Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “Be eddicated!” he said, articulating his words with difficulty,— “That’s what I says, boys! Be eddicated! Then everything’s right for us! We can kick all the rich out into the mud and take their goods and enjoy ’em for ourselves. Eddication does it! Makes us all we wants to be, — members o’ Parli’ment and what not! I’ve only one boy, — but he’ll be eddicated as his father never was—”

  “And learn to despise his father!” said Robin, suddenly, his clear voice ringing out above the other’s husky loquacity. “You’re right! That’s the best way to train a boy in the way he should go!”

  There was a brief silence. Then came a fresh murmur of voices and Ned

  Landon’s voice rose above them.

  “I don’t agree with you, Mr. Clifford,” he said— “There’s no reason why a well-educated lad should despise his father.”

  “But he often does,” said Robin— “reason or no reason.”

  “Well, you’re educated yourself,” retorted Landon, with a touch of envy,— “You won a scholarship at your grammar school, and you’ve been to a University.”

  “What’s that done for me?” demanded Robin, carelessly,— “Where has it put me? Just nowhere, but exactly where I might have stood all the time. I didn’t learn farming at Oxford!”

  “But you didn’t learn to despise your father either, did you, sir?” queried one of the farm hands, respectfully.

  “My father’s dead,” answered Robin, curtly,— “and I honour his memory.”

  “So your own argument goes to the wall!” said Landon. “Education has not made you think less of him.”

  “In my case, no,” said Robin,— “but in dozens of other cases it works out differently. Besides, you’ve got to decide what education IS. The man who knows how to plough a field rightly is as usefully educated as the man who knows how to read a book, in my opinion.”

  “Education,” interposed a strong voice, “is first to learn one’s place in the world and then know how to keep it!”

  All eyes turned towards the head of the table. It was Farmer Jocelyn who spoke, and he went on speaking:

  “What’s called education nowadays,” he said, “is a mere smattering and does no good. The children are taught, especially in small villages like ours, by men and women who often know less than the children themselves. What do you make of Danvers, for example, boys?”

  A roar of laughter went round the table.

  “Danvers!” exclaimed a huge red-faced fellow at the other end of the board,— “Why he talks yer ‘ead off about what he’s picked up here and there like, and when I asked him to tell me where my son is as went to Mexico, blowed if he didn’t say it was a town somewheres near New York!”

  Another roar went round the table. Farmer Jocelyn smiled and held up his hand to enjoin silence.

  “Mr. Danvers is a teacher selected by the Government,” he then observed, with mock gravity. “And if he teaches us that Mexico is a town near New York, we poor ignorant farm-folk are bound to believe him!”

  They all laughed again, and he continued:

  “I’m old enough, boys, to have seen many changes, and I tell you, all things considered, that the worst change is the education business, so far as the strength and the health of the country goes. That, and machine work. When I was a youngster, nearly every field-hand knew how to mow, — now we’ve trouble enough to find an extra man who can use a scythe. And you may put a machine on the grass as much as you like, you’ll never get the quality that you’ll get with a well-curved blade and a man’s arm and hand wielding it. Longer work maybe, and risk of rain — but, taking the odds for and against, men are better than machines. Forty years we’ve scythed the grass on Briar Farm, and haven’t we had the finest crops of hay in the county?”

  A chorus of gruff voices answered him:

  “Ay, Mister Jocelyn!”

  “That’s right!”

  “I never ‘member more’n two wet seasons and then we got last load in ‘tween showers,” observed one man, thoughtfully.

  “There ain’t never been nothin’ wrong with Briar Farm hay crops anyway — all the buyers knows that for thirty mile round,” said another.

  “And the wheat and the corn and the barley and the oats the same,” struck in the old farmer again— “all the seed sown by hand and the harvest reaped by hand, and every man and boy in the village or near it has found work enough to keep him in his native place, spring, summer, autumn and winter, isn’t that so?”

  “Ay, ay!”

