Greene Ferne Farm

mart, where the wretched drunkard’s goods are sold forever, seems to flourish without let or hindrance? “Money advanced on goods for absolute sale,” is the notice prominently displayed, which to the poor artisan, being interpreted, reads, “ ‘Walk into my parlour,’ says the spider to the fly.” Geoffrey, who had been to Australia, found he was mistaken in thinking that he had seen the world. There were things here, close to the sweet fields of lovely England, not to be surpassed in the darkest corners of the earth. At the end of a new street hastily “run up cheap” and “scamped,” they found a large black pool, once a pond in the meadow, now a slough of all imaginable filth, at whose precipitous edge the roadway stopped abruptly, without rail, fence, or wall. Little children playing hare and hounds, heedless of their steps, fell in, and came out gasping, almost choked with foul mud. Drunken men staggered in occasionally, and came out stiff, ghastly, with slime in the greedy mouths that had gorged at the Melting-Pot. Yet this horrible slough was on the very verge of beauty; it was the edge and outpost of the town. Across this dark pit were green meadows, hawthorn hedges, and trees. The sweet breeze played against the dead red brick; odours of clover were blown against the windows; rooks came over now and then with their noisy caw-cawing. Shamefully “scamped” was the row of six-roomed houses⁠—doors that warped and would not shut, and so on. Upstairs, in one of these, they found a tall young fellow lying on his bed in the middle of the summer day. The sickly fetid smell of the close room told of long confinement. Poor fellow, he had been sore beset; unmarried, untended; no woman to potter about him, nursed anyhow, only the strength of his constitution carried him through; and now he lay there, weak and helpless, in spirit all but dead, as strong men are after tedious illness. A mass of iron had fallen on his leg in one of the factories some time before, as it was supposed through the carelessness of a fellow-workman not recovered from his weekly orgy of drink. The sturdy limb, though it had long ago united, was still feeble in the extreme. His dull eye lit up when he saw them.

“You bean’t from Millbourne, be you?” he said.

“We know many there,” said Felix.

“I thaut perhaps uncle Jabez had found me out and sent ee. Do you knaw uncle Jabez, as works at Greene Ferne?”

“I recollect the shepherd,” said Geoffrey.

“I wur under-shepherd thur till I took to factory work. Look at them lambs thur!”

They looked out of the window. Beneath, the green fields came right up to the dead brick wall. Away, some fifty yards distant, stood an enormous pollard oak, its vast gnarled root coiled round just above the earth, forming a broad ledge about the trunk. Half a dozen lambs were chasing each other, frisking round and round the rim, glad in the summer sunshine.

“Look at um,” said the whilom shepherd, “an’ I be choked for aair.”

“Why not open the window?”

“He wunt open.”

They examined it; the sashes were shams, not made to open. Neither was there a fireplace; the man was poisoned with the exhalations from his own weak frame.

“This is dreadful,” said Geoffrey. “Is there no law⁠—”

“Law enough,” said Felix, bitterly; “but who troubles to enforce it for the sake of⁠—a navvy? Why are crowded places sinks of misery and crime? For want of a Master, like the colonel of a regiment. It makes me sigh for a despot.”

“I’d a’ smashed un fast enough,” said the shepherd, “if I’d a-dared; but thaay ud ’a turned me out into the street, an’ I couldn’t abear the workuss. Is ould Fisher dead yet, zur?”

St. Bees was busy with his penknife cutting away the putty, and did not for the moment answer. The pane came out speedily, and the breeze came in with a rush, and with it a bee that buzzed round and went forth again, and a scent of new-made hay, and the Baa⁠—maa of the lambs, and behind it all the low roar of the railway and the factories.

“What did you say about Fisher?” asked Felix, turning.

“Be a’ dead yet, th’ cussed old varmint?”

“Hush, hush! whom do you mean?”

“I means ould Fisher of Warren Mill. He be my grandfeyther. Mebbe you minds Peggy Moulding, what married th’ bailie? Hur wur my granny. My feyther died in Australia. Th’ cussed ould varmint⁠—a’ let us all starve; he got sacks a’ gold. I wants to hear as th’ devil have got un.”

“You must not bear malice,” said Felix; but being a man as well as a clergyman, he halted there. The contrast was too great. He thought of the brutal miser on the hills.

“I wants to get back to Greene Ferne,” said the invalid. “Do you knaw Mrs. Estcourt? Hur be a nice ooman; a’ wunder ef hur ud have me agen. Wull ee axe hur?”

“I’ll ask her,” said Geoffrey. “I’m sure she will, though the men are on strike there now.”

“Be um? Lord, what vools! I wants to get back to shepherding. Axe uncle Jabez ef I med come to his place and bide wi’ he a bit. I thenks I should get better among the trees. I could a’most drag a rake, bless ’ee, now ef I had some vittels.”

“You shall have food,” said Felix, “and we will get you back to the hamlet.” This poor fellow, rude as he was⁠—so pathetically ignorant as to suppose, as ignorant people do, that strangers understood his private affairs⁠—was in a sense distantly related to his darling May, and thus had a more than common claim upon him.

In the afternoon they went over to Greene Ferne, and Mrs. Estcourt at once sent a trap for the injured man. His uncle Jabez, the shepherd, was greatly concerned, and ready to receive him. Yet, with the curious apathy of the poor, he had made no inquiries