Possession E-Book

Mazo de la Roche

• Herausgeber: Classica Libris
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A story of a farm inheritance that cultivates an illicit love affair.
For Derek Vale, Grimstone farm is more than an inheritance. It’s an adventure and a retreat all in one, and a chance to start over. But when an affair with a seasonal fruit-picker crosses racial lines, a gathering scandal and an unexpected child are only the first signs of a storm that could rip Grimstone from its foundations.

Leseprobe

Mazo de la Roche

POSSESSION

Copyright

First published in 1923

Copyright © 2019 Classica Libris

Dedication

TO

CHRISTOPHER MORLEY

PART I

Chapter 1

THE HALIGONIAN

1.

On an evening in early May, a young man was walking sharply along the country road that passed through the fishing-village of Mistwell, and, following the shore of one of those inland seas, oddly called great lakes, led to the town of Brancepeth, seven miles away.

The young man was just above medium height and just under thirty, and he walked with a resolute and eager step that spoke of some elation of spirit. As the deep ruts of the road were half-frozen he kept to the side, where a narrow path was beaten, looking about him with the interest of one who sees his future surroundings for the first time. His wide-open, greenish-blue eyes rested with pleasurable curiosity, first on the budding orchards to his right, and then on the level expanse of the lake, flushed pink by the reflection of the western sky, to his left.

His eyes were not only wide open, as though they looked life eagerly in the face, expecting more than most men: but they had a free, fearless, careless look, that, combined with his closely cropped fair hair, and small, tawny mustache, made him appear even younger than he was. His strong limbs denoted vigour and his full, round chin and rather wide nostrils indicated some rashness and dominance of character.

He stopped to snuff the crisp air from the lake and to watch a flock of gulls circling in pursuit of their evening meal.

He now saw that he was not alone, for another pedestrian had appeared around a bend of the road behind him. He watched the approach of the newcomer with the same look of pleasant curiosity that he had given to the landscape. As he came up beside him, he said:

“Can you tell me whether I am near a place named Grimstone?”

He spoke in the full, agreeable tones of a Nova Scotian; the other replied with a slight North of Ireland accent:

“You are. It’s not above half a mile from here. I’m going past the gate myself, and, if you like, I’ll bear you company.”

They walked along together; the Nova Scotian keeping to the narrow path, while his companion strode doggedly over the frozen ruts. He was a slender, wiry man, with thin, ruddy cheeks and hard, light-blue eyes. His coat-collar was turned up against the frosty air, and he swung a carved walking-stick, as though he had a fierce pleasure in movement.

“I take it that you’re young Mr. Vale, himself,” he said.

The young man nodded, smiling with a little embarrassment.

“It’s queer they didn’t come to meet ye.”

“They are not expecting me till tomorrow. I found I could get away a day earlier, and—well, I suppose I was in a hurry to see the place.”

“Naturally. It’s a fine place, but not kept up as it should be. But perhaps you’ve visited it before?”

“No. I have never been west of Quebec till now.”

“Perhaps you’ve never taken much interest in farming, eh?” His tone was inquisitive.

“Very little. I’m an architect. But I like the country. Riding, fishing. That sort of thing.”

“Well, you’ll find life different here. Of course, Grimstone is a small place, just two hundred acres; it’s not a great charge. Now, we have eight hundred acres, and the finest herd of Holsteins in the Province. You must come to see us, Mr. Vale, and I’ll show you about. I manage the farmlands for Mr. Jerrold, the owner. My name is Hobbs.” He gave the information about himself with a certain swagger. Obviously, he was a man to be reckoned with.

While he discoursed with fluency of prize bulls, butter-making contests, and fattening steers, young Mr. Vale, half wishing he were alone again—this man seemed to take the glamour from his adventure—peered into the now deepening dusk for the first signs of his new habitation.

