast and furious.
Kitty would have none of them. She
had married once to please her mother—
she would marry next time to please her-
self. Some of the men said she was hard
to please, but her old mistress, remembering
everything, only smiled when they said so.
So the years passed until five harvest
moons had shone upon the earth since
Michael and Kitty parted. She often
wondered what had become of him, and
whether he had forgotten her. And then,
when the fifth harvest moon was just rising
over the hill across the village, he came to
the mill-house door and begged for a drink
of water, and she saw that he was just as
poor as ever, and carried a scythe over his
shoulder and a bundle in his hand. But
he was Michael O’Meara, and back again.
And within a month everybody said she
was a fool—for nobody knew what had


RETURN OF O’M EARA Io7
passed between her and the man she loved
after that wild moment of surprise when
she opened the door and saw him standing
before her—a wandering harvester, as she
had seen him at first.





THE YEAR OF BITTER
CHASTENING
IF you knew as much of these folk and of
their ways and their thoughts as I do, that’s
lived amongst them a lifetime, you’d have
seen more than you did see when parson
was preaching to-night about pride and
vain-glory and avarice. You saw the folk
exchange glances with one another, and
maybe nudge each man his neighbour’s
elbow at various passages of the sermon—
aye, but you did not see aught behind
either glance or nudge as those who know
the place and its people would. He’s a
fair good hand at his trade, is parson: he
knows just where to lay the whip on a
tender spot, and if he never lays it on
unless it’s really wanted, there’s no mistake


no FROM THE BROAD ACRES
about it when he does take it in hand. I
should like to know what it was that made
him preach as he did to-night. He’s seen
or heard something, or he wouldn’t have
said what he did. But when he spoke of
the wrath of the Lord descending surely
and swiftly upon the cruel and the greedy
man, there wasn’t a soul in that place that
didn’t know what he meant; and if you’d
only known where to look for him, you’d
have seen one man sitting with his head
bent down that could say “Amen” to all
that parson had to say. For you can call
it accident, or coincidence, or luck, or what
fine word you like, but the wrath of the
Lord was made manifest in this place to
that man as plain as aught that you’ll read
of in the Good Book itself.
It’s seven years last May Day since
Stephen Marrish came to this place as
tenant of the Steeple House Farm. He
was the first foreigner, as you might say,
that had come into the parish for many
years, and doubtless the customs of the
place he came from were different to our


112 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
he said, at the first rent dinner he ever
attended, the steward being then gone
home and the tenants enjoying their pipe
and glass after the business of the day.
“Let me stop aboveground long enough,
and I’ll show you a thing or two.” And
he looked round at us all with a sort of
contempt in his eyes. “ Umph,” says he ;
“where I come from we know above a bit.
You shall know above a bit, too, if I stop
here, and if you’ve any eyes in your head."
And he drank his glass off and swaggered
out to his horse, that was tied up against
the inn door.
There were some who heard him that
day that would willingly have given
Stephen Marrish the lie to his face, and
told him that the folk he had come amongst
were better than he; but there were others
who only shook their heads, and bade to
let be and bide in peace. For the man
was nought but a domineering fool at that
time, and the old folk knew it; and they
knew, too, that his lesson would come at
last, and be a sharp one at that. And so


BITTER CHASTENING II5
days harvest was a serious business. How-
ever, he had his fields cleared before
anybody; and then it was that Stephen
Marrish's time of trouble began. For one
morning he rode abroad and came to one
of his fields from which the last load of
wheat had been carted, and there, at the
gate, he found a score Of women and
children going a-gleaning, as was the
custom in our parts from ever and ever.
“And what’s all this?" says Stephen
Marrish. “What are you doing on my
land ?”
Now, they were all afraid of his black
looks and his bitter tongue; but one
woman dared to speak up.
“ We’re doing what we’ve always done,
master,” says she. “ You’re a newcomer,
and mayn't know ; but in these parts, when
a field’s been raked and the rakings taken
away, it’s free to the poor folk to glean on.
And so we’re here, master.”
“And out you go!” cries Stephen
Marrish. “Every one of you, out! Do
I pay rent to grow corn for a pack of


116 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
thieves? Now, listen: let me catch one
of you taking so much as a single ear of
wheat off my land, raked or not, and it
shall be the worse for him or her. Glean-
ing indeed! You shall know above a bit
before I’ve done with you ! "
And he drove them all out with his
bitter voice and cracking horsewhip, and
they went back homewards crying shame
on him. But there was one poor old
woman, old Nanny Beck, who had not risen
so early as the rest of the gleaners, and
who, therefore, came late to the field,
knowing nothing about Stephen Marrish’s
hardness. She marvelled that there should
be no one there; but she entered and
gleaned, thanking the Lord for His mercies,
and by nightfall she had gathered of stray
ears a goodly sheaf, as much as her old
arms could carry. And as she went out of
the gate, praising the Lord for His good-
ness to the widow, up rode Stephen
Marrish, whip in hand, and caught sight
of her, and burst into a storm of oaths,
and worse. And poor old Nanny won-


BITTER CHASTENING 117
dered and was Sore afraid; but at last he
called her a thief, and at that she straight-
ened her bowed shoulders and looked at
him.
“Nay, master!” she said. “You’ve
miscalled me there. I’m poor enough, the
dear Lord knows, and oft sore put to it
for a bit 0’ bread, but never a thief! I've
gleaned in these fields, master, this sixty
year, and never a word wor’ said to me
before.”
But Stephen Marrish took no heed, and
presently he made her take the bundle of
gleanings in her arms and walk before his
horse to the village; and so it came to
pass that as the folk were in the street
going homeward to their suppers, and the
children playing about the doors, they saw
old Nanny Beck, tired and sore spent,
carrying her sheaf, and Stephen Marrish
riding behind. And because they had
talked over the morning’s proceedings
among themselves every man and woman
knew what the sight meant, and there were
loud cries and angry words on all sides.


118 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
And Farmer Burton stepped out of his
house, and held up his hand.
“ Mr. Marrish,” says he, “you’re doing
a hard thing and a cruel thing to-day. It’s
a hard thing to go against old and good
customs, and a cruel thing to oppress an
old and feeble woman like Nanny. And ,
I warn you that you’ll be sorry for it, Mr.
Marrish.”
But Stephen Marrish cursed him for a
fool, and made Nanny walk on until they
reached his stackyard, where he bade her
throw the bundle amongst the rakings
which his men had heaped together.
Then he turned to the crowd at the gate
and spoke.
“Fair warning!” says he. “The next
Icatch shall go to gaol. I’ll have no
thieves on my land. You shall learn
above a bit before I’ve done with you.”
Then he pointed old Nanny Beck to the
gate, and threatened her again with his
whip. And she went out into the street
and stood there before the crowd, and
suddenly lifted up her hands, and every


BITTER CHASTENING I I9
man and woman and child grew silent, so
that you could hear her thin, quavering
voice half-way up the village.
“Oh, Lord God! ” she said, “have
mercy on this man who oppresses the poor
and needy! Send down the fire of Thy
chastisement upon him and melt his heart.
Deal with him as seems good and well to
Thee. Lord, bring him to shame and re-
pentance! Lord, deal with him in justice!
Amen.”
And all the crowd said “Amen!” too,
and they went home in silence, for Nanny
Beck was a Methody, and had the repu-
tation of a saint, being sent for to pray
with all sick and them that were in sorrow;
and there was not a man or woman in that
crowd who did not believe that Stephen
Marrish would be dealt with by the Lord.
There were eight-and-fifty stacks of
corn in Stephen Marrish’s stackyard when
all the thatching and trimming was finished,
and not a farmer round about could show
such a goodly sight. But one day they
were, and the next day they were as if they


120 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
had never been ; for a fire broke out in the
night, and Stephen Marrish looked from
his chamber window to see his harvest in
flames and utterly lost. And then people
began to say that the Lord had heard
Nanny Beck’s prayer.
But Stephen Marrish’s heart was hard to
melt. He went about swaggering and
boasting that the loss of a few cornricks
would not break him. But as the weeks
went on there were new troubles. A fell
disease broke out amongst his cattle; his
favourite horse staked itself; his lambs
died by the score when the next lambing
season came; a bank failed, and he lost
money: misfortune followed him at every
step. And still he held up his head. But
at last, when another harvest came round,
the man's heart was broken, for with the
harvest there was to come his first-born
child, and he was sore afraid for it and for
the mother. And thus it came about that
one night, when all the land was smelling
sweet with ripening barley, he went and
knocked at Nanny Beck’s door and con-


BITTER CHASTENING 121
fessed his sins, and besought her to inter-
cede with the Lord for him. And from
that time the curse fell off Stephen
Marrish’s shoulder, and he prospered, and
his wife bore him a son. The lad sat on
his knee to-night as the parson preached—
a little lad with blue eyes, and fair, straight
hair.





