Chapter 3

The only part of the farm that was not doing well was Grandturzel. The new ground had been licked into shape under Reuben's personal supervision, but the land round the steading, which had been under cultivation for three hundred years, yielded only feeble crops and shoddy harvests—things went wrong, animals died, accidents happened.

Realf had never been a practical man—perhaps it was to that he owed his downfall. Good luck and ambition had made him soar for a while, but he lacked the dogged qualities which had enabled Reuben to play[Pg 435] for years a losing game. Besides, he had to a certain extent lost interest in land which was no longer his own. He worked for a wage, for his daily bread, and the labour of his hands and head which had once been an adventure and a glory, was now nothing but the lost labour of those who rise up early and late take rest.

Also he was in bad health—his hardships and humiliations had wrought upon his body as well as his soul. He was not even the ghost of the man whose splendid swaggering youth had long ago in Peasmarsh church first made the middle-aged Reuben count his years. He stooped, suffered horribly from rheumatism, had lost most of his hair, and complained of his eyesight.

Reuben began to fidget about Grandturzel. He told his son-in-law that if things did not improve he would have to go. In vain Realf pleaded bad weather and bad luck—neither of them was ever admitted as an excuse at Odiam.

The hay-harvest of 1904 was a good one—of course Realf's hay had too much sorrel in it, there was always something wrong with Realf's crops—but generally speaking the yield was plentiful and of good quality. Reuben rejoiced to feel the soft June sun on his back, and went out into the fields with his men, himself driving for some hours the horse-rake over the swathes, and drinking at noon his pint of beer in the shade of the waggon. In the evening the big hay-elevator hummed at Odiam, and old Backfield stood and watched it piling the greeny-brown ricks till darkness fell, and he went in to supper and the sleep of his old age.

It took about a week to finish the work—on the last day the fields which for so long had shown the wind's path in tawny ripples, were shaven close and green, scattering a sweet steam into the air—a soft pungency that stole up to the house at night and lapped it round with fragrance. Old Reuben stretched himself contentedly as he went into his dim room and prepared to[Pg 436] lie down. The darkness had hardly settled on the fields—a high white light was in the sky, among the stars.

He went to bed early with the birds and beasts. Before he climbed into the bed, lying broad and white and dim in the background of the candleless room, he opened the window, to drink in the scent of his land as it fell asleep. The breeze whiffled in the orchard, fluttering the boughs where the young green apples hid under the leaves, there was a dull sound of stamping in the barns ... he could see the long line of his new haycocks beyond the yard, soft dark shapes in the twilight.

He was just going to turn back into the room, his limbs aching pleasantly for the sheets, when he noticed a faint glow in the sky to southward. At first he thought it was a shred of sunset still burning, then realised it was too far south for June—also it seemed to flicker in the wind. Then suddenly it spread itself into a fan, and cast up a shower of sparks.

The next minute Reuben had pulled on his trousers and was out in the passage, shouting "Fire!"

The farm men came tumbling from the attics—"Whur, m?aster?"

"Over at Grandturzel—can't see wot's burning from here. Git buckets and come!"

Shouts and gunshots brought those men who slept out in the cottages, and a half-dressed gang, old Reuben at the head, pounded through the misty hay-sweet night to where the flames were spreading in the sky. From the shoulder of Boarzell they could see what was burning—Realf's new-made stacks, two already aflame, the others doomed by the sparks which scattered on the wind.

No one spoke, but from Realf's yard came sounds of shouting, the uneasy lowing and stamping of cattle, and the neigh of terrified horses. The whole place was lit up by the glare of the fire, and soon Reuben could see Realf and his two men, Dunk and Juglery, with Mrs.[Pg 437] Realf, the girls, and young Sidney, passing buckets down from the pond and pouring them on the blazing stacks—with no effect at all.

"The fools! Wot do they think they're a-doing of? D?an't they know how to put out a fire?"

He quickened his pace till his men were afraid he would "bust himself," and dashing between the burning ricks, nearly received full in the chest the bucket his son-in-law had just swung.

"Stop!" he shouted—"are your cattle out?"

"No."

"Then git 'em out, you fool! You'll have the whole pl?ace a bonfire in a minnut. Wot's the use of throwing mugs of water lik this? You'll never put them ricks out. S?ave your horses, s?ave your cows, s?ave your poultry. Anyone gone for the firemen?"

"Yes, I sent a boy over fust thing."

"Why didn't you send to me?"

"Cudn't spare a hand."

"Cudn't spare one hand to fetch over fifteen—that's a valiant idea. Now d?an't go loitering; fetch out your cattle afore they're roast beef, git out the horses and all the stock—and souse them ricks wot ?un't burning yit."

The men scurried in all directions obeying his orders. Soon terrified horses were being led blindfold into the home meadow; the cows and bullocks, less imaginative, followed more quietly. Meantime buckets were passed up from the pond to the stacks that were not alight; but before this work was begun Reuben went up to the furthest stack and thrust his hand into it—then he put in his head and sniffed. Then he called Realf.

"C?ame here."

Realf came.

"Wot's that?"

Realf felt the hay and sniffed like Reuben.

"Wot's that?" his father-in-law repeated.
 
Realf went white to the lips, and said nothing.

"I'll tell you wot it is, then!" cried Reuben—"it's bad stacking. This hay ?un't bin pr?aperly dried—it's bin stacked damp, and them ricks have gone alight o' themselves, bust up from inside. It's your doing, this here is, and I'll m?ake you answer fur it, surelye."

"I—I—the hay seemed right enough."

"Maybe it seems right enough to you now?"—and Reuben pointed to the blazing stacks.