He had been told at the station that a little graveyard lay just east of Grimstone, and now the road, sweeping sharply to the very edge of the steep shore, almost circled a grove of ragged pines, among which he caught the pale glimmer of gravestones. The gentle swish of the water seemed at his very feet. A white wooden house appeared like someone waiting at the roadside. Hobbs was saying:

“This is where Chard lives. You’ll not find him much of a neighbour. Now I’ll just tell you what he’s like. Not long ago he hired some men from Mistwell to help him dig drains. Very well; when the end of the week came he paid the men, all but old Peek. And he says to him, ‘Peek, you’re so old and feeble that you can’t do as much as the others, so you’ll come back to work two days more before I give ye a week’s wage.’ And the poor old devil had to. So now I’ve introduced Chard, the Superintendent of the Sunday-school, and a damned good farmer. But that’s what I call sharp and hard, Mr. Vale, and yet I’m called hard sometimes by the thirty-odd men under me. Now here’s your gate, and good night to you. Don’t forget to come over and see our herd.”

Touching his cap he hurried down a sudden steep that fell from the gates of Grimstone, ending in a little bridge that spanned an unseen stream whose gushing murmur proclaimed it swollen with the spring rains.

2.

Derek Vale stood still. He did not want to open the gate till Hobbs was out of sight. Then, “My gate,” he thought, and laid his hand on the cold iron almost caressingly. The dark bulk of a low, broad, stone house rose before him, surrounded by the massive trunks of trees whose lowest branches were higher than its chimneys. The front of the house was in darkness, but he could see a light in one of the back rooms. He determined to go to the window where the light was and get a glimpse of the occupants of the house, so that he might have the advantage of having seen them unobserved.

The light was cast by an oil lamp on the kitchen table. Derek drew near the window with caution. He felt beneath his feet the stone of a flagged yard. A noise of stamping and singing came from within. He was astonished and amused by what he saw.

In the circle of ruddy light a girl was dancing a sort of breakdown, supplying the music for her performance with her own lusty, clear voice. She seemed charged with rough vigour, snapping her fingers and stamping her feet in almost frenzied rhythm. Her full breasts bounced; her strong legs leaped against her long, heavy skirt; the lamp light sparkled on the thick spectacles she wore. Around her were grouped four men and an old woman. “She must be Mrs. Machin,” thought Derek, “the housekeeper… the men, farm labourers, of course.”

He was fascinated by the dancing of the girl. Only when she had dropped panting into a chair could he give more than a glance to the men. Two were seated at the table facing each other. They had been playing at dominoes and they now returned to the game, their faces still fixed in the grin with which they had watched the dance. One was a red-cheeked youth with a black bullet head, beady eyes, and a sly smile. His opponent had a narrow head, a fair, reckless face, and the look of a sailor rather than a farm labourer. Talking and laughing with the girl, the third man showed through his open collar a full brown throat and chest; he had an honest, stubborn face. The fourth had been sitting in the shadow, but he now drew a match across a stove-lid and held it to a cigarette, the flash illuminating for a moment his prominent, well cut cheek bones, bright eyes, and curly brown hair. He rose, stretched himself, and came towards the window. Derek hastily turned away, and, finding himself facing the door, he gave a sharp, yet nervous rap.

3.

The man with the cigarette opened the door. A collie dog at his side barked noisily.

“I should like to see Mrs. Machin,” said Derek.

The old woman instantly appeared, pushing aside the dog and man, and presenting a peremptory front to Vale.

“You are the housekeeper, aren’t you?” he said.

She looked at him shrewdly. “My goodness, don’t tell me you are Mr. Vale! We didn’t expect you till tomorrow. Of course, it don’t matter to me. But one of these boys should ha’ met you.”

“I’ve enjoyed the walk,” said Derek. “Shall I come in at this door?”

“Well, I expect you can come in at any door you please. It’s your house. But if I was you, I’d go round and come in at the front. It’d be seemlier for the master.”

Derek laughed. “I think I shall come this way if you don’t mind. It looks rather more cheerful.”

The young men had got to their feet, but the girl, evidently overcome by shyness, sat with her face hidden in the curve of her arm, supported by the back of her chair.