FOR CERTAIN PIECES OF
SILVER
IT is, maybe, some five-and-twenty years
since a woman, carrying a young child in
her arms, came along yonder road, which
winds under the hillside that runs from
Deepdale to Darthington Mill, and stopped
at an open gateway to look wistfully at a
group of men and women who were sitting
under the hedgerow to take the afternoon
drinking. She was a young woman, and
not uncomely in appearance; but her
poverty was made evident by the poor
rags which covered her and by the pinched
expression of her face. She had apparently
walked a considerable distance along the
high road, for her worn-out boots were
thickly coated with white dust, and it was


124 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
with difficulty that she set one foot before
the other. As she stood looking at the
folks within the field, who ate their cheese
and bread and supped their ale in content,
she sighed bitterly, for hunger and thirst
were upon her, and she had no means of
satisfying either.
It was Gideon Deyne’s field by which
she stood, and while she lingered at the
open gateway Gideon Deyne himself came
riding up on his grey pony, and stared hard
at her, with a silent inquiry in his stern
eyes. She heard the pit-pat of the pony’s
feet, and would have turned away, nervous
and frightened, when she saw its rider
looking at her. But Gideon Deyne drew
the reins of his bridle tight, and motioned
her to stand.
“ Now, missis,” said he, “where are you
for? ’Tis a hot day to carry a child so
heavy as that.”
The woman looked at the sleeping child,
over whose face she had drawn the corner
of her shawl, and a smile came into her
own weary eyes. She looked back at


FOR PIECES OF SILVER 125
Gideon Deyne, and he spoke again, with
kindness in his voice.
“You look tired and heated, mistress,”
said he. “Come into the field and eat
and drink with my folk yonder. No man
or woman shall want bite or sup while
Gideon Deyne is reaping his harvest.
Come!”
The woman hesitated, looking with half-
frightened eyes at the harvesters. But
Gideon Deyne again bade her follow him,
and so she walked after the pony towards
the little group under the hedgerow. The
men and women looked at her curiously as
she drew near, and beneath their gaze her
eyes grew still more afraid.
“ Come, lads and lasses,” said Gideon
Deyne, “ here is a poor soul that could do
with bite and sup. Is there naught in the
baskets and bottles that you can help her
to P ”
“And welcome,” said the foreman, pour-
ing out a gill of ale into his own horn.
“Sit you down, missis ; there is bread and
cheese in plenty in the basket.” "


126 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
The woman murmured some words of
thanks, and sat down on the bank under
the hedgerow. She took the hunch of
bread and cheese which one of the harves-
ters handed her, but shook her head at the
horn of ale. One of the women hastened to
produce a bottle of cold tea from her basket
and filled another horn from its contents.
The wayfarer took it half greedily and
looked her thanks. As she lifted it to her
lips the shawl fell aside from the sleeping
child’s face, and the woman uttered soft
exclamations of surprise at its beauty.
“Eh, but that’s a bonny bairn!” said
one. “Let me take it a bit, missis, while
you eat and drink. Why, it’s areal beauty
—so it is.” '
While the folk present admired the-child
the woman ate and drank as if she had
tasted no food that day. And Gideon
Deyne watched her from where he sat on
his pony, and from her he turned to the
child, and a bitter envy rose up in his heart
that he who was well-to-do and powerful
should have no child, while this woman


FOR PIECES OF SILVER 129
you, nor where you are bound. But there
are hard times before you if I judge rightly,
and it will be poor doings for the child.
Listen to me, mistress. Give me and my
wife the child, and let us make it our own
——nay, lass, remember that ’tis as much in
the child’s interest as mine! Come, let me
have the child, and I will bring her up
as if she were my own. And as for you
—why, here is a bag of gold in my
pocket—”
“Oh, God!” said the woman, and sat
down on the bank and began to rock her-
self to and fro, clasping the child closer
to her. And while she thus sat Gideon
Deyne watched her and said naught. And
suddenly she rose up and kissed the child
as if she would never take her lips from its
face again, and she laid it, still sleeping,
in Gideon Deyne’s arms. And Gideon
Deyne held it to him, and a new look came
into his eyes as he bent over it.
“God be my witness that I will be a
father to thy bairn, woman,” he said.
“There,l have said it. But remember
I


:30 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
that she is mine only from this day.” And
he took the bag of gold from his pocket
and laid it in her hand and bade her good-
day, and turned his pony towards the
village. And when he came to a little rise
in the road he looked back, and the woman
was walking swiftly, with downcast head,
towards the market town.
When he came to his farmstead, Gideon
Deyne tied up his pony to the gateway and
walked into the house, and went straight
to his wife’s parlour and laid the child on
her knee.
“Lass,” said he, “we have oft wished
for a child of our own, but it did never
please the Lord to bestow one upon us, for
all we have been wed these twenty years.
But if this child does not come from the
Lord then I know naught of Providence
and its ways." And he told her all that
had passed between him and the wayfaring
woman. And because his wife was of like
mind with himself she took the child to her
heart and fell in love with it as he had
done ; only, being a woman, she gave many


132 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
carried Miriam home on his pony there
came along the road from Sicaster to
Darthington a woman of middle age, well
and soberly clad, whose hair was streaked
with grey, whose face bore many lines of
trouble. It was past dusk when she
reached the four cross roads, but at a
certain point there she sat down by the
wayside and took out of her pocket a
canvas bag in which jingled many coins.
She counted them very carefully ere she
replaced them. Then she rose and went
on towards the village. The harvest moon
was rising over the hill, and the scent of
barley hung heavy about the hedgerows.
She presently came up with a harvester
going homeward with a rake over his
shoulder, and she began to question him
about the place, asking if there were
lodgings to be had and in whose house.
When he had answered these questions
the man talked garrulously on his own
account, telling her that there were to be
great doings in the village that night andv
next day, for Farmer Deyne was giving a


134 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
she slept little or not at all, for they heard
her pacing about her room, and thought,
too, that they heard her voice lifted up in
prayer and trouble. However, in the
morning she paid her score and departed ;
and no one in the village saw her again
until she appeared at the church door and
entreated the sexton to find her some
corner from whence she could see the
wedding folk and witness the ceremony.
And so he bestowed her in the transept,
by the Crusaders, and from there she saw
all that passed. And, as it happened,
when the bridegroom led his bride into the
vestry to write their names in the book,
Miriam saw the woman in dark raiment,
and turned her eyes upon her, and both
looked into each other’s faces for a moment.
And then came Gideon Deyne, proud and
smiling, with his wife on his arm ; and he
saw the woman, too, and his heart sud-
denly stood still, and his very face grew
white—for he knew her again, though
nineteen harvests had gone by since they
had parted at the cross roads. But the


FOR PIECES OF SILVER 135
woman smiled and laid her finger on her
lips ; andso he passed on and said naught,
though there was trouble in his heart.
And when the wedding party came forth
again she had gone ; but when all the folk
were free of the church, and the sexton
was busy in the belfry, she stole forth from
behind a tomb and went up to the altar
and laid upon it the money for which she
had sold her child. When she had done
that, she prayed for awhile ere she de-
parted, to be seen in those parts no more.





THE LIAR
FOR several hours Benjamin Garth had
waited, one amongst a crowd of other folk,
until such times as he should be summoned
to take his stand in the witness-box. The
room wherein accommodation was provided
for the witnesses was dark and close, and
the fog which filled the streets and squares
outside the Court had somehow penetrated
through the windows and given to the
atmosphere a peculiarly irritating pungency.
Benjamin Garth, however, noticed little or
nothing of these things; he sat in a quiet
corner, his arms folded across his breast,
his hat drawn down over his face, his entire
appearance that of indifference or abstrac-
tion. You might have thought with reason
that he was simply waiting his turn, uncon~


138 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
/
cerned by whatever was happening in his
immediate neighbourhood. He, indeed,
of all the folk in the room was the only
one who did not seem to be thinking of the
trial going on close by; the others talked
and whispered with a certain amount of
freedom. Some of them had already been
under examination, and were full of a sense
of mingled relief and importance. Those
whose turn was yet to come were relatively
uneasy and flustered ; they found it difficult
to keep still, and looked up apprehensively
whenever the door opened and the usher’s
red face looked in upon them interro-
gatively.
A man seated in the corner opposite that
occupied by Benjamin Garth looked across
at him for the fiftieth time and turned to
his neighbour.
“What I’ve always said," he remarked
in an undertone, “what I’ve always said,
is ’at this case’ll be decided on Mr. Garth’s
evidence. It’s a painful matter to bring a
man to give evidence against his own
cousin, and I have a notion ’at the lawyers


THE LIAR 139
is doing their beSt not to put Mr. Garth in
the witness-box. But he’ll have to go in,
I’m afraid, and if my ideas be right it’s
what he’ll say there ’at ’11 settle matters.
You see, he’s a man on whose word you
can depend—a thoroughly honest man and
well known to everybody.”
“ An’ circuit steward for the Methodies,
an’ all,” said the other.
“As you say—he is. Oh, yes; a man
on whose word reliance can be placed, as
the saying goes. Of course, a man who’s
well known as a successful tradesman, and
who’s a local preacher into the bargain,
and circuit steward as well, is bound to
give evidence that must tell with the judge
and jury. Now, as for you and me, why,
our evidence is naught very much—it’s
just useful in piecing things together, like
—but the evidence of a man like Mr. Garth,
why, of course, even the Lord Chancellor
himself would keep order while ’twas being
listened to!”
“ Of course, he’s a man of importance—
there's a deal in that.”


14o FROM THE BROAD ACRES
“Yes, there is—oh, yes. I've been
noticing him all the day; he’s sat there
very quiet. No doubt he feels the posi-
tion; very trying indeed it must be to
him."
“Ay, and all the more so if he knows
’at things depend, like, on his evidence.”
“Ah, that’s just where it comes in! A
man might surely be forgiven, now, if he
told a lie to save his own cousin’s life.
But Benjamin Garth’ll not do that. No,
he wouldn’t do it to save his own son, let
alone a more distant relative.”
Benjamin Garth heard nothing of all
this; he sat in his corner, quiet, thoughtful,
his brain occupied with but one thought.
Sooner or later he would hear his name
’called, and he would have to walk through
that door and into the Court, where a man
was being tried for his life, and there a
question would be put to him—a question
which he c0uld answer in one of two words.
One word was “Yes,” the other was “ No.”
The thing seemed simple enough: there
was nothing to do but tell the bare truth.


