“Going to run chickens?”
Yes, that was the idea. Jewell appeared to be very full of his potential chicken farm.
Mr. Latimer looked at him kindly.
“Barter sold you the place?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose he didn’t tell you the ground was sick.”
“No, he did not tell me that.”
Latimer gave a little shrug of his gaunt, round shoulders. The movement was expressive and final.
Jewell moved into “White Gates” with a little cheap furniture and secret amusement. So the land was fowl-sick, and the whole village knew it, and he was the sweet fool. He kept his mouth shut, and his eyes and ears open. He smiled upon all Midworth when he met it.
He began to receive visits from all sorts of people. Mr. Barter came to suggest that he should redecorate the bungalow for him, and Jewell smiled upon Mr. Barter.
“You might send me in an estimate.”
Sugden, the Midworth Court bailiff, arrived one morning, and found Jewell painting his own front door.
“Morning, sir. I hear you may be wanting some chicken-houses.”
“Yes, possibly.”
“I have some good second houses up at my place. I could let you have ’em pretty reasonably.”
Mr. Sugden’s place! And was Mr. Sugden going to remain secretive about the sick soil.
“I might come and look at them.”
“Any time that suits you, sir.”
Jewell went up to the Court that very evening, but not before he had consulted Mr. Latimer. Mr. Latimer could tell him all about the chicken-houses. They had belonged to the unfortunate Ferris, and Mr. Sugden had bought them at the sale of Ferris’s effects. They had gone for next to nothing.
Jewell was amused. The various Midworth loafers, and there were quite half a dozen of them, had tried to attach themselves to him as hired men. Midworth was teaching him many things, and as he walked through his own park to buy chicken-houses from his own bailiff he saw the humour of the situation. He was beginning to follow the workings of the little mean minds of these people. But what had made them mean?
He found Sugden smoking a pipe and looking over a pigsty fence at a litter of young pigs.
“You ought to keep pigs, sir.”
“Yes—I might. Got any to sell?”
“I could let you have a couple of gilts later.”
It occurred to Jewell to wonder whether he would be buying his own pigs or Mr. Sugden’s pigs. But about those chicken-houses? The bailiff showed him the houses, and named a figure that flattered this nice fool.
“I’ll let—you—have ’em cheap, sir.”
Jewell did not query the figure, though it was just treble what Sugden had paid for the stuff.
“Send them along.”
“I’m afraid I shall have to charge you for carting, sir.”
“Oh—that’s O.K.”
And then Mr. Jewell asked the man an innocent question.
“You have a lovely place here. Would you mind if I strolled through the park now and again?”
“Go where you like, sir.”
“May I have a look at the gardens?”
“See Mr. Soames, the head-gardener, and say you’ve seen me.”
There was nothing that Midworth did not know, and it soon discovered that young Jewell—after camping in the bungalow for a week—had gone to lodge at Burnt Farm. The Latimers were not popular in the village, for Latimer had refused to join Midworth’s secret syndicate. A farmer’s life may be a desperate struggle, but Latimer had old Puritan blood in him, and a kind of saturnine pride. But Midworth did not assign puritanical motives to young Jewell. Latimer had a daughter, and Ruth Latimer had looks.
“He’s after the old man’s girl, hee-hee.”
“When a chap takes a lodger——!”
Midworth had no illusions upon sex. It began to create an imaginary situation that was provocative and interesting. It was only too ready to apply some stains to the too clean Latimer linen.
Perhaps, Ruth Latimer knew the village almost as well as her father did. She was a tall, straight, dark young woman, with a clean streak of red for a mouth, and eyes that looked frankly at life. She was given to silence. She had to work very hard. She was made of the same stuff as her father, and to Jewell she suggested something that grew straight and comely and clean.