  “Never a day out o’ work!”

  “Talk of unemployed trouble,” went on Jocelyn, “if the old ways were kept up and work done in the old fashion, there’d be plenty for all England’s men to do, and to feed fair and hearty! But the idea nowadays is to rush everything just to get finished with it, and then to play cards or football, and get drunk till the legs don’t know whether it’s land or water they’re standing on! It’s the wrong way about, boys! It’s the wrong way about! You may hurry and scurry along as fast as you please, but you miss most good things by the way; and there’s only one end to your racing — the grave! There’s no such haste to drop into THAT, boys! It’ll wait! It’s always waiting! And the quicker you go the quicker you’ll get to it! Take time while you’re young! That time for me is past!”

  He lifted his head and looked round upon them all. There was a strange wild look in his old eyes, — and a sudden sense of awe fell on the rest of the company. Farmer Jocelyn seemed all at once removed from them to a height of dignity above his ordinary bearing. Innocent’s rose-crowned head drooped, and tears sprang involuntarily to her eyes. She tried to hide them, not so well, however, but that Priscilla Priday saw them.

  “Now, lovey child!” she whispered,— “Don’t take on! It’s only the doctors that’s made him low like and feelin’ blue, and he ain’t takin’ sup or morsel, but we’ll make him have a bite in his own room afterwards. Don’t you swell your pretty eyes and make ’em red, for that won’t suit me nor Mr. Robin neither, come, come! — that it won’t!”

  Innocent put one of her little hands furtively under the board and pressed Priscilla’s rough knuckles tenderly, but she said nothing. The silence was broken by one of the oldest men present, who rose, tankard in hand.

  “The time for good farming is never past!” he said, in a hearty voice— “And no one will ever beat Farmer Jocelyn at that! Full cups, boys! And the master’s health! Long life to him!”

  The response was immediate, every man rising to his feet. None of them were particularly unsteady except Ned Landon, who nearly fell over the table as he got up, though he managed to straighten himself in time.

  “Farmer Jocelyn!”

  “To Briar Farm and the master!”

  “Health and good luck!”

  These salutations were roared loudly round the table, and then the whole company gave vent to a hearty ‘Hip-hip-hurrah!’ that roused echoes from the vaulted roof and made its flaring lights tremble.

  “One more!” shouted Landon, suddenly, turning his flushed face from side to side upon those immediately near him— “Miss Jocelyn!”

  There followed a deafening volley of cheering, — tankards clinked together and shone in the flickering light and every eye looked towards the girl, who, colouring deeply, shrank from the tumult around her like a leaf shivering in a storm-wind. Robin glanced at her with a half-jealous, half-anxious look, but her face was turned away from him. He lifted his tankard and, bowing towards her, drank the contents. When the toast was fully pledged, Farmer Jocelyn got up, amid much clapping of hands, stamping of feet and thumping on the boards. He waited till quiet was restored, and then, speaking in strong resonant accents, said:

  “Boys, I thank you! You’re all boys to me, young and old, for you’ve worked on the farm so long that I seem to know your faces as well as I know the shape of the land and the trees on the ridges. You’ve wished me health and long life — and I take it that your wishes are honest — but I’ve had a long life
already and mustn’t expect much more of it. However, the farm will go on just the same whether I’m here or elsewhere, — and no man that works well on it will be turned away from it, — that I can promise you! And the advice I’ve always given to you I give to you again, — stick to the land and the work of the land! There’s nothing finer in the world than the fresh air and the scent of the good brown earth that gives you the reward of your labour, always providing it is labour and not ‘scamp’ service. When I’m gone you’ll perhaps remember what I say, — and think it not so badly said either. I thank you for your good wishes and” — here he hesitated— “my little girl here thanks you too. Next time you make the hay — if I’m not with you — I ask you to be as merry as you are to-night and to drink to my memory! For whenever one master of Briar Farm has gone there’s always been another in his place! — and there always will be!” He paused, — then lifting a full tankard which had been put beside him, he drank a few drops of its contents— “God bless you all! May you long have the will to work and the health to enjoy the fruits of honest labour!”