142 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
and gaining the respect and good will of
everybody. There was not a soul in the
village who did not wonder at Mary
Hallam’s choice. To be sure, Jim was as
handsome as a summer morning is bright,
but what was mere beauty, accompanied
by worthlessness, to honest endeavour, set
in however plain a frame? Benjamin
served a hard-working apprenticeship; at
twenty-two he was proprietor of a well-
stocked shop; he was a sober and reli-
gious man and a leading spirit amongst
the Methodists at thirty; and now be
ranked as a person of importance and a
man of means. James Clough, on the
other hand, had gone downhill with
celerity. No village ne’er-do-weel could
have turned the downward path with more
aptitude than he. He was successively
small farmer, hind to another man, odd-
man-about, shepherd, day labourer, and
out-o’-work ; moreover, he was a drunkard.
And now he stood in the dock charged
with the murder of a neighbour of similar
character to himself who had been last


THE LIAR 143
seen in his company, and then found, an
almost unrecognisable thing, by the road-
side.
Benjamin Garth thought, and thought,
and thought. They would put a certain
question to him when he got into the
witness-box, and if he answered “Yes,”
James Clough would die on the gallows.
If he answered “No,” James Clough
would be saved. Garth was as certain
of that as he was certain that his own
immortal soul would suffer if he told a lie.
He could not remember that he had ever
told a lie since the time when he embraced
religion: it was strange, he said to himself,
that he should now be debating within his
own mind as to whether he should tell a
lie or not. For that was really what it
came to—there was no use concealing the
fact. He repeated certain words over and
‘ over to himself. “If I tell the truth, Jim
Clough will hang; if I lie, he’ll be saved.”
His thoughts went back to the previous
evening, when the gaunt, poverty-pinched
woman that had once been pretty Mary


144 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
Hallam had come to him in his comfortable
house and begged him to do something
to save her husband. For her sake
Benjamin Garth had remained unmarried
—his affection for her had been of that
sort which nothing ever alters, and he felt
it well up in his heart even now, though
so many years had passed away and he
was more than middle-aged and she was
worn to a shadow of her former self. He
knew that he loved her even when she
pleaded with him for the sake of her
graceless husband, and he marvelled that
she should have been so blind as to prefer
Jim to himself. But he sighed, reflecting
that love is a strange passion, and he felt
no resentment against the woman—rather,
he admired her all the more for her loyalty
to the man she had chosen. And he had
promised her readily enough that he would
do what he could, and when she had gone
he had faced the situation and had spent
the night pacing the room or praying as
he had never prayed in his life. He
prayed for guidance and light, striving


:46 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
could be offered, and some of it was
unsatisfactory to Garth. But the fact
remained that he, Benjamin Garth, had
seen James Clough under circumstances
which seemed to leave no doubt of the
accused man’s guilt, and he knew that the
jury would scarcely have any alternative
left to them if he told of all that he knew.
Must he tell—must he, who was not con-
vinced himself, say words that would send
a possibly innocent man to death? He
began to rack his brains again and again
as he sat in the stuffy waiting-room. Was
there nothing in his religion, in the
Scriptures, in all the theology that he had
heard from the pulpit or read in his
books, that would help him? There was
nothing: something like a muffled bell
rang ceaselessly in his ears, and it said
over and over again, “Tell the truth—-
tell the truth!” But when he faced the
truth and its hideous consequences he
almost hated it. He had caught the flash
of gratitude that came over the woman’s
face when he had promised to do what


148 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
up in a strange confusion. He heard
somebody mumbling something close to
him with a disturbing rapidity:
“—the truth the whole truth and
nothing but the truth so help you God kiss
the book."
He felt his lips touch the sacred volume
—the cover felt cold as ice to them. He
heard another voice asking him questions
—it seemed to him that his own voice
sounded as from afar off when he answered
them. They were of no importance, these
opening questions—it struck him as being
ridiculous, somehow, that anybody should
want to tell the Court what a man of
probity and position he, Benjamin Garth,
was. What did that matter to-—-
Suddenly the question was before him—
it seemed to him that all the world was
blotted out and replaced by a great wall of
blackness on which was emblazoned in
letters of fire that more awful question as
to whether he would tell the truth or a lie.
Everything stood still within him : his flesh
quivered at the thought that he and, God


THE LIAR 149
were face to face, and the Almighty was
waiting his answer. He strove to moisten
his lips; he lifted his hand to his head;
with a mighty effort be recalled his senses,
and then he saw the sea of faces, and the
one face standing out from its midst.
There was something in that face that—
He opened his lips: to him time and
eternity hung in the balance. Now for it
—now
“No !” he said. ‘
It was all over: he had destroyed his
immortal soul. For good or evil, so far as
the other man was concerned, the thing
was done. Already it was written down
in the Book of the Recording Angel, and
nothing could erase the entry. Of deli-
berate purpose he had lied. He grew
strangely calm. Before he left the witness-
box be perceived that his evidence had
produced an impression upon the Court.
He evinced no surprise when somebody
came to him half-an-hour later and told
him that the prisoner had been acquitted
and discharged from custody.


THE WICK-FIRE
THERE was a strong wind blowing from
the west when Isaac stooped down to set
fire to the heap of wicks which he had
slowly and painfully gathered together in
his little field, and at the first puff of flame
a great volume of blue smoke burst out
and rolled boundingly away across the
desolate landscape. Isaac’s dim eyes fol-
lowed it anxiously. Here and there a
spark or two of fire flew with it ; he sighed
with relief on seeing that sparks and smoke
alike were travelling well out of range of
the cluster of stacks in the corner of the
Ten-Acre.
“Sometimes,” muttered Isaac to himself,
as he rose from his stooping posture and
looked with satisfaction at the red glow of


THE WICK-FIRE 153
than usual. It had taken him all the
morning to rake the wicks together, and
now they seemed likely to burn all the
afternoon and far into the evening, despite
the strong wind which fanned each flame
to a leaping tongue of red fire. Isaac
laboured on patiently, dragging his lame
leg behind him, and occasionally bursting
into snatches of such disjointed spiritual
song as he could call to mind. The wind
carried the sound of his cracked and un-
certain voice along with the clouds of
smoke, drowning it and the roar of the
wick-fire by the might of its own whistling
through the leafless trees that swayed
above the hedgerows.
Towards dusk Isaac heaped on more
wicks, packed them down, and then stick-
ing his fork in the ground went limping
homeward across the field. For some time
he had turned at intervals to the flare of
light in his cottage window, dimly seen in
the fast-gathering gloom. It had now
waxed faint, and he knew from that that his
fire was going out, and that he must hasten


154 FROM THE'BROAD ACRES
homewards if he meant to have a cheerful
hearth whereby to take his evening’s rest.
He shook his head once as he thought of
the difference there would have been had
he possessed any one to keep the fire
alight until his return, but the thought
passed away as he entered his small living-
room. The fire had grown low; it was
necessary to put fresh wood on it at once.
While the wood crackled and finally blazed,
Isaac filled his kettle at the pump in the
garden, lighted his lamp, got out his tea-
pot, and spread his meal of bread and
bacon. Then the kettle began to hiss, and
had begun to boil by the time Isaac had
washed his hands. He made his tea, and
drawing the little table up to the fireside,
sat down, spread his handkerchief over his
knees, and began to eat and drink.
Somehow, nothing would keep Isaac’s
mind that evening from going back to the
past. The bread in his mouth grew bitter
as he thought how much of his life had been-
spent in loneliness. They hadbeen long
years—years made up of days, of ceaseless


THE WICKéFIRE " 1'55
toil—and some of them were full of heavi-
ness and sorrow. As he grew towards old
age they had been happier—the later ones
of all serene, almost, in a cheerful accept-
ance of what had been meted out to him.
He was conscious now of an uncertain
feeling of disappointment that he should
have begun to think of his trouble again.
He had not wanted to think of it—why it
had forced itself upon him that evening
was a question which he could not answer. '
But his thoughts would not be suppressed,
and so as he sat there, a pathetic, lonely
figure by the crackling wood fire, his eyes,‘
ostensibly fixed on the cracked mug from
which he drank his tea, were really looking
through the mists of years at the face of
the woman whom he had loved, and who
had betrayed him and left him in lone-
liness. All that was more than thirty
years before—what brought it back that
night ?
Isaac rose at last, pushing the cup and
platter away with a sigh. For a moment.
he stobd on the hearth looking vacantly'


THE WICK-FIRE 157
hands. Isaac knew instinctively that this
man was some wayfarer attracted there by
the warmth, but a vague feeling of uneasi-
ness numbed his heart at the sight of him.
He went closer and uttered a sound. The
man raised his head, and in the fierce blaze
of the crackling wicks he and Isaac looked
into each other’s faces. The look was long
and earnest, but Isaac’s eyes looked on
when the other’s had dropped.
“ So ’tis you, Reuben Gale,” said Isaac,
at last. “ You—back again where you
should never ha’ shown your face ! And in
poor estate, too, seemingly, and judgin’ by
the poor rags you’re wearin’, Reuben Gale.
Back again—after thirty-and-four year. I
might ha’ knowed it—something told me
there was strange events i’ th’ air. Ay—
Reuben Gale, back again ! ” .
Reuben Gale lifted his eyes fearfully.
He saw Isaac lay hands on the sharp-
pronged fork, and he cowered farther
away on the heap of wicks, lifting his
hands as if to ward away the blow that he
feared. Isaac saw the movement, and