He took his meals with the Latimers. He had a feeling that they had accepted him as a lodger with secret protests, but when he considered Jesse Latimer’s threadbare coat and clean but worn collar he understood that times were hard. Moreover, the Latimers had a dignity of their own, a proud reticence. They had made no attempt to sell him anything at an outrageous profit. They charged him only two guineas a week for his board and lodging.
Jewell came in to supper one evening with a little quiet smile on his face.
“Someone has been trying to sell me manure.”
“Sugden?”
“Yes, Mr. Sugden. Best cow manure. What would you charge me a load?”
Mr. Latimer was cutting the bread.
“Ten and six delivered.”
“How much do you think Sugden asked me?”
“Fifteen shillings.”
“A pound.”
He noticed that the father and daughter exchanged glances, and that the girl nodded at her father as though bidding him do some particular thing. Jesse Latimer was spreading butter on his bread. He seemed to reflect for a moment, and then he said:
“It is no business of mine, Mr. Jewell, but are you thinking of making a profit on that place?”
“Well, that’s the idea.”
“You’ll never make a living in Midworth. They’ll never let you make a living.”
Jewell met the girl’s eyes, and he seemed to see compassion in them.
“Oh—it’s like that, is it? This is a funny sort of village, Mr. Latimer.”
“Haven’t you noticed that it’s got a crooked street?”
“Well—yes.”
“There’s a superstition in these parts that a village with a crooked street——”
“Is full of crooked people?”
“Yes.”
Jewell was silent for a moment, and then—with a secret smile—he asked Mr. Latimer certain questions.
“What about the other villages, Westworth and Eastworth?”
“They’re good villages.”
“Tell me, when Sir Richard Jewell was alive were things different?”
“Years back—they were, before he became strange.”
“He kept the village straight?”
“As straight as it could be kept.”
“And when he grew old—the village became rather too cunning for him? Or perhaps—he saw through these people and let them stew?”
“It may be so.”
Jewell got up and produced a pipe. He looked at Ruth.
“May I smoke?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going out for a ramble. It’s a perfect evening. I have permission to explore the park.”
He was exploring many things. He discovered that Mr. Sugden kept a dozen cows at the Court and five score or so of pigs, and that ostensibly they were Jewell property. Mr. Sugden was supposed to submit monthly accounts to Mr. Merriman in London, and when Jewell had those accounts passed to him he found many omissions and discrepancies. The milk recorded as sold would have been supplied by four cows. No pigs were accounted for. The manure supplied to Jewell himself was never credited to the estate. Obviously, much timber had been cut, and it had disappeared into the unknown.
It was the same in the gardens. Jewell had explored the Midworth Court gardens. There were grape-houses, tomato-houses, masses of fruit and vegetables, and he realized very soon that Mr. Soames was running a market garden of his own.
Apparently the whole village was exploiting Midworth Court. Everybody was in the syndicate and had to be assigned some share. The park swarmed with rabbits, and on more than one occasion Jewe
ll caught a man setting snares. He questioned one of the fellows.
“Hallo, getting a free supper?”
The man grinned at him. It was no business of Jewell’s.
“Have to keep vermin down.”
“Yes—I suppose so.”
In two or three months the Canadian had made an exhaustive study of Midworth’s activities. He would have described the inhabitants as a community of tame thieves, and yet he gathered that they had their justifications. They were getting back that which a cheap philosophy proposes to prove had been filched from them. But what a method, what a manufacturing of mean little minds, of universal, sly, silly parasitism.
He both scorned these people and pitied them.
The Latimers were different. But why? He gathered that there had been Latimers in Midworth for the last two hundred years, and that before the agricultural crisis of the eighteen-eighties the Latimers had been prosperous people. Was it a question of breed, of a pride that—in spite of bitter struggles—would not stoop to the little swindling cynicism of the village? He supposed so. He could picture Jesse Latimer growing a little more crooked and bent in body each year, but keeping his soul straight.