Mrs. Machin put the dog outside and shut the door sharply. She said:

“Now you are in the kitchen, Mr. Vale, I may as well name over these idle rascals to you. The two playing dominoes are Bob Gunn and John Newbigging. Bob used to be in the Chube Wur-rks in Glesca, he says. He means he used to be in the Tube Works in Glasgow.” The bullet-headed youth grinned. “John Newbigging has been all over creation and he has an old mother in Dundee he never writes to. Perhaps you’ll be able to stop him and Bob quarrelling as to which is the worst city, Glesca or Auld Reekie. I can’t.” Both men burst into embarrassed laughs, and Newbigging said, “It’s no fair, Mrs. Machin, to be tryin’ to prejudice Mr. Vale against us frae the start.”

“This one,” proceeded Mrs. Machin, indicating the honest-faced fellow, who still kept near the girl, “is Hugh McKay. He’s a Galloway shepherd, and he’ll talk about sheep to you all day long if you’ll let him.” McKay came forward with dignity and held out his hand.

“Mrs. Machin ’d be givin’ us all a character,” he said.

“Well, I’m prepared to do a good deal of talking about sheep,” said Derek, shaking the proffered brown hand, and liking McKay at once.

“Phoebe, get up out of that chair and speak to Mr. Vale.” But the girl, though she rose, uncovering her comely, red face, would not speak. She stared, teetering on her feet, and holding to McKay’s coat sleeve.

“Are you Scotch, too?” asked Derek.

“No, she comes from Kent. She used to work in the hop-fields,” replied McKay. “That’s where she learned to dance.”

“To hop, as it were,” said Derek. The joke brought a roar of laughter from the men.

“This is Mr. Windmill,” interrupted Mrs. Machin. He threw away his cigarette and came forward. “He’s out here to study farming. But he just works and lives like the rest of us. Except he wears gloves to plough.”

Windmill flushed but smiled good-humouredly. “The horses don’t seem to mind me having gloves on.”

“No, but Mike minded you having boots on when you kicked him the other day.”

“Didn’t I say she’d be givin’ us all characters?” said McKay.

Mrs. Machin had lighted a tall, brass lamp; picking it up, she said: “Well, you’ve had a look at us, Mr. Vale, and if you’ll come to the dining room now, I’ll lay you a bit of supper.” As she preceded Derek with the lamp, she called back, “Wood and water, boys.”

She was a repellent old woman, he thought, with her yellow face, black, oily hair, eyes the colour of an oyster, and stiff, white apron. And she had hurried him out of the kitchen, his own kitchen, in a very domineering fashion. Well, since she seemed so capable, and so used to ordering the men about, it would relieve him of the necessity of taking the reins into his unaccustomed hands at once.

The dining room was a low-ceilinged room wainscoted in white and papered in dark green. The furniture was black oak, and two deep, built-in cupboards filled with blue china lent a comfortable old-world air. There were two large steel engravings on either side of the chimney piece: Wellington and Blucher after Waterloo, and The Trial of William, Lord Russell. The large fireplace had been papered over. Tapping it with his knuckles, he thought, “I’ll have that opened up,” but, as Mrs. Machin looked at him sharply, he picked up a china greyhound from the mantel and examined it. His greyhound… but it was ridiculous.

Mrs. Machin set him down to cold beef, bread and butter, bramble jam, and tea.

“Home-made bread?” he asked, with his mouth full.

“No, indeed. We’ve plenty to do without bread-making and the baker three times a week from Mistwell. Ain’t it good?”

“Delicious,” he replied, abashed.

Mrs. Machin had closed the door between the dining room and kitchen and established herself in a straight-backed chair against the wall. She said:

“I should know you for a Vale anywhere. I s’pose that’s why your uncle took to you.”

“It was a great surprise. It scarcely seemed fair to my brother.”

“Fair! What’s unfair about it? Couldn’t he leave his property where he liked?” She stroked her apron with her large-knuckled hands. “Well I remember when he went away to Halifax ten years ago to choose which one he would make his heir. When he came back he said to me, ‘I’ve made my choice, Mrs. Machin. His name’s Derek. The other one is no Vale,’ says he. He was terrible proud of this place. I s’pose you know that your great-grandfather built it above a hundred years ago.”

“My uncle talked to me a great deal when he was in Halifax. He spoke of you too.”

“He might well speak of me. I’ve served his family faithful for—let’s see—fifty-four years this month. And the last two years, I’ve run the place myself, you might say. Not bad for a woman of seventy-two, eh?”