_i58 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
.smiled. He replaced the fork in the
ground, shaking his head.
“You need ha’ no fear 0’ me, now,
Reuben Gale," he said. “ No, not now. If
we’d met once I’d ha’ taken your life
wi’out so much as stoppin’ to think. But
as a man gets nearer the grave there’s
some things ’at he doesn’t feel as keen as
he did when he was younger. And you’ll
ha’ your punishment in good time,” he
added. . .
Isaac laid hold of the fork again, and
piled more wicks on the red mass at his
feet. Reuben Gale had now risen, and
stood a little distance off staring at him.
Once out of the glow of the fire he
shivered, making pitiful attempts to draw
his rags more closely about him.
“I ha’ had enough 0’ punishments i’
this life, Isaac,” he suddenly burst out.
“ Look at me—not a decent rag to my
body, and no taste 0’ food i’ my mouth this
two days. I think my mind’s nigh gone,
too, else I wouldn’t ha’ come within sight
of this place. But it was the fire—the fire


THE WICK-FIRE.. .159
as brOught‘me!” and he stooped'. down
and bent his hand over the red glow and
made as if he would have taken its
warmth in his embrace.
Then Isaac did a strange thing. There
had been moments when he would have
given his life to have had this man at his
mercy, so that he might have known the
fierce joy of revenging himself upon him
for the wrong done so long ago. Now the
man was .at his mercy, but the desire‘for
revenge was gone—its fierce fire was as
dead as the ashes of the Wicks at his feet.
In the heart of the wick-fire there still
burnt a glowing flame, though its outer
ring was white and cold, but in Isaac’s
heart there was not a spark of the old
devouring flame that once burnt in it.
“You shall not want for food for me,”
said Isaac, and he heaped the rest Of the
wicks on the fire, and bade the man follow
him. They went across the field together,
.and Isaac would have taken the other into
his cottage, but Reuben Gale stopped at
the gate. .‘


THE WICK-FIRE 161
carried the lamp upstairs to his sleeping-
chamber and opened an ancient chest for
such garments as might be serviceable to
a man whose only attire was rags. He
made these into a bundle, went downstairs,
took up the parcel of food, and went back
to the garden gate. He placed bundle
and parcel in the man’s hands and motioned
him away. Reuben Gale would have
spoken, but Isaac shook his head with
a meaning impatience, and the other
shambled away towards the road with his
enemy’s gifts held tightly at his breast.
For a moment Isaac saw his shape loom-
ing against the stars; then he was gone.
He turned his head towards the wick-fire ;
the last core of flame leaped up and died
out suddenly in the darkness. Night,
heavy and breathless, fell with a startling
precipitancy across the wind-swept field.





ON THE THRESHOLD
OLD Mary Potter, full of years and fuller
of sanctity, sat by her fire hapt up in
blankets in order that her ancient body
might get some heat, and meditated on the
glories of the New Jerusalem which she
daily expected to enter. All day long she
meditated, having naught else to do, and
her meditation did not cease if a visitor
came into the little cottage. Human
beings had come to be but half-real things
to old Mary, for her eyes had fixed them-
selves on the supernatural so long that
earth and its belongings had almost faded
away. Therefore, whenever a visitor
entered her presence old Mary simply
continued her usual habit of meditating
aloud, in her thin, piping voice, as her old


164 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
head nid-nodded under its white cap, and
the visitor sat by and listened, and was
amused and edified at the same moment.
There were things to see by old Mary's
fireside—the old-fashioned chairs and
tables, scrubbed scrupulously clean, the
quaint, curious ornaments on the mantel-
piece, the smoke-stained beams of oak
running across the ceiling, the funny old
pictures on the walls, and the bits of
polished brass that shone like fine gold
because of all the elbow-grease given to
them by Susan Potter. But all these
matters were but the framework of the
picture in which old Mary made the
centre-piece. The real picture was old
Mary herself, and the chair in which she
sat from morn till night. She was a
bundle of happings and drapings, shawls,
blankets, and various garments, sur-
mounted by a huge white cap, which had
large frills that nodded with every move-
ment of the tired old head within. Her
face was brown and wrinkled with a thou-
sand lines, and her eyes were dim and


166 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
seemed a long time waitin’, too. A long
life—a varry long life. I remember a deal
0’ things.
“ Eh, bairn, I remember when they said
’at owd Boney wor comin’! I doan’t know
what warn’t bahn to happen i’ them days,
but there wor a deal to do, and t’ King—
owd Farmer George as they called him—
sent out for all t’ hosses and carts to be i’
readiness, though what they wanted ’em I’m
sure I doan’t know. But I can remember.
’em takin’ t’ carts down to t’ smithy, and
they wor all stamped wi’ what they called
t’ broad arrow, and I remember ’em buildin’
t’ bonfires, all to be lit when owd Boney
came. Eh, theer wor summat to do i’ them
times! But owd Boney nivir cam’. Praise
the Lord!
“And I remember t’ Methodisses comin'
to t’ place an’ all—praise the Lord for that
day. T’ first preychin’ ’at ever they held
wor under t’ big oak tree away bi t’ Blue
Cow yonder, and t’ preycher wor pelted
wi’ mud. I mind it as well as if it wor
yisterda’. But, eh, theer wor some on ’em


168 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
'at I hev’n’t rightly understood. I wor
nivir one 0’ them ’at reckoned to under-
stand all ’at t’ Good Book says, for I allus
felt ’at I didn’t. T’ Lord ’11 be pretty busy
after I get theer—but then I reckon it'll be
easy work to Him.
“Eh, joy, ha’ you iver thowt what it’ll
mean when we get theer at last? I’m
sewer I doan’t knaw howiver I shall manage
to go round and see all t’ folk ’at I’ve been
meanin’ to see this last seventy year, iver
since I wor browt in. I remember when
Sarah Jones come back to t’ place, after
shoo’d been away twenty year, shoo said
shoo wor fair stalled o’goin’ round, like, seek-
ing all t’ owd friends up and axin’ how they
wor. But eh, bless ye, that’ll be nowt, bairn,
to seekin’ t’ owd friends out i’ t’ New Jerusa-
lem! Why, I reckon there’s aboon a hun-
dred gone out 0’ this parish—I shall hev’
to shak’ hands wi’ them first. An’ there’ll
be our Thomas and our Zedekiah to meet
me at t’ gate. He’d a wooden leg hed
Zedekiah when he wor i’ t’ world, but I
expect to see him wi’out it theer.


ON THE THRESHOLD 169
“ But it’s none so much your own lot at’ll
tak’ such a lot 0’ seein’—-it’s all them ’at
hev been theer so long. There’ll be Adam -
and Eve, and owd Abraham, an’ Sarah his
wife, and all t’ pateriarks and t’ prophets
and .them theer—eh, dear, there’ll be a deal
0’ handshakin’! I mun hev’ a word wi’ all
on ’em—there’s been a deal ’at I’ve wanted
to say to some on ’em. Owd Moses an’
me, now, we shall hev’ a rare talk, I know.
I allus wanted to know what happened to
owd Moses when he’d climbed on to t’ top
0’ t’ mountain and seed t’ Promised Land,for
it doesn’t say ower and aboon much about
it i’ t’ Good Book. And I mun hev’ a talk
wi’ King David—eh, dear, I lay owt he’ll
ha written a lot 0’ new psalms since he gat
theer! I shall ax him to learn me a trick
or two wi’ t’ harp, for I wor allus varry fond
o’ mewsic.
“What caps me is wheer we shall all sit
wi’ us harps and crowns and palms! It
mun be a grand place—nay, I nivir can im-
agine what they’ll do wi’ us all, but I expect
they’ll fin’ a corner for iverybody Eh, and


17o FROM THE BROAD ACRES
when we all sing, and t’ harps strike up!
Eh, dear; eh, dear!
“Praise the Lord, I know theer’ll be a
lot theer ’at some fowk thinks weern’t be
theer—l know theer will! If t’ penitent
thief’s theer, I’m sewer there’s been some
i’ this parish 'at’s just as good and reight.
Praise the Lord, He can see more nor men
can.
“ N ow, I’ll tell thee who’ll be theer, joy,
’at some fowk ’ud niver believe could ha’
gone theer, and that’ll be the owd Squire.
Eh, dear, he wor a bad ’un, wor owd Squire,
but he wor a kind ’un. Eh, if ye’d heerd
him damnin’ and cussin’ he’d ha’ turned
your blood cowd! And he used to hev’
cock-feightin’ on a Sunday, and he wor
allus racin’ hosses and gamblin’, and I
doan’t know what, but he wor a kind ’un
when all’s said and done. When my poor
mother wor left wi’ five on us, he wor that
good to her ’at I’m certain t’ Lord ’ud tak’
him to heaven for it when he died. Theer
wor a good many on ’em ’at shook their
heads when he wor ta’en, but I know t’


ON THE THRESHOLD 171
Lord ’ud noan forget owd Squire and his
goodness to my poor mother. Eh, but he
wor a queer ’un. He’d damn you and God
bless you all i’ one breath—eh, bless ye, all
his damnin’s meant nowt! It wor nobbut
a way he hed. I’m sewer he’ll be theer-—
onnywayI shall ax for him. I’ve often
wondered how t’ owd Squire ’1! look wi’ a
harp in his hand—a’ could nivir abide in-
struments o’ mewsic i’ this world.
“ But, eh, dear, I’m afeard ’at I shall hev’
to look i’ vain for some ’at you’d think
would be theer, and ’at aren’t! It’s noan
them ’at mak’s so much to do about it ’at
gets theer, bairn. I lay some on em’s i’ t’
other place—poor things! Eh, dear—eh,
dear! I’m afeard I shall hev’ to wander
up an’ down, up an’ down, and noan find
some on ’em. But praise the Lord, ye
niver knaw—it may be ’at there’ll be some
rare surprises i' t’ New Jerusalem. How-
sumiver, it’ll noan be so long afore I know.
I hear bits 0’ t’ mewsic many a time when
theer’s nobody about, and I shall be joining
in afore so long first. N ow, some on ’em


172 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
’ll stare a bit when owd Mary tunes up—
what? ”
Then old Mary would fall to prayer,
and the visitor would rise and go out and
close the cottage door gently, only to turn
back and peep through the window to see
the quaint cap with its fantastic frills nid-
nodding in the gloom that rose from the
fragrant smoke of the stick-fire crackling
on the hearth.


