From Squire to Squatter: A Tale of the Old Land and the New Read online

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  From Squire to SquatterA Tale of the Old Land and the NewBy Gordon StablesPublished by John F. Shaw and Co., 48 Paternoster Row, London.This edition dated 1888.

  CHAPTER ONE.

  BOOK I--AT BURLEY OLD FARM.

  "TEN TO-MORROW, ARCHIE."

  "So you'll be ten years old to-morrow, Archie?"

  "Yes, father; ten to-morrow. Quite old, isn't it? I'll soon be a man,dad. Won't it be fun, just?"

  His father laughed, simply because Archie laughed. "I don't know aboutthe fun of it," he said; "for, Archie lad, your growing a man willresult in my getting old. Don't you see?"

  Archie turned his handsome brown face towards the fire, and gazed atit--or rather into it--for a few moments thoughtfully. Then he gave hishead a little negative kind of a shake, and, still looking towards thefire as if addressing it, replied:

  "No, no, no; I don't see it. Other boys' fathers _may_ grow old; minewon't, mine couldn't, never, _never_."

  "Dad," said a voice from the corner. It was a very weary, ratherfeeble, voice. The owner of it occupied a kind of invalid couch, onwhich he half sat and half reclined--a lad of only nine years, with athin, pale, old-fashioned face, and big, dark, dreamy eyes that seemedto look you through and through as you talked to him.

  "Dad."

  "Yes, my dear."

  "Wouldn't you like to be old really?"

  "Wel--," the father was beginning.

  "Oh," the boy went on, "I should dearly love to be old, very old, andvery wise, like one of these!" Here his glance reverted to a story-bookhe had been reading, and which now lay on his lap.

  His father and mother were used to the boy's odd remarks. Both parentssat here to-night, and both looked at him with a sort of fond pity; butthe child's eyes had half closed, and presently he dropped out of theconversation, and to all intents and purposes out of the company.

  "Yes," said Archie, "ten is terribly old, I know; but is it quite a manthough? Because mummie there said, that when Solomon became a man, hethought, and spoke, and did everything manly, and put away all his boy'sthings. I shouldn't like to put away my bow and arrow--what say, mum?I shan't be altogether quite a man to-morrow, shall I?"

  "No, child. Who put that in your head?"

  "Oh, Rupert, of course! Rupert tells me everything, and dreams suchstrange dreams for me."

  "You're a strange boy yourself, Archie."

  His mother had been leaning back in her chair. She now slowly resumedher knitting. The firelight fell on her face: it was still young, stillbeautiful--for the lady was but little over thirty--yet a shade ofmelancholy had overspread it to-night.

  The firelight came from huge logs of wood, mingled with large pieces ofblazing coals and masses of half-incandescent peat. A more cheerfulfire surely never before burned on a hearth. It seemed to take a pridein being cheerful, and in making all sorts of pleasant noises andsplutterings. There had been bark on those logs when first heaped on,and long white bunches of lichen, that looked like old men's beards; buttongues of fire from the bubbling, caking coals had soon licked thoseoff, so that both sticks and peat were soon aglow, and the whole lookedas glorious as an autumn sunset.

  And firelight surely never before fell on cosier room, nor on cosierold-world furniture. Dark pictures, in great gilt frames, hung on thewalls, almost hiding it; dark pictures, but with bright colours standingout in them, which Time himself had not been able to dim; albeit he hadcracked the varnish. Pictures you could look into--look in throughalmost--and imagine figures that perhaps were not in them at all;pictures of old-fashioned places, with quaint, old-fashioned people andanimals; pictures in which every creature or human being lookedcontented and happy. Pictures from masters' hands many of them, andworth far more than their weight in solid gold.

  And the firelight fell on curious brackets, and on a tall corner-cabinetfilled with old delf and china; fell on high, narrow-backed chairs, andon one huge carved-oak chest that took your mind away back to centurieslong gone by and made you half believe that there must have been "giantsin those days."