  There was another outburst of noisy cheering, followed by a new kind of clamour,

  “A song!”

  “A song!”

  “Who’ll begin?”

  “Where’s Steevy?”

  “Little Steevy!”

  “Steevy! Wheer be ye got to?” roared one old fellow with very white hair and a very red face— “ye’re not so small as ye can hide in yer mother’s thimble!”

  A young giant of a man stood up in response to this adjuration, blushing and smiling bashfully.

  “Here I be!”

  “Sing away, lad, sing away!”

  “Wet yer pipe, and whistle!”

  “Tune up, my blackbird!”

  Steevy, thus adjured, straightened himself to his full stature of over six feet and drank off a cupful of ale. Then he began in a remarkably fine and mellow tenor:

  “Would you choose a wife

  For a happy life,

  Leave the town and the country take;

  Where Susan and Doll,

  And Jenny and Moll,

  Follow Harry and John,

  While harvest goes on,

  And merrily, merrily rake!”

  “The lass give me here,

  As brown as my beer,

  That knows how to govern a farm;

  That can milk a cow,

  Or farrow a sow,

  Make butter and cheese,

  And gather green peas,

  And guard the poultry from harm.”

  “This, this is the girl,

  Worth rubies and pearl,

  The wife that a home will make!

  We farmers need

  No quality breed,

  But a woman that’s won

  While harvest goes on,

  And we merrily, merrily rake!”

  [Footnote: Old Song 1740.]

  A dozen or more stentorian voices joined in the refrain:

  “A woman that’s won

  While harvest goes on,

  And we merrily, merrily rake.”

  “Bravo!”

  “Good for you, Steevy!”

  “First-class!”

  “Here’s to you, my lad!”

  The shouting, laughter and applause continued for many minutes, then came more singing of songs from various rivals to the tuneful Steevy. And presently all joined together in a boisterous chorus which ran thus:

  “A glass is good and a lass is good,

  And a pipe is good in cold weather,

  The world is good and the people are good,

  And we’re all good fellows together!”

  In the middle of this performance Farmer Jocelyn rose from his place and left the hall, Innocent accompanying him. Once he looked back on the gay scene presented to him — the disordered supper-table, the easy lounging attitudes of the well-fed men, the flare of the lights which cast a ruddy glow on old and young faces and sparkled over the burnished pewter, — then with a strange yearning pain in his eyes he turned slowly away, leaning on the arm of the girl beside him, and went, — leaving the merry-makers to themselves.

  CHAPTER III

  Returning to the room where he had sat alone before supper, he sank heavily into the armchair he had previously occupied. The window was still open, and the scent of roses stole in with every breath of air, — a few stars sparkled in the sky, and a faint line of silver in the east showed where the moon would shortly rise. He looked out in dreamy silence, and for some minutes seemed too much absorbed in thought to notice the presence of Innocent, who had seated herself at a small table near him, on which she had set a lit candle, and was quietly sewing. She had forgotten that she still wore the wreath of wild roses, — the fragile flowers were drooping and dying in her hair, and as she bent over her work and the candlelight illumined her delicate profile, there was something almost sculptural in the shape of the leaves as they encircled her brow, making her look like a young Greek nymph or goddess brought to life out of the poetic dreams of the elder world. She was troubled and anxious, but she tried not to let this seem apparent. She knew from her life’s experience of his ways and whims that it was best to wait till the old man chose to speak, rather than urge him into talk before he was ready or willing. She glanced up from her sewing now and again and saw that he looked very pale and worn, and she felt that he suffered. Her tender young heart ached with longing to comfort him, yet she knew not what she should say. So she sat quiet, as full of loving thoughts as a Madonna lily may be full of the dew of Heaven, yet mute as the angelic blossom itself. Presently he moved restlessly, and turning in his chair looked at her intently. The fixity of his gaze drew her like a magnet from her work and she put down her sewing.