“Wonderful.”

“And now I want to know if you’re going to keep me on. It don’t matter a bit to me because I’ve got a sister in Mistwell that wants me to live with her, and I haven’t slaved all these years and saved nothing you may depend on it.”

For all her air of independence Derek could see that she was fiercely eager to stay. He did not want her, yet he was afraid to be left alone in charge of the four men and the girl. He might make himself ridiculous. He said:

“In his will my uncle recommended you. Of course I shall want you to stay on.”

“Well, I’m glad that’s settled. Not that it matters to me, though I do look on Grimstone as my home, having lived here ever since my father was drowned.”

“In the lake here?”

“Why not? There’s plenty of room, ain’t there? It gets all the Mistwell fishermen sooner or later. It didn’t get pa till he’d fathered six of us, so that wasn’t so bad. But it laid low and got two out of the six. Fools, to be fishermen!”

4.

When she was gone and the door closed behind her, Derek stretched his legs and felt for his pipe. He lay back in his armchair staring at the ceiling darkened by the soot from a stovepipe that crossed it from end to end. “Stovepipe’s got to go,” he muttered, between puffs. “Just a big open fireplace—and logs.” He got up and began restlessly to pace the room. He examined Wellington and Blucher again, shaking hands so cordially, the dead and dying tumbled plentifully about their horses’ hoofs.

He next observed a sampler, The Lord’s Prayer, worked by Agnes Vale, aged nine years, in the year of our Lord, Eighteen Hundred and Thirty-six. Seventy-five years ago, Cousin Agnes in England must be named for her… he thought of cousin Agnes, whom he had never seen. He thought of Edmund, his only near relation. How Edmund would laugh if he could see him now! He felt that Edmund would have been better able to cope with Mrs. Machin. He wished that she and the others would go to bed so that he might adventure further. No doubt they were talking him over in the kitchen. Now he heard a shuffling of feet and the click of a bolt. He returned quickly to his chair and crossed his legs.

The door behind him opened. It was the women. Mrs. Machin gave the impression of driving Phoebe before her. The girl’s hand was over her mouth, as though at any moment she might explode with laughter. Mrs. Machin gave a curt good night, and they disappeared into the dark passage. Soon the three Scotchmen went through in Indian file. They were in their stockinged feet, and McKay carried a short end of candle. They said, “Good night, sir,” in a friendly chorus, but kept their eyes shyly averted. Derek waited impatiently for the Englishman, Windmill. It was quite half an hour before he followed the others. He wore slippers and carried a small lamp. He hesitated, smiled pleasantly, and said:

“There is a step down into the hallway, Mr. Vale. I thought I should warn you.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Derek.

He was alone.

A clock in the hall struck ten with harsh, penetrating tones.

The dog was snuffling at the crack under the door, evidently disturbed by the strange presence.

Derek went to a window and looked out. No moon; he had never seen such utter darkness. It was as though Grimstone had swallowed him, and a tangible body was reared between him and the world he had known. He turned back to the room and picked up the lamp. Mrs. Machin had told him that she had prepared two bedrooms for him—one downstairs—one above. (It didn’t make no difference to her which he took.) Detestable old woman. Why had she not warned him of the step? Even knowing of it he almost stumbled. The lamplight showed him a severe hall with five closed doors, and a hat stand, on either side of which a deer’s head peered at him with startled brown eyes. The tall clock stood under the stairway beside a narrow door, which, when he opened it disclosed only a closet hung with hats and coats, and a shelf of old magazines and ledgers. His uncle’s clothes. He closed the door feeling a little rebuffed for his curiosity, and opened a door opposite. Here was the parlour: a long, narrow room with two doors opening on the hall, and a row of low windows, hung with straight green curtains. There were many walnut chairs and tables, the latter ornamented with brass-bound books, and glass candelabra with hanging prisms. A group in marble stood on the closed piano; a few oil-paintings hung against the pale walls. A room full of memories; not to be taken possession of lightly, rather repelling intrusion.

Across the hall he found a bedroom whose tall four-poster and deep leather chair pleased him at once. The old English sporting prints on the walls were nice, too. He was tired but he would not go to bed till he had seen the upstairs.