  The firelight fell and was reflected from silver cups, and goblets, andcandlesticks, and a glittering shield that stood on a sideboard, theirpresence giving relief to the eye. Heavy, cosy-looking curtainsdepended from the window cornices, and the door itself was darklydraped.

  "Ten to-morrow. How time does fly!"

  It was the father who now spoke, and as he did so his hand was stretchedout as if instinctively, till it lay on the mother's lap. Their eyesmet, and there seemed something of sadness in the smile of each.

  "How time does fly!"

  "Dad!"

  The voice came once more from the corner.

  "Dad! For years and years I've noticed that you always take mummie'shand and just look like that on the night before Archie's birthday.Father, why--"

  But at that very moment the firelight found something else to fallupon--something brighter and fairer by far than anything it had lit upto-night. For the door-curtain was drawn back, and a little, wee,girlish figure advanced on tiptoe and stood smiling in the middle of theroom, looking from one to the other. This was Elsie, Rupert'stwin-sister. His "beautiful sister" the boy called her, and she waswell worthy of the compliment. Only for a moment did she stand there,but as she did so, with her bonnie bright face, she seemed the one thingthat had been needed to complete the picture, the centre figure againstthe sombre, almost solemn, background.

  The fire blazed more merrily now; a jet of white smoke, that had beenspinning forth from a little mound of melting coal, jumped suddenly intoflame; while the biggest log cracked like a popgun, and threw off agreat red spark, which flew half-way across the room.

  Next instant a wealth of dark-brown hair fell on Archie's shoulder, andsoft lips were pressed to his sun-dyed cheek, then bright, laughing eyeslooked into his.

  "Ten to-morrow, Archie! _Aren't_ you proud?"

  Elsie now took a footstool, and sat down close beside her invalidbrother, stretching one arm across his chest protectingly; but she shookher head at Archie from her corner.

  "Ten to-morrow, you great big, big brother Archie," she said.

  Archie laughed right merrily.

  "What are you going to do all?"

  "Oh, such a lot of things! First of all, if it snows--"

  "It is snowing now, Archie, fast."

  "Well then I'm going to shoot the fox that stole poor Cock Jock. Oh, mypoor Cock Jock! We'll never see him again."

  "Shooting foxes isn't sport, Archie."

  "No, dad; it's revenge."

  The father shook his head.

  "Well, I mean something else."

  "Justice?"

  "Yes, that is it. Justice, dad. Oh, I did love that cock so! He wasso gentlemanly and gallant, father. Oh, so kind! And the fox seizedhim just as poor Jock was carrying a crust of bread to the old hen Ann.He threw my bonnie bird over his shoulder and ran off, looking so slyand wicked. But I mean to kill him!

  "Last time I fired off Branson's gun was at a magpie, a nasty,chattering, unlucky magpie. Old Kate says they're unlucky."

  "Did you kill the magpie, Archie?"

  "No, I don't think I hurt the magpie. The gun must have gone off when Iwasn't looking; but it knocked me down, and blackened all my shoulder,because it pushed so. Branson said I didn't grasp it tight enough. ButI will to-morrow, when I'm killing the fox. Rupert, you'll stuff thehead, and we'll hang it in the hall. Won't you, Roup?" Rupert smiledand nodded.

  "And I'm sure," he continued, "the Ann hen was so sorr
y when she sawpoor Cock Jock carried away."

  "Did the Ann hen eat the crust?"

  "What, father? Oh, yes, she did eat the crust! But I think that wasonly out of politeness. I'm sure it nearly choked her."

  "Well, Archie, what will you do else to-morrow?"

  "Oh, then, you know, Elsie, the fun will only just be beginning, becausewe're going to open the north tower of the castle. It's alreadyfurnished."

  "And you're going to be installed as King of the North Tower?" said hisfather.

  "Installed, father? Rupert, what does that mean?"

  "Led in with honours, I suppose."

  "Oh, father, I'll instal myself; or Sissie there will; or old Kate; orBranson, the keeper, will instal me. That's easy. The fun will allcome after that."