FOR WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT?
FOR five-and-twenty years Armstrong had
lived a life Of what the unthinking world
calls absolute success. At fifteen years of
age he had left the little village, whose grey
walls, red roofs, and overhanging trees had
until that time formed his visual limit, and
had gone out into the world. For ten
years longer he had fought with fortune,
pretty much as another fighter, of different
calibre and with different aims, fought with
wild beasts at Ephesus. Year after year
went by, to leave him as poor and un-
recognised as it had found him. There
were no reliefs in his life—no high colours
to compensate for the grey shades—it was
all absolute monotony during those ten
weary years. Day by day he used to


174 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
square his shoulders, set his teeth, and go
fighting on, head down and back bent,
filled with a grim, dogged determination
to fight until there was no fight left in him.
He hated it all with such a hatred as few
people dreamt of. They used to look at
him admiringly, some of them, and say
how hard he worked, and how he was
certain to succeed in the end, and 'so on.
Armstrong hated and despised them for it;
he laughed bitterly to think of the years
that were passing, and which he would
have liked to enjoy. And, besides, he was
by no means certain of the success which
those sanguine prophets spoke of. It
might come—but it might not. Every
year it seemed further off. He did things
which promised success—and yet the
success did not come. He did other
things still better—with the same result.
At the end of ten years he was just where
he began—or so he fancied, for in reality
he had ten years of care and bitterness
weighing heavily upon him—and when he
came to reckon things up he said to him-


WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT? 175
self that his five-and-twenty years of life
had meant naught but failure and dis-
appointment.
And then, with a crash as sudden as that
of a storm that creeps across the land
unobserved, came the first roar of the
populace, hailing him famous. He woke
and discovered that whereas he had gone
to bed unknown, he was to rise a great
man. For half-an-hour he lay, newspaper
in hand, thinking of this change in his
fortunes. It was only natural that he
should think about it after the fashion of
a cynic—somewhat bitterly, somewhat
amusedly. Some men who achieve great-
ness feel that it is only their due, and they
hate the world if the world is dilatory in
acknowledging its just Obligations to them.
Armstrong was like that—only his hatred
was softened by a saving contempt. To
him the world was an Ass, and it had
seemed well to him that he should ride
that Ass for that Ass’s sake. The Ass had
refused, with blind subservience to its
asinine instincts. But now


i 176 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
“So you have come round at last, my
Ass?” he said to himself that morning.
“I am to ride you, am I ? Once I would
have ridden you for your own sake—now
I will ride you for my own. Look out for
yourself!”
After that came the five-and-twenty years
of brilliant success. People called him a
great man, and everybody wanted to know
him. He was a genius—a great example
of the marvellous spirit of the age—he was
so great that he might be anything he
pleased, according to the newspapers and
the retailers of gossip. He made money—
oh, till he was sick of hearing of it! He
had a town—house, a country-house, a
shooting-box, and a yacht, and if he tired
of all four of them he went off to the States,
or to Egypt, or into the very middle of
Africa or Asia—it made no matter which
—and hid himself from all men save a few
so-called savages. But he was always
lonely. Once, when he was very poor he
had met a girl and fallen in love with her,
and she with him. They would have


178 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
the least cause of complaint—to ninety-nine
out of every hundred the achieving of fame
and fortune after a brief ten years’ struggle
would have seemed a great thing. But
Armstrong remembered those ten years
somewhat too clearly. He remembered
every detail of them—the days when it
was an effort to get his daily bread, the
days when the effort gave way to the sheer
impossibility, the days when there did not
seem to be the least gleam of light in the
dull, grey sky of existence. Heremembered,
the sneers, the jeers, the floutings which
had been his daily lot. He remembered,
with a sudden grinding of his teeth, the
sort of pitying contempt which fools had
poured upon him. Certainly he had amply
avenged himself since—he had spurred
and kicked the Ass’s sides until they were
sore, he reflected with a grim laugh—but
the fact that these things had once happened
would not depart from him. If he could
have wiped out those ten years all might
have been different, but there was no
wiping them out. They were like ghosts


WHAT SHALL lT PROFIT? 179
that will not be laid, and they haunted him
perpetually with a fiendish insistence.
Again, what pleasure had there been in
the five-and-twenty years of brilliant suc-
cess ? He was a rich man, a great man, a
powerful man, but he knew in his own
heart that he was just as good a man—aye,
and better !—in the days when he wore
threadbare clothes and spent Sixpence a
day on food. ' Those were the days
whereon the Ass stood ready to kick him.
Oh, how he had kicked that Ass since
because the sight of his purple and gold
had made it invite him to sit on its foolish
back! All his success, as folks called it,
had brought him no happiness. All his
life Armstrong had been a fool in one
respect—he had wanted his fellow men and
women to like or love him for his own
sake, for the real Ego in him, bad or good
as it might be, and not for what he was
worth, or had done, or was going to do.
He knew why they had made earnest
professions of devotion to him during the
five-and-twenty years of success—it was


:82 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
churchyard and looked at the graves of
those of his ancestors who lay there in
their last sleep. The grass had en-
croached on one; moss and lichen had
grown on another; he made no mental
resolve to have the thing seen to, for it
seemed in the nature of things that for-
getfulness should prevail. And he went
out of the churchyard and walked down
the street in the twilight, feeling like a
ghost amongst ghosts.
A voice roused him from his sombre
meditations. He looked up and found
himself near the little chapel, where the
Methodists were holding their week-night
service. The voice- of the preacher came
to him through an open window ; he went
nearer and opened the door with cautious
fingers, and bent his head to the crack to
listen. . . . .
“Aye, an’ it’s noan riches, nor power,
nor yet glooary, mi friends, ’at can mak’ a
man happy i’ this world! There’s them
’at hes all on ’em, and finds noa happiness
in ’em. Ye knaw what it says i’ this here


WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT? 183
Book — ye’ve heerd it many a time.
‘ What shall it profit a man,’ it says, 'if he
gain the whole world . . . .’ ”
Armstrong closed the door gently and
hurried away.


RETRIBUTION
WHEN the last lighted window of the road-
side houses grew suddenly dark Miriam
withdrew into her cottage, and took from
its peg the great cloak which had served
her as outdoor covering for half a century.
There was scarce a gleam of fire left on
the hearth, but by its faint light she made
her way to the oak chest in the corner.
The key grated in the lock, sending a
harsh thrill through the heavy silence of
the kitchen. Miriam’s hand lifted the lid
and went straight to a corner of the chest,
where her fingers touched and brought
forth a parcel of soft paper. She moved
towards the fire on her knees, and blew
the cinders to a blaze with lips that
trembled with age and cold. Her fingers,


186 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
however, were steady enough as she un-
wrapped the paper from the thing in her
hands. There were many papers, curi-
ously scented, and they fell at her knees
like cerements. At last came a wrapping
of silk, and out of it the woman shook a
long tress of black hair. She held it high
above her, at the full stretch of her skinny
arm, and still it coiled, winding itself into
cunning circles, like a live thing, on the
hearthstone. For a moment her fingers,
gnarled and twisted like the clutching
roots of a tree, lingered over the softness
of the thing they held ; then they suddenly
rolled up the long tress and restored it to
its wrappings. With another hasty move-
ment Miriam hid the parcel in her bosom.
She rose to her knees, and drawing the
cloak closely about her bent figure, left the
cottage and hurried into the road. High
above her as she went sounded eleven
strokes from the church tower.
The night was cold and wild, and across
the face of the crescent moon a long line
of grey cloud drifted rapidly. There were


RETRIBUTION 187
strange sounds and cryings in the woods
by the road-side and amongst the dry
leaves that rotted at the foot of every
hedgerow. Miriam heeded nothing of the
night’s alarm; she went forward steadily,
one hand drawing her cloak closely about
her tall, gaunt figure, the other clutching
the wisp of hair that warmed her breast.
Not until she was without the village did
she look up, and then it was but to glance
with wild eyes at the threatening clouds
that raced headlong across the watery
moon. Once she raised a skinny hand
and shook it tremblingly at the skies above
her. The howl of a shepherd’s dog across
the wind-swept meadows came sharply to
her ears, and she laughed mockingly as
she passed on between the rustling hedge-
rows. ,
As the moon cleared itself of the per-
sistent shadows, riding suddenly free of
them as a ship rides free of pursuing
waves, Miriam paused, and looked about
her. She stood where four roads met—a
clear space of white amidst the surround-


RETRIBUTION 189
let these arms draw him back to her grave
whom he slew. Whether he be sleeping
or waking, whether he be in church or fair,
let the curse of the God of Justice fall
heavy on his black soul, and deliver him
to me for vengeance. Amen, and amen,
and amen! ”
Then she sat down on the mound of
earth and waited. She drew forth the lock
of hair from her bosom and held it closely
to her heart, caressing it and crooning over
it as if it had been a child. The clouds
continued to chase the moon, crossing and
recrossing her path; now shutting out her
light from the earth, now dropping far
behind in their persistent chase. At such
moments her beams fell clear and keen on
Miriam, still couching at the foot of the
old stone cross.
While Miriam waited the Man came
nearer. He came along the road with
bowed head and bent back, walking
steadily against the wind that smote him
in the face. Steadily as he walked there
was no definite Object in his mind ; he only