So he ascended the uncarpeted steps, the lamp at a precarious angle. He explored three bedrooms and a dingy little study, and peered down a narrow passage that led to the rooms occupied by the help.

As he undressed he wondered how they were disposed: probably the robust girl and the dry old woman together; Windmill alone; the three Scots sleeping like logs. He found his bed, when he plunged into it, amazingly soft and enveloping. He had never slept on feathers before. As he drew the quilt to his chin he gave an amused little chuckle. It seemed to him that he had taken command of a storm-worn old ship and was outward bound on an unknown sea. Well, he had a hardy old pilot in Mrs. Machin… and, thinking of her, he fell asleep.

Chapter 2

MAY MORNING AT GRIMSTONE

1.

It was a rippling, throaty noise, sweet and oft repeated; scarcely enough to rouse one from deep slumber. But the vibrant, clanging note which followed, effectually wakened him. The early sunlight was flooding the room, and, beyond the open window, the lake stretched, a vast shield of radiant blue and gold. He sat up in bed, half bewildered, staring. A spreading bush of bleeding-heart grew before the low window. It was in full bloom, its long sprays of deep, pink hearts hanging, like jewels, against the green of the wet lawn. A slow procession now passed: seven bronze turkey hens, with necks outstretched went by in single file, and a little space behind them, every feather bright with a metallic sheen, his wattles, blue and scarlet, dangling beneath his open beak, the gobbler. Close by his side, with light steps, a snow-white turkey-hen walked delicately.

Derek could have shouted, the picture was so beautiful, so arranged, as for a stage effect. He thought of it the while he dressed, and dashed his face with icy water from the ewer.

The table was set for him in the dining room. The sound of turning machinery and a loud voice singing came from the kitchen. Mrs. Machin appeared. In the daylight her face looked yellower, her eyes more like oysters, and her apron snowier than ever. She twisted her pale lips into a smile.

“Good morning. Will ye take porridge?”

“Please. And bacon and eggs, Mrs. Machin.”

“You don’t want them all at once, do ye?” she answered sharply.

“Oh, no,” he said, feeling rebuffed. He took his place at the table, and hoped she noticed his displeased silence while she served him. But he could not remain displeased; the food was good, his appetite sharp; he smiled at her like a boy, in spite of himself.

“What’s the excitement in the kitchen?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s Phoebe separatin’. She always hollers when she does it. I’ll tell her to stop.”

But the machine was stopping with a slow, whining rasp. Mrs. Machin went out. Silence prevailed in the kitchen. He heard Phoebe go singing towards the barn.

2.

A door opened from the dining room on the flagged yard. He stood there in the sunshine looking over his new possessions. A wide, rolling field stretched before him to the bank of the stream, and rose beyond it in a high, level meadow, fringed with warped trees whose stems and limbs were bent in a single direction, away from the gently rippling lake, cowered in their old age from the mutable master who had so cruelly lashed them when they were but striplings.

But the stately group of trees about the house, whose massive trunks supported such a fragile foliage that it scarcely threw a shade, seemed never to have been fretted, but towered in upright dignity above the solid walls. No shrubs or hedges softened the stern aspect of the place. Grimstone fronted an unbroken view of cliff, and lake, and sky. Yet all was not harshness, for a cherry orchard, in full bloom, crowded to the very kitchen doors, the moist ground beneath the trees already white with the tender petals that fell before the rough May wind. Behind the cherry orchard rose the ordered ranks of the apple orchard barely in bud, excepting a few crab-apple trees in pink flower, that filled the air with their lovely scent. West and south of the orchards were the plantations of small fruits, and, beyond them, fields and pastures, and a dark pine wood.

Derek could see a group of figures kneeling among the rows of an immense strawberry bed, over which the collie was scampering, barking in scatter-brain fashion at the circling gulls. He saw Newbigging and Gunn and three barelegged village boys placing little plants in a shallow trench. Mrs. Machin stood over them, directing the “puddling” of the roots in a basin of earth and water, and the position of them in the trench.

