A QUESTION OF PEAT

"HANNAH, what are you doing?"

"Making some hot scones for your tea, mum."

Rhoda came into the kitchen and seated herself on the low window sill; she had just returned from a long walk, and was glowing and breathless from battling against the wind.

"I want to give you my experience this afternoon," she said. "I have made some fresh acquaintances."

"You haven't been down to the village, have you?"

"No, I have been on high ground. I struck right across the moor above us, and seeing a farmhouse all by itself under the shadow of one of these tors—isn't that what people call the hills about here?—I thought I would pay it a visit. They are neighbours, Hannah, so don't look so dubious. The door was opened by a little humpbacked, deformed woman or girl—I don't know which—who greeted me with a scowl. I asked for a glass of milk. She would not ask me in, but went away to get it, and then an old woman appeared—such a dear old creature, with a snowy white cap—and she took me into the best parlour at once, and told me all about herself and family. She is a Mrs. Tent, and lives with her son and wife, who manage the farm; the hunchback is her only unmarried daughter. Her son has four children, such pretty dark-eyed boys! They come right across the moor, down to Ashampton, every day to school; they take a donkey with them, and ride it by turns. Their mother I saw for a minute; she was digging some turnips up in the garden.

"Well, as I was drinking my milk, Mrs. Tent began telling me of a trouble that has come on them. It seems that their landlord is the same as mine—Mr. Rokeby. They have rented the farm on a lease, which is now just at an end, and they have always been accustomed to cut into a vein of peat, as they call it, which runs through their ground. The other day Mr. Rokeby's agent called on them, and said they must do this no longer, that Mr. Rokeby would not have his land spoilt, and that if it was touched again they would be given notice to quit. I felt quite sorry for them. Old Mrs. Tent said it saved them all firing in the winter time, and that they had sold a good bit to their neighbours. And, as she truly said, the ground was so poor and barren that if they weren't allowed to get the peat out of it, it wasn't worth the money they gave for it. She said they had cut peat for twenty years, and by taking care of the ground and attending to it, it was as good as it had ever been."

"Didn't they have no contract about it when they took the farm over?"

"It appears not. In fact, they were the ones to discover the vein of peat. It has fired me with the desire to investigate our ground, Hannah, and see if we haven't a peat vein. It would save us a lot of coal. As Mrs. Tent said, it isn't as if wood were plentiful up here and getting up coals from Ashampton is a serious business. Well, the upshot of all this is, that I have promised to write to Mr. Rokeby about it, and lay me the case plainly before him. Mrs. Tent was telling me that not one of them are good enough scholars to 'put it clear and proper like.' Her son has tried to see Mr. Rokeby more than once, but he is always away. And that is what I am going to do this very minute, only I thought I would tell you about it first. I think this Mr. Rokeby must be a regular old curmudgeon, from all accounts, and I will try to touch his hard old heart. Jock hasn't gone yet, has he? He can take the letter down for me."

"I don't think you're called upon to interfere, mum," began Hannah slowly, as, having put her cakes into the oven, she now stood with arms akimbo and reflected.

"Now don't damp me, there's a dear old soul. I want to make friends with the Tents. I have an eye to those small boys. I might have a Sunday class for them here, and I long to know that poor hunchback; she looked so soured and miserable. It can do no harm, at all events, and may do some good."

And Rhoda went back to her room and sat down at her writing-desk to compose the important letter.

It was some days before she received a reply. It was as following:—

"Mr. Rokeby presents his compliments to Miss Carlton, and in reply to her letter begs to state that his agent was acting according to his wishes in the matter mentioned.

"Rokeby Court."

"I call that an exceedingly ungentlemanly letter!" exclaimed Rhoda, as she read it aloud to Hannah.

"I should say that he is a gentleman that does not like to be interfered with, mum. And you see you are a perfect stranger to him."

"Oh, Hannah, you will never give me any sympathy. Now I shall have to go across to the Tents this afternoon and confess my failure. I never did like this Mr. Rokeby from the time we first had to do with him. He always keeps out of sight himself, and his agent is one of the most disagreeable old men that I have ever seen. I shall dislike him more than ever now. Where is Rokeby Court, do you know?"

"I think it's somewheres across the moor, about ten miles away."