  Burley Old Farm, as it was called--and sometimes Burley Castle--was, atthe time our story opens, in the heyday of its glory and beauty. SquireBroadbent, Archie's father, had been on it for a dozen years and over.It was all his own, and had belonged to a bachelor uncle before histime. This uncle had never made the slightest attempt to cause twoblades of grass to grow where only one had grown before. Not he. Hewas well content to live on the little estate, as his father had donebefore him, so long as things paid their way; so long as plenty of sleekbeasts were seen in the fields in summer, or wading knee-deep in thestraw-yard in winter; so long as pigs, and poultry, and feather stock ofevery conceivable sort, made plenty of noise about the farm-steading,and there was plenty of human life about, the old Squire had beencontent. And why shouldn't he have been? What does a North-countryfarmer need, or what has he any right to long for, if his larder andcoffers are both well filled, and he can have a day on the stubble ormoor, and ride to the hounds when the crops are in?

  But his nephew was more ambitious. The truth is he came from the South,and brought with him what the honest farmer folks of the Northumbrianborders call a deal of new-fangled notions. He had come from the Southhimself, and he had not been a year in the place before he went back,and in due time returned to Burley Old Farm with a bonnie young bride.Of course there were people in the neighbourhood who did not hesitate tosay, that the Squire might have married nearer home, and that there wasno accounting for taste. For all this and all that, both the Squire andhis wife were not long in making themselves universal favourites allround the countryside; for they went everywhere, and did everything; andthe neighbours were all welcome to call at Burley when they liked, andhad to call when Mrs Broadbent issued invitations.

  Well, the Squire's dinners were truly excellent, and when afterwards themen folk joined the ladies in the big drawing-room, the evenings flewaway so quickly that, as carriage time came, nobody could ever believeit was anything like so late.

  The question of what the Squire had been previously to his coming toBurley was sometimes asked by comparative strangers, but as nobody couldor cared to answer explicitly, it was let drop. Something in the South,in or about London, or Deal, or Dover, but what did it matter? he was "ajolly good fellow--ay, and a gentleman every inch." Such was theverdict.

  A gentleman the Squire undoubtedly was, though not quite the type ofbuild, either in body or mind, of the tall, bony, and burly men of theNorth--men descended from a race of ever-unconquered soldiers, andprobably more akin to the Scotch than the English.

  Sitting here in the green parlour to-night, with the firelight playingon his smiling face as he talked to or teased his eldest boy, SquireBroadbent was seen to advantage. Not big in body, and rather round thanangular, inclining even to the portly, with a frank, rosy face and abold blue eye, you could not have been in his company ten minuteswithout feeling sorry you had not known him all his life.

  Amiability was the chief characteristic of Mrs Broadbent. She was arefined and genuine English lady. There is little more to say afterthat.

  But what about the Squire's new-fangled notions? Well, they were reallywhat they call "fads" now-a-days, or, taken collectively, they were onegigantic fad. Although he had never been in the agricultural interestbefore he became Squire, even while in city chambers theoretical farminghad been his pet study, and he made no secret of it to his fellow-men.

  "This uncle of mine," he would say, "whom I go to see every Christmas,is pretty old, and I'm his heir. Mind," he would add, "he is a genuine,good man, and I'll be genuinely sorry for him when he goes under. Butthat is the way of the world, and then I'll have my fling. My unclehasn't done the best for his land; he has been content to go--not run;there is little running about the dear old boy--in the same groove ashis fathers, but I'm going to cut out a new one."

  The week that the then Mr Broadbent was in the habit of spending withhis uncle, in the festive season, was not the only holiday he took inthe year. No; for regularly as the month of April came round, hestarted for the States of America, and England saw no more of him tillwell on in June, by which time the hot weather had driven him home.