There came a time when Jewell could speak of these things to the daughter. Midworth declared that Ruth Latimer was a young shrew, but John Jewell found nothing shrewish in her. He divined in her silent compassion.
“Life can be pretty bitter on the land, Ruth.”
“Are you finding that out—so soon?”
He prevaricated.
“Oh—I’m young. I was thinking——”
Her head went up.
“Of us?”
“Yes and no. You’re proud people. O, don’t get me wrong, my dear, pride’s my own besetting sin. I’m with you—utterly. But I was thinking of all these little scroungers who seem to live by trying to swindle each other. Is it that life can be so mean and hard in some English villages——?”
They were standing at a field gate and she let her arms rest on the gate.
“Perhaps. My feeling about it is, Jack, that a village like Midworth has always had a master. No, I’m no Socialist; I’ve no use for all that sentimental humbug. Some men and places need masters, a man to lead. Otherwise, greedy rogues like Sugden, and old Barter, and the fellow at the pub, get the whole place in their clutches and run it.”
“What about the parson?”
She gave a toss of the head.
“He’s very old and very poor. A place like this needs a man with a pretty tough temper.”
He glanced at her clear, clean profile.
“What about the new heir, the man from Canada? Perhaps he may be the sort of fellow——”
“Oh, they’ll try and fool him.”
He laughed.
“I should rather like to be that fellow.”
Ostensibly, the new owner of “White Gates” was serious in his preparations for living on the land. The village thought him very innocent, a fellow who bought pullets that were supposed to be March birds, and had been hatched out late in May. The village gathered that Mr. Brown had some money to lose, and when that money had gone Midworth would cease to be interested in him. Moreover, rumour had it that the young fool was to marry that shrew of a Latimer girl.
It was true, but over the problem of “White Gates” John and Ruth had had much serious talk.
“Do you want me to live there, Jack? It can’t be done, my dear.”
“You mean the little place is all wrong?”
“Most of such places are all wrong. Just poor little cardboard boxes, all right for the people who have finished with life and have retired on their savings or a pension.”
“We couldn’t make a living?”
“My dear, you’ve seen my father at work. It’s a bitter life these days, and he is the real thing. If he can’t wring more than a pittance from a farm, how do you expect——?”
“But it’s all wrong, Ruth. England has got astray—somehow. A man ought to be able to live on the land. I wonder whether it is because the county’s all hedges, and peoples minds get hedged in.”
“You should talk to father. He has ideas—and if he had had a chance—and the capital——”
“I’ll have a talk to your father. I should like to be that Canadian, and try to shove some new life and pride into the place. Yes, and make it pay. Meanwhile, what are we to do, run a garage, or something?”
She said, “There seems to be more money spent on the roads than on the land.”
Early in September Jewell found an excuse for spending a few days in town. He said he had business to attend to, and that same week Midworth was warned officially that Sir Richard’s heir had arrived in England. Midworth prepared to put on its best smirk, and to have its sly-boots well polished. The village was intensely curious as to the future. Would the new fellow at the Court be nice and easy, a gentleman—that is to say, a person who could be exploited?
Jewell sat and smiled at Mr. Merriman.
“Yes, I know now where I am, or where I shall be. Both Sugden and Soames have been doing much business behind our backs, and the village has to be allowed its plunder.”
He laughed.
“When they see my face!”
Mr. Merriman was curious as to the future. Had Mr. Jewell any plans, any proposals for resurrecting the self-regard of such a community? And was it possible? The Canadian’s blue eyes had a gleam in them.
“Oh, yes—I have my plans. I am going to try and teach that village something. We’ll get down to hard tacks. Neither servility nor silly swindling. What that village wants is a boss and hard work.”
“Isn’t that the problem, work?”
“Exactly, sir. It’s my idea to try and get a new spirit into that place. After all, it’s as beautiful a spot——”
Mr. Merriman smiled. “And only man is vile.”