Rhoda set off on her mission about two o'clock, taking her rough Scotch terrier, Tartar by name, with her. She had no fear in taking these lonely walks by herself, and the wildness and desolation of the moors rather invigorated than depressed her. Clad in a warm shooting dress, gaiters and cap to match, and a strong stick in her hand, she felt quite equal to battle with rough wind and weather; those were the only foes that ever crossed her mind. She loved nature and nature's God, and therefore never found her wanderings over the moor dull or uninteresting.

She was received very warmly by old Mrs. Tent, who took her into the kitchen. It was a pleasant, homely room. Young Mrs. Tent was making a batch of bread, and Jess, the deformed daughter, was sitting by the fire knitting stockings for the boys. Rhoda was offered a seat in the chimney corner, which she took, and then disclosed the object of her visit.

"Ah, well," said old Mrs. Tent, "I never thought he would heed. He be a very hard landlord, if so be his Mr. Crake, speaks right of him. My son be saying he dunno if he won't clear out and settle t'other side of the valley. If he had a bit more money, he would, only the land over there be twice as much as this; but then, as he sayeth, you get its worth out of it. If it weren't for our cattle and poultry, we should never get on at all!"

Rhoda expressed her sympathy, and then asked the young mother after the boys.

"They're not home yet. They were to call at the post afore they come back for a letter that their father is looking for. I wish we were nearer the village oftentimes. We're out of the way of everything here."

"And so am I," said Rhoda, brightly, "but I enjoy that part of it. I go down to the village every morning to get my letters; wet or fine, the weather never keeps me."

"You do? Now to think o' that!" ejaculated the old woman. "I haven't been to the post for many a year, not since Susan Frith come into it. I should like to see her and Lucy again, but folks tell me they keepeth theyselves wonderful close!"

"Do you know them?" asked Rhoda with interest. "I was paying Mrs. Thatcher a visit the other day. She seems such a bright, cheery little woman."

"Ay, ay, she may well be," and Mrs. Tent nodded her head up and down mysteriously.

"Now, mother," said her daughter-in-law, "don't you be so hard on her. I can't abear Miss Frith, and I dunno why she be your favourite. She fairly scares a person with her hard, cross tongue."

"I knew them afore you did, M'ria—when they were in frocks and pinnies. I went over and cooked the dinner for their mother's funeral, and well do I remember Lucy prancing up and down and showing herself off to the company in her new black frock, whiles Susan, she creepeth up to me in the kitchen, and saith she, looking up so mournful with they black eyes of hers, and yet so determined like for her age,—

"'Mrs. Tent,' she saith, 'will you show me how to make a steak puddin' for father? Mother said as she hoped I would try and keep the house going when she were a-taken, an' I will try with all my might to do it.'

"The little maid! I can see her now, and all the time choking her sobs down, for she were powerful fond of her mother. And she carried out her mother's wish right bravely. She were only just turned eleven, but she took up life's burden then, that she did, and she worked straight on for twenty year at that farm, till her father he were carried out to be buried 'longside of his wife. She were allays steady and grave, were Susan, but Lucy were just the opposite. She played whiles Susan worked, and not a finger would she lift to help her. She were her father's darling, o' course. I don't think Susan ever had a loving word from him, though she slaved for his comfort as Lucy never would 'a-done.

"And then they cometh to be young women, and Lucy, mind you, were sent to a boarding school to be made a lady of, and she cometh back a-playing the pianny and talking that jargon they calleth French. I saith to her one day, when I were up at the farm giving Susan a hand with pickling of pork,—

"'Why, Lucy,' says I, 'are you a-coming home to help your sister on the farm a bit now? It's heavy work for her.'

"She laughed in my face, and held out a pretty pair o' white hands. 'Do you think,' she saith, 'I'm agoing to scrub and scour and bake with these? Have I the cut of a house drudge? No,' she saith, 'but I'm agoing to earn my livelihood another way, Mrs. Tent. I'm agoing to be a governess,' she saith; and with that she runneth away from me laughing.

"And the next thing I heerd were that she'd got a situation not far off in a clergyman's family. Well, as I were a-saying—But am I a-tiring of you, miss?"

"No, indeed, I like to hear it all."

Mrs. Tent continued: "By-and-by there cometh a young man a-coorting Susan. She could hardly take it in, poor maid, that any one should care for her—not but what she had her share of good looks, only she didn't make enough of herself, Susan didn't, and when her sister was by, she let her come too much to the front. Well, she and this John Thatcher kept company for two year. She said she couldn't leave her father, but John were willing to wait.