192 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
The Man saw nothing of the dark figure
that waited for his coming. He was tired
and weary, and had no home, for who
would care to give shelter to a ne’er-do-
weel? He paused and turned aside and
sat down at the foot of the stone cross,
and sighed from very prostration. And
as he sat there, his head drooping listlessly
against the stone behind him, he fell
asleep.
Whilst he slept he dreamed. He was
battling with a fierce rush of waters. They
bore him down, down, down—and he
clutched at whatever passed him by, and
caught here a straw and there a weed, and
found no help. Then there came rushing
towards him on the irresistible tide the
face of the dead girl, a gleaming white
mask against the swirling black and grey
of the water. Her hair, long and black,
strayed towards him, and he caught at it
madly. But ah! it wrapped itself about
his throat, tighter, and tighter, and still
tighter; and now, instead of saving himself
from the mad rush of the waters, he fought


RETRIBUTION 193
with both hands to free himself from the
awful embrace that was choking the last
breath out of him. Then came a sudden
roaring of the waters, and the wisp of
hair grew tighter, and he went down,
down
When the dawn broke, grey and chill,
the Man lay dead, with the dead girl’s hair
twisted and tied round his throat; and by
his side sat Miriam, her sombre eyes fixed
stonily upon his face.





HEARTS IN ARCADIA
WHEN Luke Colson died nobody in the
village thought for a moment that his wife
Margaret would feel any particular regret
or grief because of his death. To begin
with, he was nearly twenty years her
senior, sad and cold, a practical, hard-
headed and hard-hearted man, to whom
business was the one concern of life. It
was also well known in the village that
their marriage had been very largely a
business arrangement between Luke him-
self and old Allison, Margaret’s father.
Allison was in Luke’s debt and could not
pay, and Luke wanted a wife who would
manage his household affairs and prove
herself a useful institution. There was
never any talk of love between them, and


196 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
yet Margaret Allison was just the sort of
lass who would inspire love even in a
hermit. She had lovers in plenty, and the
neighbours hinted that there had been
tender passages ’twixt her and James
Beech, who was as handsome a lad as she
was a pretty wench. These matters, how-
ever, were naught either to old Allison
or to Luke Colson—the latter asked
and the former consented, and Margaret
became Luke’s wife and mistress of the
Leys Croft Farm. In a worldly sense she
had done well, for Luke was a rich man;
but there were girls in the village who
pitied her in spite of the fact that new
gowns and bonnets were now easily within
her reach.
They had been married seven years
when Luke died. Their married life had
pursued an even course, and its outward
seeming had been exactly correlative to its
inward significance. Margaret did her
duty as a wife, and Luke made a good,
if severe and exacting, husband. A child
might have drawn them closer together,


HEARTS IN ARCADIA 197
and even aroused some mutual affection in
their hearts; but no child came. Mar-
garet’s life was spent in a daily round of
domestic duties, none of which kept her
from thinking of what life might have been
under other circumstances. It may be
that she did not then know that her heart
was being slowly starved. Luke himself
never dreamed of such a thing. He was
one of those men who think that a wife
needs home, comfort, and freedom from
worldly care, and no more. Such a thing
as love never entered his head, unless to be
condemned as the folly of boys and girls.
And now Luke was dead and Margaret
was free, after seven years of sunless life.
She was not yet thirty, and her good looks
were as full of power and suggestion of
lovableness as ever. There were half a
score of young men of standing and sub-
stance in the neighbourhood who WOuld
have married her and her fortune with
pleasure. But Margaret looked at none
of them. She showed no grief for the
loss of her husband, but she wore the


2oo FROM THE BROAD ACRES
had wondered why. Now, as they stood
together by the orchard gate, she laid
her hand on his with a gesture that
spoke more of confidential appeal than of
love.
“Jim,” she said, “do you know that all
the folks in the village are talking of you
and me—saying that we’re going to be
married? And—you’ve never said aught,
Jim—though I’ve known it all along, and
there was never any need to say aught.
But—but I can’t marry you, Jim.”
Beech turned and looked at her with
eyes filled with amazement. ’
“Why, Maggie!” he said. “ Never
marry me? Why, lass, I’ve never had a
thought of any woman but you—and if I
didn’t speak, it was because—because I
didn’t want to hurry you. I’ve loved you
all this time, even if you were another
man’s wife ”
Margaret made a gesture of pain.
“ Don’t, Jim!” she said. “ Don’t—it’s
just that that makes me say I can’t marry
you. You shouldn’t have come back, Jim—


HEARTS IN ARCADIA 201
or I shouldn’t have let you be with me so
much after you did come back—it was
wrong of me. But I couldn’t help it—
for I never loved any but you, Jim, all
the time.”
He tried to draw her to him, but she put
his hand away.
“I’ll tell you all about it now that I’ve
started,” she said. “ Listen, Jim, and
then you’ll see why I can’t marry you. I
married Luke Colson, and I didn’t care a
bit for him, nor for all his money and his
position. I had to marry him whetherl
wanted or no, just as many another poor
girl’s had to marry a man she didn’t care
about. But when I’d once married him I
said to myself that I’d do my duty to
him. And I meant to, and I tried—ay, and
better tried, and the hardest work of all
was to forget you, Jim. And I couldn’t
forget—and when [found I couldn’t forget
I began to hate Luke Colson. And when
I found that out I didn’t try any more, and
so for all the time that he lived I hated him
more than anything in this world. I hated


HEARTS IN ARCADIA' 203
that time. I tried not to think—but I
know I did think, and I knowithat the
only thought I had was that I" should be
glad—ay, glad !—if he died. And yet
he’d been a good husband, as the saying
is. Only I didn’t care a bit for him.
And at last he died—and when they told
me I knew that I was that pleased at the
news that I could have danced and shouted
for joy.”
She paused, and Jim, seeing that there
was still something to say, waited in
silence. She suddenly turned to him.
“ And don’t you see now why I can’t
marry you?” she cried. “I hate myself
because I felt all that about him ; because
I know that all the time I was his wife I
was thinking of another man and longing
to see him ; because I know that I wanted
him to die, so that I should be free. There
was never anybody could say a word
against me—they thought I was a good
wife and all that—and all the time I hated
him so much that I believe I could have
killed him any time if nobody could have


206 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
day to all and sundry travelling along the
road, and when that got beyond his
powers of endurance he took to the road
itself, and promenaded the village, hands
in pockets and pipe in mouth. He looked
in at the blacksmith’s shop, the carpenter’s
woodyard, and the barn where Farmer
Peckitt and his men were sheep-shearing,
and by these means he wore the morning
away until dinner-time. Dinner and the
smoking of another pipe filled up an hour
for him at his mother’s fireside ; after that
the long dreariness of an unoccupied
afternoon stared him full in the face. He
observed to his mother that a week’s play
would be more than he could stand, and
with that went out into the sunshine to
repeat the performance of the morning.
After another lounge over the garden
wall, under the shade of the lilac-trees,
Reuben turned out into the street, won-
dering which excitement he should seek
first—the smithy, the joiner’s shop, or
Peckitt’s barn. There was company at each
of them—most, possibly, at the smithy.


208 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
whether he ought not to retire. Mrs. Hall
looked up and smiled at him, and Reuben
decided to enter boldly. He sat down in
a Corner and looked at the landlady with
admiring eyes.
“ It’s a fine day,” said Mrs. Hall,
demurely.
“Very fine, ma’am,” answered Reuben.
“What can I get for you?” said Mrs.
Hall, still demure, and keeping her eyes
on her work.
“I’ll tek’ a pint 0’ the best ale, ma’am,
please,” replied Reuben.
He produced his coppers and laid them
on the table as Mrs. Hall rose and laid
aside her work. Reuben thought she was
the finest young woman he had ever set
eyes on—it seemed a great pity that she
should be awidow at her age. He noticed
how dark and glossy her hair was, how
pleasant a face she had, and what roguish
eyes and red lips were hers! He looked
down and professed to be filling his pipe
as she set his pint of ale before him, but
his eyes furtively peeped at the plump


_OUT 0’ WORK 209
hand and small wrist which took up the
coppers, and he sighed. Half the young
men in three parishes sighed when they
looked at Carry Hall, and Carry Often
heard them.
“I don’t remember seeing you in here
as early as this, Mr. Wright,” observed
the landlady, as she sat down again to her
work.
“ No, ma’am,” said Reuben, thinking it
was a good deal pleasanter to be there in
the afternoon than in the evening, when '
the place was well filled. “ No. But I’m
out 0’ work at present.”
“ Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear it.”
“ N o ’casion, ma’am, thankin’ you kindly.
I’m goin’ to a better job on Monday,” said
Reuben. “My best respects, ma’am,” and
he drank out of his pint mug.
“ Oh, then, you’re having a week’s holi-
day, like ? ”
Reuben half groaned, but stopped short,
remembering that this particular bit of his
holiday was turning out quite pleasantly.
“ Yes, ma’am—not ’at I care very much
0