  But he swore by the Yankees; that is, he would have sworn by them, hadhe sworn at all. The Yankees in Mr Broadbent's opinion were far aheadof the English in everything pertaining to the economy of life, and thebest manner of living. He was too much of a John Bull to admit that theAmericans possessed any superiority over this tight little isle, in thematter of either politics or knowledge of warfare. England always hadbeen, and always would be, mistress of the seas, and master of and overevery country with a foreshore on it. "But," he would say, "look at theYanks as inventors. Why, sir, they beat us in everything frombutton-hook. Look at them as farmers, especially as wheat growers andfruit raisers. They are as far above Englishmen, with their insularprejudices, and insular dread of taking a step forward for fear of goinginto a hole, as a Berkshire steam ploughman is ahead of a Skyeman withhis wooden turf-turner. And look at them at home round their ownfiresides, or look at their houses outside and in, and you will havesome faint notion of what comfort combined with luxury really means."

  It will be observed that Mr Broadbent had a bold, straightforward wayof talking to his peers. He really had, and it will be seen presentlythat he had, "the courage of his own convictions," to use a hackneyedphrase.

  He brought those convictions with him to Burley, and the courage also.

  Why, in a single year--and a busy, bustling one it had been--the newSquire had worked a revolution about the place. Lucky for him, he had awell-lined purse to begin with, or he could hardly have come to the rootof things, or made such radical reforms as he did.

  When he first took a look round the farm-steading, he felt puzzled whereto begin first. But he went to work steadily, and kept it up, and it istruly wonderful what an amount of solid usefulness can be effected byeither man or boy, if he has the courage to adopt such a plan.

  CHAPTER TWO.

  A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK.

  It was no part of Squire Broadbent's plan to turn away old and faithfulservants. He had to weed them though, and this meant thinning out tosuch an extent that not over many were left.

  The young and healthy creatures of inutility had to shift; but the veryold, the decrepit--those who had become stiff and grey in his uncle'sservice--were pensioned off. They were to stay for the rest of theirlives in the rural village adown the glen--bask in the sun in summer,sit by the fire of a winter, and talk of the times when "t'old Squirewas aboot."

  The servants settled with, and fresh ones with suitable "go" in themestablished in their place, the live stock came in for reformation.

  "Saint Mary! what a medley!" exclaimed the Squire, as he walked throughthe byres and stables, and past the styes. "Everything bred anyhow. Nomethod in my uncle's madness. No rules followed, no type. Why thequickest plan will be to put them all to the hammer."

  This was cutting the Gordian-knot with a vengeance, but it was perhapsbest in the long run.

  Next came renovation of the farm-steading itself; pulling down andbuilding, enlarging, and what not, and while this was going on, the landitself was not being forgotten. Fences were levelled and carte
d away,and newer and airier ones put up, and for the most part three andsometimes even five fields were opened into one. There were woods alsoto be seen to. The new Squire liked woods, but the trees in some ofthese were positively poisoning each other. Here was a larch-wood, forinstance--those logs with the long, grey lichens on them are part ofsome of the trees. So closely do the larches grow together, so whitewith moss, so stunted and old-looking, that it would have made amerry-andrew melancholy to walk among them. What good were they? Downthey must come, and down they had come; and after the ground had beenstirred up a bit, and left for a summer to let the sunshine and air intoit, all the hill was replanted with young, green, smiling pines,larches, and spruces, and that was assuredly an improvement. In a fewyears the trees were well advanced; grass and primroses grew where themoss had crept about, and the wood in spring was alive with the song ofbirds.

  The mansion-house had been left intact. Nothing could have added muchto the beauty of that. It stood high up on a knoll, with risingpark-like fields behind, and at some considerable distance the blueslate roofs of the farm-steading peeping up through the greenery of thetrees. A solid yellow-grey house, with sturdy porch before the halldoor, and sturdy mullioned windows, one wing ivy-clad, a broad sweep ofgravel in front, and beyond that, lawns and terraces, and flower androse gardens. And the whole overlooked a river or stream, that wentwinding away clear and silvery till it lost itself in wooded glens.

  The scenery was really