Midworth Court was warned that Sir John Jewell would arrive by car on the Saturday. Actually, some attempt was made to create a good impression and to give the new baronet a mild public greeting. Mr. Soames suggested the lodge gates might be decorated, and that all the estate hands should be collected in their Sunday clothes to receive the man from Canada. A part of the village joined in the reception. Mr. Barter and Mr. Golightly were both present, polished and sleek.
Sir John Jewell arrived in Midworth about four o’clock. A look-out had been posted on the London road, but when Jewell’s shabby old two-seater drove into the village the scout waved no signal, for there was nothing singular or suggestive in the appearance of Mr. Brown. None the less Mr. Brown drove his car to the lodge gates, and saw that some public occasion was in the air. About fifty people were hanging round the gates. Decorations had been prepared.
Jewell pulled up. He looked grimly innocent. It was Mr. Sugden who came forward and spoke to him.
“Do you mind moving your car? We’re expecting Sir John any moment. If you want to see the show you can park on the grass.”
Jewell looked into Mr. Sugden’s sly eyes. He spoke distinctly so that everybody should hear.
“Oh, that’s quite all right, Sugden. You see, I am Sir John Jewell. Very kind of you all to give me this welcome.”
He raised his hat to the small and dumbfounded crowd, and drove on through the gates.
Said Mr. Barter to Mr. Golightly as they walked with serious and fallen faces to the Chequers—“Well, of all the dirty tricks! Coming down to spy on us like that!”
Messrs. Sugden, Soames and Bliss received their marching orders that very evening, and not one of them had the assurance to question the ultimatum. They went out from the Jewell presence sick and sullen men.
Just before sunset Jewell walked down to Burnt Farm. The sensational news had not reached the Latimers.
“Hallo, Jack, seen anything of the new squire?”
Jewell laughed.
“Well, yes, I met him up at the Court. As a matter of fact, kid—I met myself. I’d like to introduce you to myself. Miss Latimer—meet Sir Jo
hn Jewell.”
For an instant she looked flushed and angry.
“Do you mean to say you are——?”
“Sorry, but I am.”
“You’ve been playing a game all these months?”
“Not quite a game, Ruth. I’ve found out the real people. I’m going to bring a bit of Canada—and you—into this silly village. You’ll help me to teach it a few things? Say—yes.”
She stood apart from him, brooding.
“I’m to live up there and be Lady Jewell and feel—that they all hate me?”
“We’ll soon change all that.”
“But father?”
“I want your father to be my manager. He’s got ideas, and so have I. We’ll put some pride into this darned place. We’ll make a real good show of it. I’m new country, kid. Come on, be a pard.”
She put out her hands to him.
“You won’t ask me to be a useless, silly sort of thing?”
“You! Not likely. Come on, let’s go and tell your father. We’ll make a new flag for Midworth, the oak and the maple pinned together, and hoist it in the tower of the village church. Come on, say yes.”
She kissed him with a curious air of solemnity.
“That’s my pledge. Yes, let’s go and tell father. You’re our landlord, you know, Jack.”
He took her by the arm, and pausing half-way up the garden path, pointed to the flimsy bungalow.
“What shall we do with that? Put a match to it?”
Her eyes grew mischievous.
“No, sell it back to Mr. Barter.”
REPRIEVE
Gledhill had always been an unlucky man, possibly because too sensitive a conscience had made him fastidious in the matter of exploiting opportunities.
His little world in the city knew him as a rather shy man in the early forties, a thin, brownish and somewhat silent person, going grey at the temples and suggesting youth that had lost itself and was still looking for its lost legions. He had been badly mauled in the war. He was always a little too old, or slow or sensitive. He had lost the one great thing in life through being too sensitive. He had stood and looked at love, and had said to himself, “I can’t afford to ask her to marry me. I’m a bit too old—and I have been too much knocked about. It wouldn’t be fair. Besides—she’s such a kid. I don’t believe she realizes——”
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