“We’re settin’ out some fresh strawberry plants,” she explained. “Them’s Mistwell lads helping us, and they’d do naught but scuffle if I didn’t watch them.”

“Where are the others?”

“Hugh McKay is plowing, and Windmill has gone back to look for the horses. Phoebe’s feedin’ the calves.”

“What buildings are those on up the road?”

“Mr. Jerrold’s stables, and Hobbs’s house. You can’t see Jerrold’s house from here. Those are his orchards beyond the lane, and his house is hid by them. It stands far from the road, with its back against a big wood.”

“I met the overseer, Hobbs, last night.”

“He’s a sharp ’un. But I don’t see how Mr. Jerrold could get on without him. As it is, they can’t raise fodder enough off that great place to feed their own creatures, but have to come buyin’ hay off us.”

Newbigging looked up from where he knelt.

“The men say that so long as they keep the horses and traps in fine order, Mr. Jerrold don’t care a tinker’s dam about anything else.”

“Ay,” said Gunn, sitting on his heels, “and Miss Jerrold has the gardeners off their work half the time, plantin’ daffydils in the woods, the way they grow wild in Scotland.”

“The Jerrold’s are gentry,” said Mrs. Machin, “and you can’t expect no better of them.”

“I don’t blame them,” said Newbigging. “I like a place to look bonny, mysel’. Don’t you call that a fine view over the sea, Mr. Vale?” He made a broad gesture of his hand that held a strawberry plant.

“They all talk about the sea,” interrupted Mrs. Machin, “and they will have it there’s a tide. I don’t pay no heed to views or tides. I’ve never had no time for it.”

“Jock!” shouted Gunn to the collie, “If ye’ll no quit chasin’ they seagulls, I’ll sort ye.”

The dog came bounding across the beds; the gulls rose, whimpering; two steamers, passing, saluted each other hoarsely. It was a jolly thing to be standing in the breeze on one’s own land.

“Well, I’m off exploring,” said Derek.

“Take a look at Chard’s place. There’s a farm in order. He’s what I call a good man. He gets something out of every inch of his land.”

“And gives no heed to bonny views,” added Newbigging, slyly. Gunn and he chuckled and giggled, glad of any diversion from work.

3.

In two hours Derek had inspected his apple, cherry, plum, and pear trees; his thimbleberry, raspberry, and blackberry canes; leaned over the pigsty and held friendly converse with a Yorkshire sow which was suckling eleven young; and searched for eggs in the poultry house. He had inspected the contents of the carriage-house; looked wisely at the small remainder of last year’s crops; crossed the stepping-stones of the stream, and tried to make friends with the velvet-coated, dark-eyed Jersey herd, grazing in the meadow next the shore.

Now he was loitering up the lane, boundary between Grimstone and Durras, as the Jerrolds’ place was named. White and red wood lilies, like children at play, peeped among the undergrowth along the fence; in every sheltered corner clumps of violets grew in moist seclusion.

He wished again that Edmund could see him. Edmund had been rather facetious about the farm. He had counselled Derek to rent or sell it. But Derek, though he liked his profession of architect, had often longed for more adventurous living than the pleasant, ordered days of Halifax could offer. He was thrilled by the thought that he owned all this cared-for, fertile land; these grazing creatures, who did not know him for their master; all these flowering trees, straining towards fruition; even the tender, helpless violets were his to protect. The desire to protect was (though unknown to himself) the strongest instinct of his nature.

His thoughts were interrupted by a chorus of shouts and halloos in some field ahead. There were cries of: “Head them off there! Whoa! Whoa! They’re Vale’s horses! Catch the mare! Whoa, girl!”

He began to run. Now there were open fields on either hand. There came a thud of horses’ hoofs. Then he saw Newbigging, Gunn, and McKay trying to catch the galloping beasts, while Windmill stood astride of the fence and shouted orders. Some of Mr. Jerrold’s men came running up headed by Hobbs. He was swearing vigorously.

“Why in Hell don’t you fellows mend your fences? This is the second time in a week those horses have broken into our place.”

“Make it a month, Hobbs,” drawled Windmill.

“No. A week… Look at that now! There’ll be mischief done yet.”