Realf opened his lips, but the words died on them. His eyes looked wild and haggard in the jigging light; he groaned and turned away. At the same moment a pillar of fire shot up from the roof of the Dutch barn.

The flying sparks had soon done their work. Fires sprang up at a distance from the ricks, sometimes in two places at once. Everyone worked desperately, but the water supply was slow, and though occasionally these sporadic fires were put out, generally they burned fiercely. Wisps of blazing hay began to fly about the yard, lodging in roofs and crannies. By the time the fire engine arrived from Rye, the whole place was alight except the dwelling-house and the oasts.

The engine set to work, and soon everything that had not been destroyed by fire was destroyed by water. But the flames were beaten. They hissed and blackened into smoke. When dawn broke over the eastern shoulder of Boarzell, the fire was out. A rasping pungent smell rose from a wreckage of black walls and little smoking piles of what looked like black rags. Water poured off the gutters of the house, and soused still further the pile of furniture and bedding that had been pulled hastily out of it. The farm men gathered round the buckets, to drink, and to wash their smoke-grimed skins. Reuben talked over the disaster with the head of the fire brigade, who endorsed his opinion of spontaneous combustion; and Realf of Grandturzel sat on a heap of ashes—and sobbed.
 
§ 3.

That morning Reuben had a sleep after breakfast, and did not come down till dinner-time. He was told that Mrs. Realf wanted to see him and had been waiting in the parlour since ten. He smiled grimly, then settled his mouth into a straight line.

He found his daughter in a chair by the window. Her face was puffed and blotched with tears, and her legs would hardly support her when she stood up. She had brought her youngest son with her, a fine sturdy little fellow of fourteen. When Reuben came into the room she gave the boy a glance, and, as at a preconcerted signal, they both fell on their knees.

"Git up!" cried Backfield, colouring with annoyance.

"We've come," sobbed Tilly, "we've come to beg you to be merciful."

"I w?an't listen to you while you're lik that."

The son sprang to his feet, and helped his mother, whose stoutness and stiffness made it a difficult matter, to rise too.

"If you've come to ask me to kip you and your husband on at Grandturzel," said Reuben, "you might have s?aved yourself the trouble, fur I'm shut of you both after last night."

"F?ather, it wur an accident."

"A purty accident—wud them stacks no more dry than a ditch. 'Twas a clear case of 'bustion—fireman said so to me; as wicked and tedious a bit o' wark as ever I met in my life."

"It'll never happen ag?un."

"No—it w?an't."

"Oh, f?ather—d?an't be so hard on us. The Lord knows wot'll become of us if you turn us out now. It 'ud have been better if we'd gone five years ago—Realf[Pg 440] wur a more valiant man then nor wot he is now. He'll never be able to start ag?un—he ?un't fit fur it."

"Then he ?un't fit to work on my land. I ?un't a charity house. I can't afford to kip a man wud no backbone and no wits. I've bin too kind as it is—I shud have got shut of him afore he burnt my pl?ace to cinders."

"But wot's to become of us?"

"That's no consarn of mine—?un't you s?aved anything?"

"How cud we, f?ather?"

"I could have s?aved two pound a month on Realf's wage."

Tilly had a spurt of anger.

"Yes—you'd have gone short of everything and made other folks go short—but we ?un't that kind."

"You ?un't. That's why I'm turning you away."

Her tears welled up afresh.

"Oh, f?ather, I'm sorry I sp?ake lik that. D?an't be angry wud me fur saying wot I did. I'll own as we might have managed better—only d?an't send us away—fur this liddle chap's sake," and she pulled forward young Sidney, who was crying too.

"Where are your other sons?"

"Harry's got a wife and children to keep—he cudn't help us; and Johnnie's never m?ade more'n fifteen shilling a week since the war."

Reuben stood silent for a moment, staring at the boy.

"Does Realf know you've come here?" he asked at length.

"Yes," said Tilly in a low voice.

There was another silence. Then suddenly Reuben went to the door and opened it.

"There's no use you waiting and vrothering me—my mind's m?ade up."

"F?ather, fur pity's s?ake——"
 
"D?an't talk nonsense. How can I sit here and see my land messed about by a fool, jest because he happens to have married my darter?—and ag?unst my wish, too. I'm sorry fur you, Tilly, but you're still young enough to work. I'm eighty-five, and I ?un't stopped working yet, so d?an't go saying you're too old. Your gals can go out to service ... and this liddle chap here ..."

He stopped speaking, and stared at the lad, chin in hand.

"He can work too, I suppose?" said Tilly bitterly.

"I wur going to say as how I've t?aken a liking to him. He looks a valiant liddle feller, and if you'll hand him over to me and have no more part nor lot in him, I'll see as he doesn't want."

Tilly gasped.

"I've left this farm to William," continued Reuben, "because I've naun else to leave it to that I can see. All my children have forsook me; but maybe this boy 'ud be better than they."

"You mean that if we let you adopt Sidney, you'll m?ake Odiam his when you're gone?"

"I d?an't say for sartain—if he turns out a pr?aper lad and is a comfort to me and loves this pl?ace as none of my own children have ever loved it——"

But Tilly interrupted him. Putting her arm round the terrified boy's shoulders, she led him through the door.

"Thanks, f?ather, but if you offered to give us to-day every penny you've got, I'd let you have no child of mine. Maybe we'll be poor and miserable and have to work hard, but he w?an't be one-half so wretched wud us as he'd be wud you. D'you think I disremember my own childhood and the way you m?ade us suffer? You're an old man, but you're hearty—you might live to a hundred—and I'd justabout die of sorrow if I[Pg 442] thought any child of mine wur living wud you and being m?ade as miserable as you m?ade us. I'd rather see my boy dead than at Odiam."