"And then back from one of her situations cometh Lucy. There! You can guess what happened; a pretty face and lively tongue soon winneth a man, and Miss Lucy spared no pains in making of herself agreeable to John. I do believe he would 'a stood true, if Susan had come to the front more; he did press her hard to marry him soon, but she said she couldn't. She dropped herself in the background, and soon saw John a-making love to Lucy.

"Then she spoke to him much as she spoke to me the day mother died, quiet and gentle-like but very steady. She told him she knew Lucy would make him happier than she would, and they could be married as soon as they liked—which they were, a month from that time! She told me all about it when her trouble were fresh on her.

"'But,' saith she, pursing her lips up very firm, 'I'm never going to speak on this subjec' agen, Mrs. Tent, and you must please not mention the matter to me after to-day.'

"Ah, poor Susan, she have had her trials!"

"Well," put in young Mrs. Tent, as she placed her dough down in front of the blazing fire, "I never heerd tell of that story before, mother, but of course it's not to be wondered at if men likes bright, pretty ways, and Miss Frith—if she allays looked as gloomy as she do now—I don't think she'd keep a lover long anyhow!"

"Folks differ about some things, seemingly. I don't think much myself of a red-checked apple if it's rotten to the core. But there! Some seems to like the rottenness!"

It was the hunchback who spoke, and her tone was inexpressibly bitter. Rhoda glanced at her, and with a sympathetic smile she laid her hand on hers.

"I think I agree with you," she said gently; "it's the heart men ought to look at—not the outward form. I think some of the noblest souls have lived in very plain and homely bodies. I do feel for poor Miss Frith."

"But that isn't all," put in the old lady briskly; "let me tell you more. When old Frith died, he left a good bit o' money to his daughters, and Susan she determined to keep the farm on. It were doing well, and she were a good business woman and a clever manager. But that John Thatcher, who had set up as a gentleman, he and Lucy begged and prayed her to put her money into some investment o' his.

"I don't rightly know how they got round her. John told her it would be the making o' him if she would, and it would be as safe as in the Bank o' England. Anyhow, she gave it to them, and then it all make to a smash, and every penny o' hers had clean gone.

"John didn't live much longer, and he died leaving Lucy with a many of his debts to pay, and not a penny that she could call her own. Of course Susan couldn't keep on the farm, but she managed to pay the debts, and took her sister to live with her. And now she's the postmistress of Ashampton, and her sister has never wanted for nothing. Susan she slaves herself to death in keeping her in idleness; she's a good woman, that she is, and folks that know her story needn't wonder she's a bit grave and stern!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Tent; she is a noble woman. I am so glad to hear about it. It shows how wrong it is of us to judge people hastily."

Rhoda's tone was somewhat wistful; she was wishing that she had found an entrance into Susan's Frith's heart, but as yet she was as far from that as ever, and now she felt as if she did not wish to cultivate Mrs. Thatcher's acquaintance any more.

She stayed some little time longer, and before leaving discovered that Mrs. Tent's deformed daughter, Jess, was passionately fond of reading.

"Are you a good walker?" Rhoda asked her. "Could you come over to me one afternoon and see if I have any book you would like to borrow?"

Jess stared at her in astonishment.

"I'm not given to walking," she said gruffly, "but I'll come. Next Saturday I'll come."

"That will be very nice. I shall expect you early, because you won't want to be out after dark."

"As to that, I prefer it. I'm not afraid of the dark;" and Jess gave a short laugh as she took up her knitting again.

Young Mrs. Tent came outside the door with Rhoda. Lowering her voice, she said, "It's very kind of you, miss, to take notice of Jess. We can't get her out nowheres—leastways not to see people; she wanders away over the moor by herself, but as to going near Ashampton or into any neighbour's house, why, she flatly refuses."

"I do feel so sorry for her. Has she always been like this?" Rhoda said gently.

"Yes, from her birth. She have a very sharp tongue at times, but she's wonderful fond of the boys; she'll do anything for them. Good afternoon, miss; you know we're allays glad to see you. Mother quite cheers up having a visitor."

When Rhoda told Hannah that evening the story of Susan Frith she concluded by saying, "Do you think it is wrong, but I feel I cannot go and visit Mrs. Thatcher with the same pleasure now! I wish I could get to know Susan; she is the one that wants cheering up."

"I think Mrs. Thatcher may be in more want of spiritual help," said Hannah, thoughtfully. "Don't give her up, mum; you may get her to look at her sister a little differently, if you try and influence her a bit."