Derek now perceived that only six of the animals were his; and that the men were endeavouring to separate them from Mr. Jerrold’s horses, a much handsomer lot, who were mingling wildly with the intruders, snorting and giving vicious kicks as they flew past. The Grimstone horses were led by two long-tailed Welsh ponies—mother and son, Derek afterwards learned, and it was absurd to see the heavy farm horses capering and careering at the beck of these vicious little fellows. The men ran till the sweat poured down their faces, yelling, waving their arms, and dodging kicks. At last Windmill leaped from the fence and joined the chase. Hobbs, seeing Derek, came to him.

“I hope you’ll improve your fences, Mr. Vale. Your uncle never would. This sort of thing’s a disgrace, happening every little while. Look at that now. I knew it would happen. Well, it’s not our fault.”

Blood was running down the flank of one of the Grimstone horses. He paused for a moment, trembling, then, with a plunge that sent a spray of red drops over the man who had approached him, he was off again. “Fools!” muttered Hobbs, and threw down his cap. Suddenly, springing, with surprising agility, in front of the ringleader, he caught her dexterously by the nose and brought her sharply to a halt. Her son, seeing his mother captured, stopped of his own accord, and laid his head across her shoulders. In a few minutes the horses were separated, and Vale’s were being led quietly through the break in the fence by the crestfallen men.

Derek could not but admire Hobbs for accomplishing in a flash what all these fellows had failed to do. He came up laughing, his face red, and self-conscious.

“I have to show ’em, every now and then,” he said. “But it’s nothing to be cock-a-hoop about. Any live man could have done it. Miss Jerrold and her father saw the whole thing. They are in the meadow beyond on their horses.”

He pointed beyond the pasture. Derek saw a man on a tall grey horse, and a woman on a slender chestnut. She rode side-saddle. He could see a gleam of bright brown hair beneath her small black hat. He said:

“Mr. Jerrold looks to be a big man.”

“He’s the biggest man, and the handsomest man in the county. There’s just the two of them. Always together. Come on across and I’ll give ye an introduction.”

“Thanks, not today. I’ll have to see about my horse. He’s bleeding pretty freely.”

“Better telephone for the vet., and have him put a few stitches in. And you ought to get rid of those little Welsh devils. They’re a perfect nuisance. They were just pets of your uncle’s. Odd old fellow.”

Derek resented Hobbs’s interference. He determined to keep the ponies. Leaving Hobbs abruptly, he went to them where they stood together beneath a tree in the lane, reaching up with soft lips for the tender foliage. He patted the moist, shaggy sides, and they turned to stare at him, slowly drawing in the green leaves that projected from the corners of their mouths.

Looking up he saw that Hobbs had crossed the pasture and was talking to the Jerrolds. Telling them, doubtless, that he was not cock-a-hoop over what he had done. Perhaps telling them that their new neighbour had refused to be introduced… Well, he did not care. He would meet the Jerrolds; but not through Hobbs.

4.

As he neared the house, he overtook a man on foot, driving a team of yellow-maned horses, harnessed to a harrow. Two little boys ran alongside. When the man was aware of Derek he drew up his horses and turned to him with a wide, pale smile.

“I am your next-door neighbour,” he said, “H. P. Chard. I daresay you’ve heard of me. I’m pleased to welcome you to the neighbourhood. We need more enterprising young men around here.”

They shook hands. Chard’s smile deepened to a grin. “I do hope you’ll soon feel at home here, and be one of us. I don’t know what church you belong to, but we all go together to the Methodist Church at Mistwell. You’ll get a hearty welcome there.”

“Thanks. Are those your boys?”

“Yes. I’ve four boys, and four girls. And they all look alike.”

Derek, observing the dingy tow heads of the youngsters, and their broad, pasty faces, of which the nostrils seemed the only noticeable feature, thought it a pity, but he said:

“They look lively.”

“They are. And they’re all trained to help as soon as they’re able. We’re great workers, Mr. Vale. And I must be moving on now. It’s near dinnertime. Good day.”

Derek watched his figure in soiled khaki shirt and trousers move away, with a strong feeling of distaste for the man.

As he sat at his midday dinner he suddenly remembered the harrow, and he stopped Phoebe as she was about to return to the kitchen.

