Old Silas lay in a sort of closet, opening out of the family living-room. The small window that gave it light looked right on to the ‘moor,’ as it was called; and by day the check curtain was drawn aside so that he might watch the progress of the labour. Everything about the old man was clean, of course; and, with Death, the leveller, so close at hand, it was the labourer who made the first advances, and put out his horny hand to the squire.
‘I thought you’d come, squire. Your father came for to see my father as he lay a-dying.’
‘Come, come, my man!’ said the squire, easily affected, as he always was. ‘Don’t talk of dying; we shall soon have you out, never fear. They’ve sent you up some soup from the Hall, as I bade ’em, haven’t they?’
‘Aye, aye, I’ve had all as I could want for to eat and to drink. The young squire and Master Roger was here yesterday.’
‘Yes, I know’
‘But I’m a deal nearer heaven to-day, I am. I should like you to look after th’ covers in th’ West Spinney, squire; them gorse, you know, where th’ old fox had her hole—her as give ’em so many a run. You’ll mind it, squire, though you was but a lad. I could laugh to think on her tricks yet.’ And, with a weak attempt at a laugh, he got himself into a violent fit of coughing, which alarmed the squire, who thought he would never get his breath again. His daughter-in-law came in at the sound, and told the squire that he had these coughing-bouts very frequently, and that she thought he would go off in one of them before long. This opinion of hers was spoken simply out before the old man, who now lay gasping and exhausted upon his pillow. Poor people acknowledge the inevitableness and the approach of death in a much more straightforward manner than is customary among more educated folk. The squire was shocked at her hard-heartedness, as he considered it; but the old man himself had received much tender kindness from his daughter-in-law; and what she had just said was no more news to him than the fact that the sun would rise to-morrow. He was more anxious to go on with his story.
‘Them navvies—I call ’em navvies because some on ‘em is strangers, though some on ’em is th’ men as was turned off your own works, squire, when there came orders to stop ‘em last fall—they’re a-pulling up gorse and bush to light their fire for warming up their messes. It’s a long way off to their homes, and they mostly dine here; and there’ll be nothing of a cover left, if you don’t see after ’em. I thought I should like to tell ye afore I died. Parson’s been here; but I did na tell him. He’s all for the earl’s folk, and he’d not ha’ heeded. It’s the earl as put him into his church, I reckon, for he said what a fine thing it were for to see so much employment a-given to the poor, and he never said nought o’ th’ sort when your works were agait, squire.’
This long speech had been interrupted by many a cough and gasp for breath; and having delivered himself of what was on his mind, he turned his face to the wall, and appeared to be going to sleep. Presently he roused himself with a start.
‘I know I flogged him well, I did. But he were after pheasant’s eggs, and I didn’t know he were an orphan. Lord, forgive me!’
‘He’s thinking on David Morton, the cripple, as used to go about trapping venison,’ whispered the woman.
‘Why, he died long ago—twenty year, I should think,’ replied the squire.
‘Aye, but when grandfather goes off i’ this way to sleep after a bout of talking he seems to be dreaming on old times. He’ll not waken up yet, sir; you’d best sit down if you’d like to stay,’ she continued, as she went into the houseplace and dusted a chair with her apron. ‘He was very particular in bidding me wake him if he were asleep, and you or Mr. Roger was to call. Mr. Roger said he’d be coming again this morning—but he’ll likely sleep an hour or more, if he’s let alone.’
‘I wish I’d said good-bye; I should like to have done that.’
‘He drops off so sudden,’ said the woman. ‘But if you’d be better pleased to have said it, squire, I’ll waken him up a bit.’
‘No, no!’ the squire called out as the woman was going to be as good as her word. ‘I’ll come again, perhaps to-morrow And tell him I was sorry; for I am indeed. And be sure and send to the Hall for anything you want! Mr. Roger is coming, is he? He’ll bring me word how he is, later on. I should like to have bidden him good-bye.’
So, giving sixpence to the child who had held his horse, the squire mounted. He sat still a moment, looking at the busy work going on before him, and then at his own half-completed drainage. It was a bitter pill. He had objected to borrowing from Government, in the first instance; and then his wife had persuaded him to the step; and after it was once taken, he was as proud as could be of the only concession to the spirit of progress he ever made in his life. He had read and studied the subject pretty thoroughly, if also very slowly, during the time his wife had been influencing him. He was tolerably well up in agriculture, if in nothing else; and at one time he had taken the lead among the neighbouring landowners, when he first began tile-drainage.cw In those days people used to speak of Squire Hamley’s hobby; and at market ordinaries, or county dinners, they rather dreaded setting him off on long repetitions of arguments from the different pamphlets on the subject which he had read. And now the proprietors all around him were draining—draining; his interest to Government was running on all the same, though his works were stopped, and his tiles deteriorating in value. It was not a soothing consideration, and the squire was almost ready to quarrel with his shadow. He wanted a vent for his ill humour; and suddenly remembering the devastations on his covers, which he had heard about not a quarter of an hour before, he rode up to the men busy at work on Lord Cumnor’s land. Just before he got up to them he encountered Mr. Preston, also on horseback, come to overlook his labourers. The squire did not know him, personally, but from the agent’s manner of speaking, and the deference that was evidently paid to him, Mr. Hamley saw that he was a responsible person. So he addressed the agent: ‘I beg your pardon, I suppose you are the manager of these works?’
Mr. Preston replied,—‘Certainly. I am that and many other things besides, at your service. I have succeeded Mr. Sheepshanks in the management of my lord’s property. Mr. Hamley of Hamley, I believe?’
The squire bowed stiffly. He did not like his name to be asked or presumed upon in that manner. An equal might conjecture who he was, or recognize him, but, till he announced himself, an inferior had no right to do more than address him respectfully as ‘sir.’ That was the squire’s code of etiquette.