  “Do you want anything, Dad?”

  He rose, and began to fumble with the buttons of his smock.

  “Ay — just help me to get this off. The working day is over, — the working clothes can go!”

  She was at his side instantly and with her light deft fingers soon disembarrassed him of the homely garment. When it was taken off a noticeable transformation was effected in his appearance. Clad in plain dark homespun, which was fashioned into a suit somewhat resembling the doublet and hose of olden times, his tall thin figure had a distinctly aristocratic look and bearing which was lacking when clothed in the labourer’s garb. Old as he was, there were traces of intellect and even beauty in his features, — his head, on which the thin white hair shone like spun silver, was proudly set on his shoulders in that unmistakable line which indicates the power and the will to command; and as he unconsciously drew himself upright he looked more like some old hero of a hundred battles than a farmer whose chief pride was the excellence of his crops and the prosperity of his farm managed by hand work only. For despite the jeers of his neighbours, who were never tired of remonstrating with him for not “going with the times,” Jocelyn had one fixed rule of farming, and this was that no modern machinery should be used on his lands. He was the best employer of labour for many and many a mile round, and the most generous as well as the most exact paymaster, and though people asserted that there was no reasonable explanation for it, nevertheless it annually happened that the hand-sown, hand-reaped crops of Briar Farm were finer and richer in grain and quality, and of much better value than the machine-sown, machine-reaped crops of any other farm in the county or for that matter in the three counties adjoining. He stood now for a minute or two watching Innocent as she looked carefully over his smock frock to see if there were any buttons missing or anything to be done requiring the services of her quick needle and thread, — then as she folded it and put it aside on a chair he said with a thrill of compassion in his voice:

  “Poor little child, thou hast eaten no supper! I saw thee playing with the bread and touching no morsel. Art not well?”

  She looked up at him and tried to smile, but tears came into her eyes despite her efforts to keep them back.

  “Dear Dad, I am only anxiou
s,” she murmured, tremulously. “You, too, have had nothing. Shall I fetch you a glass of the old wine? It will do you good.”

  He still bent his brows thoughtfully upon her.

  “Presently — presently — not now,” he answered. “Come and sit by me at the window and I’ll tell you — I’ll tell you what you must know. But see you, child, if you are going to cry or fret, you will be no help to me and I’ll just hold my peace!”

  She drew a quick breath, and her face paled.

  “I will not cry,” she said,— “I will not fret. I promise you, Dad!”

  She came close up to him as she spoke. He took her gently in his arms and kissed her.

  “That’s a brave girl!” And holding her by the hand he drew her towards the open window— “Look out there! See how the stars shine! Always the same, no matter what happens to us poor folk down here, — they twinkle as merrily over our graves as over our gardens, — and yet if we’re to believe what we’re taught nowadays, they’re all worlds more or less like our own, full of living creatures that suffer and die like ourselves. It’s a queer plan of the Almighty, to keep on making wonderful and beautiful things just to destroy them! There seems no sense in it!”

  He sat down again in his chair, and she, obeying his gesture, brought a low stool to his feet and settled herself upon it, leaning against his knee. Her face was upturned to his and the flickering light of the tall candles quivering over it showed the wistful tender watchfulness of its expression — a look which seemed to trouble him, for he avoided her eyes.

  “You want to know what the London doctor said,” he began. “Well, child, you’ll not be any the better for knowing, but it’s as I thought. I’ve got my death-warrant. Slowton was not sure about me, — but this man, ill as he is himself, has had too much experience to make mistakes. There’s no cure for me. I may last out another twelve months — perhaps not so long — certainly not longer.”

  He saw her cheeks grow white with the ashy whiteness of a sudden shock. Her eyes dilated with pain and fear, and a quick sigh escaped her, then she set her lips hard.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said, adding with stronger emphasis— “I WON’T believe it!”