210 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
about it, bein’ used to work. I’d hard
shiftin’s to get over this mornin’.”
“ Oh, how was that? ”
Reuben's pipe was now in full draught,
and Reuben was prepared to talk. He
gave Mrs. Hall a full and particular
account of all his doings. Mrs. Hall
laughed; Mrs. Hall grew interested, and
thought Reuben Wright talked very
nicely; and from thinking that she thought
also that he was a bright-faced, honest
young fellow.
“Doin’ nowt," concluded Reuben, “is
poor work, ma’am.”
Mrs. Hall laughed.
“I wish I’d known you’d wanted some-
thing to do,” she said. “I’d soon have
found you a job.”
“ I’m sure I’d ha’ done it with pleasure,
ma’am,” said Reuben. “Happen it’s still
i’ want 0’ doing, ma’am ? ”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Hall, “it is—to tell
you the truth, I wanted some sticks chop-
ping. The girl’s such a lot to do ’at she
can’t make time ”


OUT 0’ WORK 2II
Reuben leaped to his feet, after another
dip into the pint mug.
“Where are they, ma’am—in t’ garden ?
If you’ve an axe or a hatchet, or an old
hedgin’-bill ”
Mrs. Hall gathered her work into her
hand, and went out into the garden with
Reuben to show him where the sticks and
the hatchet were. The garden was very
charming and attractive, and Mrs. Hall
stayed there awhile, leaning against the
trunk of one of her own pear-trees. She
watched Reuben take off his coat, feel the
edge of the hatchet, and set to work in a
businesslike fashion. While he worked
they talked, and though Mrs. Hall fre-
quently observed that she must really go
indoors, as somebody would be certain to '
come in and want something, she did not
go, whereat Reuben was much satisfied.
Once she suggested that he must be thirsty,
and said she would fetch him a mug of ale.
Reuben said no—he was not thirsty at all
—he would really not drink anything at
that time. SO the stick-heap dwindled


OUT 0’ WORK 213
pretty widow’s half-averted face. Carry
turned and gave him a questioning glance,
and something in it made Reuben so bold
as to put his arm round her plump waist.
“Well—just one,” said Mrs. Hall.
“ There ! ”
“Happen,” said Reuben, “happen you
might want some more sticks choppin’
to-morrow, eh?”
“Yes,” answered Carry, “to-morrow
afternoon.”
It was thus that Reuben’s week out 0’
work became profitable to him, and that
the parson subsequently had occasion to
turn two fond hearts into one.





FOR LOVE OR MONEY
WHEN Sophia Jane Trippet, looking out
of her chamber window one June evening,
saw George Gill, arrayed in all his Sunday
best, entering the farmhouse garden, she
felt so certain that he was coming to pro-
pose marriage tO her, that she forthwith
repaired to her sister’s room with the fateful
tidings.
“ Martha Ann,” exclaimed Sophia Jane,
“ there’s George Gill coming in at the gate,
and he’s got on his best clothes, and that
sprigged waistcoat, and the yellow tie with
blue spots in it, and he looks that red in ‘
the face ”
“ Humph !” said Martha Ann. “I know
what George Gill wants. It’s not you,
lass—don’t be such a fool as to think that.


216 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
It’s half 0’ poor father’s money—that’s
what it is.”
“ I’m sure I couldn’t abide George Gill,”
said Sophia Jane. “ But he’s shown me a
deal of attention lately.” a
“Money, lass, money. They’ve done
all ’at they could to find out how much
poor father left. I heard ’at old Thomas
Gill had been making inquiries i’ Sicaster,”
said Martha Ann, with a snort of indig-
nation.
Sophia Jane hesitated.
“What must I say to him? ” she said at
last. “ I’m sure he’s going to ask me.”
“Why,” replied the elder Miss Trippet,
“ you can say ‘yes ’ to him if you like, lass
—it’s not wise to refuse a likely offer now-
a-days, and the Gills are well-to-do folk, if
they are near. We can soon find out
whether it’s you or your money ’at George
is after.”
“ If it is my money, it’ll be a bad day for
him when I find it out,” said Sophia Jane,
with a vixenish shake of her head. “Well
--we’ll see.”


FOR LOVE OR MONEY 217
She went down the old staircase into
the parlour, where Mr. George Gill had
already been conducted by a grinning
serving-maid, who knew right well that he
had come a-courting. The parlour was a
paradise of antimacassars, wax flowers
under glass shades, and stiff, uncomfortable
furniture, and when Sophia Jane entered
its sacred precincts, Mr. Gill was engaged
in balancing himself on the extreme edge
of a chair, and trying to appear quite easy
and comfortable. He was a tall, rawboned
man, of thirty years of age, with a red face,
sandy hair, and a mouth that stood per-
petually open, and he shook hands with
you in a fashion that made you think of a
seal offering its flapper for acceptance.
“Good evening, George,” said Sophia
Jane.
“Good evenin’,’ said George, standing
up awkwardly, and then sitting down again
with the regularity of a railway signal.
“It’s very nice weather, isn’t it?” said
Sophia Jane.
“C’d do wi’ a sup 0’ rain,” replied
I


218 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
George. He made a mighty effort, and
added, “ T’ land’s gettin’ dried up.”
“Dear me! Well, of course, it’s been
very dry so far this summer.”
Then there was a long pause. George
tried desperately hard to think of some-
thing to say; Sophia Jane examined the
pattern of the carpet very earnestly. At
last—
“ How’s your sister?” inquired George.
“She’s very well, thank you,” replied
Miss Trippet.
This left George resourceless once more.
He grew hot and red in an effort to think
of some further observation.
“Have you had many chickens this
year? ” he said after a time.
“ Middlin’ -— we lost a good many,
though.”
“My mother’s lost a lot, an’ all,” said
George.
“Oh ! ” said SophiaJane. “Has she ? ”
“Ay,” said George. “She has.”
Then came silence again. The old
clock in the corner had ticked steadily for


FOR LOVE OR MONEY 219
some time ere another thought shaped
itself in George’s mind.
“They’re ticklish things to deal wi’, is
chickens,” he said.
“ Yes, they are,” assented the lady.
“Guinea-fowls is worse, though,” said
George.
“ Are they?”
“Ay,” said George, nodding his head
solemnly; “a deal worse.”
After that there was so long a pause
that Sophia Jane felt that if it continued
she must scream. George was evidently
growing desperate ; his face was the colour
of a turkey-cock’s comb, his breathing was
hard and audible. At last he made a
mighty plunge.
“It’ll be six month sin’ your father
died!”
“Yes,” sighed Sophia Jane.
“ Happen—happen you’ve thowt about
settlin’ down, like?”
“ Settling down ?”
“Weddin’ wi’ somebody, like ? ”
“Oh!” exclaimed Sophia Jane, indig-


222 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
Sophia Jane finished it for her. And if
George Gill had heard the conclusion of it
he would have quaked in his shoes.
After this began a game of finesse be-
tween the entire Gill family — father,
mother, sons, and daughters—and the two
sisters Trippet. The Gill family wanted
to know, first, how much old Trippet had
cut up for; second, what Sophia Jane’s
share was, and how it had been left. The
Trippet sisters wanted to know whether it
was love or money that had sent George
Gill to Sophia Jane’s feet. Curiously
enough, neither of them had much doubt
on the matter—what really agitated them
was the exact settling of the question.
George himself, cunning as all the Gills
were, was not wise enough to conceal his
hand. Whenever he came courting Sophia
Jane he would drop hints and make allu-
sions which could scarcely be misunder-
stood. Thus—-
“ I lay he’d done varry well, hed your
poor father, now? ”
Or,


224 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
thing Sophia Jane was going to marry
George Gill.
“It’ll provide for one, Mrs. Mallows,”
said Martha Ann, with a deep and pensive
sigh ; “ and, of course, a bit 0’ money ’at’s
not sufficient for two means comfort to a
single person. I can fend for myself when
Sophia Jane’s wed.”
“ Ay, for sure! ” said Mrs. Mallows.
When Mrs. Mallows had duly repeated
all this disturbing news to Mrs. Gill, and
that worthy dame had retailed it to her
husband and her son, there was consterna-
tion in the Gill family. Clearly, all was
over from their standpoint. Sophia Jane
with money-bags behind her was charming
and desirable as wife and daughter-in—law :
Sophia Jane penniless was impossible.
The next day—Sunday—George Gill
was not at church. Since the engagement
he had always attended the evening service
in order to escort Sophia home in due
form. All the next week he forgot, or
was too busy, to call upon his fiancée, and
Martha Ann and Sophia Jane made mental





THE BACKSLIDER 229
were matters Of moment to Benjamin Tate,
and t0 the rest Of the village they appeared
evidences of unassailable respectability.
No one, indeed, could have doubted the
respectability of either Benjamin or Anne
Eliza who viewed them on week-days or
Sundays. The week-day saw Benjamin in
the whitest of aprons behind his counter,
and Anne Eliza scrupulously anxious about
her cottage; the Sunday smiled on their
procession and recession to chapel and
home again, hymn-book in hand and
Sabbatarian intensity on their sleek faces.
Did not Benjamin always wear a top-hat
on Sundays; did not Anne Eliza invariably
carry a clean pocket-handkerchief in her
hand? And had not the family pew a
cushion, upholstered in red, and a large
Bible with gilt edges and a massive clasp ?
When twenty years had gone by
Benjamin Tate found himself an uncom-
monly well—tO—do man. Selling groceries
at something like seventy-five per cent.
profit had put money into his purse, and it
had flowed out again only towards the safe


THE BACKSLIDER 23I
stered hassocks to put one’s feet upon, and
in one corner there was a little cupboard
in which was quite a collection Of gaily-
bound hymn-books, with gilt edges and
clasps. It was something to see the Tate
family standing all a-row, with their gilded
books catching the gleam of the lamps—
it made everybody feel how good a thing
gentility is.
But when the three children were at
school, Benjamin and Anne Eliza some-
how or other grew less regular in their
attendance at the chapel. It may have
been that the heat and burden of their
hitherto very busy day of life was begin-
ning to make itself felt, and that Sunday
afternoon was a good time for rest. It
may have been that Benjamin’s Sunday
dinner predisposed him to sleep, and that
Anne Eliza herself was not disinclined for
forty winks in her easy chair. But what-
ever the cause, ’tis certain that the attend-
ance of Mr. and Mrs. Tate on the means
of grace as provided by the Methodies at
2 and 6 RM. on Sundays became very


232 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
perfunctory, and some of their co-re-
ligionists were sorely exercised about it.
Nevertheless, no great stir was made until
David Pogmore announced one night that
Benjamin and Anne Eliza had been to the
church.
That was perfectly true, and it came
about in this way. Upon a Sunday after-
noon Benjamin woke up from his now
customary nap to find Anne Eliza some-
what repentant because they had not
attended service for two Sundays. “ We
mun really go to-night, master,” she said,
concluding her exordium to the not-so-
repentant Benjamin. “ It looks so to stop
away fro’ t’ chapel like this.”
“ I’m not so sure,” said Benjamin, yawn-
ing, “’at we owtn’t to go to t’ church
sometimes, missis. Now ’at I’m a man 0’
property and position I dessay ’at folks
expect it. There’s a deal 0’ church folk
buy at our shop—it only seems right ’at
we should return t’ compliment, like.”
“We’ve allus been chappillers,” said
Anne Eliza.