“What harrow was that Chard was taking away?”

“Oh, it was ours. He always borrers it.”

“Hasn’t he one of his own?”

“No. Mrs. Machin lets him borrer anythink he wants. He’s such a hard worker.”

“Humph. What sort of pudding is this?”

“Spotted Dick.”

“Spotted Dick! Good Lord! Why Dick? and why spotted?” He blew a spoonful. “It’s awfully hot.”

“It’s spotted because of the raisins, and it’s Dick—just ’cause it is. It’s a clout puddin’, y’ see.”

He did not see, but he attacked it vigorously.

Chapter 3

LIFT UP YOUR HEARTS

1.

By Derek’s first Sunday at Grimstone he had explored every corner of the farm; had pushed his way through the densest undergrowth of the wood; knew when certain cows were expected to calve, and a mare to foal; and had even had a lesson in ploughing from Hugh McKay, which the others ceased working to observe with tolerant amusement.

He felt a sort of peace and repose on this warm, bright morning which, he liked to think, was the feeling experienced by labourers of the soil on peaceful Sunday morns. He stood with Newbigging smoking in silence while they both gazed across the lake. There was a land wind, warm, and sweet with the fragrance of blossoms and moist earth.

“On days when it blows like this,” said Newbigging, at last, “ye can always see yon wide strip of pinkish red next the shore. It’s awful bonny, I think, for it makes the other part green by contrast.”

“The cliffs are red shale,” said Derek, “and I expect it extends for some distance. As you say, it’s—bonny.”

“It makes a mon restive wi’ the fairm work, sir. Though I do like it here, and I’ll stick by ye through the summer and the apple-pickin’.”

“Good. Can you tell me, Newbigging, what sort of trees these are? I don’t know them. They’re alive with black squirrels. There are white buds on the branches, too.”

“These are elm-locusts with the coarse bark. See this bit of iron projecting. It’s just a hint, sir, of a bridle hook fastened there generations ago, they say, for tying your horse to. But the bark’s grown over it till it’s well nigh hidden. The others are walnut trees. They get bushels of fine nuts off them in the autumn. That’s why there are so many squirrels hereabouts. I think it’d be fine to be a squirrel, Mr. Vale, always independent, and out of reach, livin’ up next the sky, and speirin’ for nuts.”

“I’m afraid you’re a dissatisfied fellow, Newbigging,” Derek said, laughing.

“Weel, I micht have done worse. I’d sooner be mysel’, for instance, than Chaird yonder, goin’ off to the Methodist Chapel wi’ his fat wife, and eight yellow-faced bairns.”

Derek had a glimpse of a waggonette, packed with his neighbour’s family and drawn by the yellow-maned horses. Newbigging gave a sly smile. He said:

“I suppose you’ll be wantin’ me to get the dogcart for ye? There’ll be no time to spare.”

“Thanks; no,” said Derek. “But I suppose you and the other Scots are going. You’re a nation of churchgoers, aren’t you?”

“When we’re at home perhaps. But not one of the three of us have been inside a church since we left the Old Land. But I’m English Church mysel’. I used to sing in the choir in St. Mary’s, in Dundee, when I was a lad.” He looked thoughtful for a moment and then he said:

“Look here, Mr. Vale. If I get the cart for ye, would ye drive to the English Church at Brancepeth? Mr. Jerrold and his daughter go there. It’s a pretty drive along the shore.” He looked genuinely eager.

To Derek suddenly came a recollection of the two figures on horseback, and of the brightness of Miss Jerrold’s hair under her black hat… and he had not yet seen Brancepeth. “Very well, Newbigging,” he said, “I believe I shall go to church.”

Newbigging soon brought around a good bay gelding harnessed to a heavy-wheeled dogcart. The road to Brancepeth lay close along the shore, now high, and, it seemed, dangerously near the edge of the bluffs; now dipping suddenly to cross some willow-shaded stream. Orchards in a storm of bloom trooped almost to the water’s edge. Brancepeth was sedate, respectable, very different from the rowdy, good-humored poverty of Mistwell. He left his horse in the stable of the Duke of York, a deep-porched little hotel near the church.