234 FROM THE BROAD ACREs
affable. They went homewards satisfied,
and even elated. “There’s something,”
said Benjamin, “’at’s a deal respectabler
about church than chapel.”
“It’s certainly more genteeler,” said
Anne Eliza.
Then there was a silence, for both were
thinking.
“I don’t know,” said Benjamin, “’at it
isn’t our duty to go to t’ church oftener—
say one Sunday there and another to t’
chapel. There’ll be t’ bairns comin’ home
for good before long, and we’ve a right to
do t’ best for ’em ’at we can. They go to
t’ church at t’ school where Alfred Ben-
jamin goes—l expect t’ lasses go to church
an’ all—what ?”
“ Yes, they do,” said Anne Eliza. “Our
Mary Kate told us a lot in her last letter
about t’ harvest festival there. But I’m _
afraid t’ chappillers ’ud hev’ a good deal
to say if we left ’em.”
“ A man ’at’s made money,” said Benja-
min, “can do what he likes. There’s no
law agen a man’s improving his social


THE BACKSLIDER 235
speer, as the saying is. I’m a man 0’
property, and men 0’ property ’5 a right to
move in higher circles than them ’at has
nowt.”
“ Ay, for sure I” acquiesced Anne Eliza.
So for the next few Sundays Mr. and
Mrs. Tate went to the parish church.
They were always shown into one of the
best pews—upon one occasion the Squire
himself made room for them. And then
the churchwarden asked if they wouldn’t
like to rent a pew of their own—the
children, he suggested, would soon be
coming home, and of course Mrs. Tate
would like them to accompany her to
church.
“ They’re churchgoers where our Alfred
Benjamin’s being eddikated,” replied Ben-
jamin, “and at t’ school where Mary Kate
and Sophia Martha goes, an’ all. Is
there one of the best pews to let ?—how
about that pew just 0’ t’ back 0’ t’ Squire’s?
I’ve a fancy for that.”
Thus Benjamin and his wife became
regular attendants at church. They


THE BACKSLIDER 237
course.” He scratched his head, as if
somewhat doubtful of his next course. A
bright idea struck him. “And what mun
we dew wi’ t’ cushion and t’ hassocks, and
hymn-books, Mestur Tate?” he inquired.
Benjamin waved his hand generously.
“Owt ’at’s left i’ t’ chappil,” he said, “ t’
chappil can hev’. It’s welcome.”
That is the reason why one pew in
Oxthorpe Parva Chapel is much more
gorgeously fitted up than any of the
Others. It is called Ben Tate’s Pew to
this day.


24o FROM THE BROAD ACRES
sea met. A solitary seagull, flapping slowly
across the bay, flashed back the sunlight
from its long wings before it sank into the
quiet waters, where it rocked as gently as
a child in its cradle. The tide was far out
across the sands, and the waves that came
rippling upon the pebbly beach made
hardly a sound. So still and calm was the
whole scene that a man coming suddenly
upon it from the cliffs overhead might well
have imagined himself alone in the wide
bay of some undiscovered country, with
nothing to see him but the seabirds sitting
in long, solemn rows upon the ledges of
the white cliffs.
Winding downwards through the green
bushes and dwarf trees that lined the steep
sides of the headland, I came at last upon
the beach, lonely and deserted as the sea
that washed it. The tide, as it went out
hours before, had left evidences of its
presence in long ridges of brown sand,
banked up with masses of round pebbles,
mingled with trailing festoons of glistening
seaweed. Here and there a tiny pool of


242 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
He pointed upwards as he spoke, and
then I saw, after some inspection of the
headland down which I had made my way,
the red roof of a tiny house, built half-way
up the cliff, and so situated that any one
descending to the shore would not easily
see it.
“ That,” said the old man, “is the only
house in the bay; so that it is not likely
there will be many people about here.
Some people say that it is lonely, but I
don’t know about that. There is always
the sea and the sky, and the seabirds sitting
on the ledges of the cliffs. Very likely
some might see no company in all that;
but it is there. The sea is always coming
‘ and going, and the sky is always changing ;
and as for the birds, they are better com-
pany than many men.”
The ancient fisherman, sitting under the
shadow of his boat, had in his day been a
model of strength. He was tall and
straight still, and the open jersey at his
neck showed the strong lines and muscles
of his throat and chest, while his arms, from


244 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
“It is a long time, father,” she said.
“Yes, my lass.”
“ But it will not be much longer ? ”
“ Not much longer, my lass,” answered
the old man gently. “Not much longer
now.”
She sighed again, and turning away re-
traced her steps across the sands, and dis-
appeared under the stunted shrubs growing
in the cliff-side. The old man watched her
for a moment, and then turned to his work
again, and pursued it steadily.
“Your daughter, I suppose, is looking
for the return of a boat ? ”
He nodded his head and went on with
his task for a few moments before he spoke
again.
“ Yes,” she said, “ she is looking for the
return of a boat, poor lass. It is a hopeless
task for her; and it is well she does not
know that it is. The boat she is looking
for, sir, will never come back.”
“ Lost ? ”
“ Lost !-—with all hands. Somewhere
deep down in the sea it is, and its men with


246 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
“She had some one dear to her in that
boat ? ”
“She had her husband and her brother
—my son and my son-in-law,” said the old
man.
“That must have been a great sorrow.”
The old man’s face assumed a new ex-
pression. He looked out seaward with
eyes that seemed to see something which
no other eyes could see. Then I perceived
that his was the face of a man who had
experienced much grief, and had battled it
down by strength of will.
“Ay,” he said presently, “it was a
great sorrow—you might call it worse than
great. But it was worse to her than me,
for she had only been married a day when
her husband sailed out with the fleet.”
“ And never returned ?”
“Never returned.”
“That was terrible.”
“Yes,” he said, taking up another net
and unfolding it; “it was as hard to bear
as aught I ever knew. You see, I had but
two children, the girl up yonder,” nodding


248 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
wedding-day. But it was not so in my
girl’s case.”
He paused again, and mended a rent or
two before he resumed.
“The day after the wedding the two
lads went out with the fleet. You see, a
fisherman must attend to his business
whether he has just married or not. There
were five of them in their coble. I should
have been there too, only I was ill at that
time. Perhaps it was the doing of Provi-
dence. All the men of our house would
have gone then.”
“ And they were lost? ”
“ We watched for the coble coming
home—and it never came. But the others
came, and they gave us the news. There
had been a storm on the Banks, and in the
morning the boat was gone. That was all.
And then the girl’s mind went like a light
that’s just out. But first we had a terrible
night with her, and her hair that was dark
enough before turned white as it is now.
And she still looks for the boat coming.”
When I had climbed to the heights





262 FROM THE BROAD ACRES
and gossiped, and Jennifer lived so high
above them that she neither heard nor
saw.
“ As if there were anything in all this
w )rld, or in hell or heaven, but you ! ” she
said to him one day.
The man turned his face to her.
“I believe you have made me your
God,” he said in low tones.
Jennifer laughed. That was a small
thing—he was more than God—he was
All. She knew no definition of God, but
this man was Everything.
“There is nothing I would not do for
your love,” she said; “nothing too awful
or too high to dare or to essay! The
mere touch of your fingers sets my blood
on fire. See! I love you so much that I
could set my teeth in your hand and bite
you till the blood came.” She seized his
hand and put it to her lips, and for a
moment he thought she meant to bite him,
but she laughed merrily, and kissed it
instead. Then he saw a sombre look come
slowly into her great eyes, and she cried :


THE FOSTER-MOTHER 275
during the years wherein she cherished the
lad as if he had been her own. But there
came a day when the thought was forced
upon her. It was when Michael had
grown a great boy, and was already
beginning to take some share in the work
of the farm and quarry which was being
held in trust for him. He came in one
day surly and cross, and the blind woman
knew it by the tread of his foot on the
floor and the somewhat sharp ring in his
voice. She was at his side in a moment,
and her arm was about his neck—and a
sudden pang shot through her heart as she
felt something like arepulse—repulse from
him who was more her life than the blood
flowing in her own veins !
“Oh, my dear!” she cried. “Some-
thing’s happened to you—what is it ?”
For a while the lad was taciturn and
sulky. Then it came out with a burst—
every word a stab in the blind woman’s
heart.
“ They’ve been calling me milksop
again!” he stormed. “I can’t stand it,