IV
The Wooden Bottle
“Gee, Diamond! Now, Captain!” cried Margaret, imitating the gruff voice of the carter. Crack! The long-knotted lash of the wagon-whip, bound about the handle with brazen rings, whistled in the air and curled up with a vicious snap. She was in one of her wild impulsive moods. Away trotted the two huge carthorses, the harness merrily jingling and the wagon jolting. Jabez the shepherd could hardly keep pace with it, running beside the leader, Diamond. Margaret and May were riding. Crack! Crack!
“Aw, doan’t ’ee now—doan’t ’ee, miss!” panted the shepherd. “Us ull go right drough th’ winder! Whoa!”
For they were steering straight for the great window at Greene Ferne that opened on the lawn. It was wide open that beautiful midsummer morning.
“What are those children doing?” said Mrs. Estcourt, in some alarm. “Why, they have harnessed the horses!”
Valentine, Geoffrey, and Felix, who were there, crowded to the window.
“Whoa, Diamond! Captain, whoa!” cried Margaret, bringing up her convoy on the lawn in fine style. “Now, mamma dear, jump up! We’re all going haymaking, as the men won’t.”
“She has solved the problem,” said Valentine. “Here’s one volunteer!” And he sprang up.
That very morning they had been holding a council to see if anything could be suggested to put an end to the strike. It had now lasted nearly a fortnight. Felix in vain argued with the men; they listened respectfully, and even admitted that he was right; but all they would say was that “they meaned to have th’ crownd.”
Slow to take action, there is no one so stubborn, when once he has resolved, as the agricultural labourer. They had timed the strike with some cunning. They had let the mowers cut some sixty acres of grass, and then suddenly stopped work. They knew very well that if cut grass is allowed to remain exposed to the sun longer than just sufficient to make it into hay, it dries up so much as to be of little value. Now the burning brilliant summer sunshine had been pouring down upon the withered grass for days and days, expelling every particle of the succulent sap, and turning it to a brittle straw. The shepherd, Jabez, remained at his work, and he and Augustus Basset, the “bailie,” did a little, throwing up a mead or two into “wakes” for carting; but their exertions were of small avail. While they talked and deliberated, Margaret, beckoning May, slipped out and went down to the stables. Diamond and Captain were led out into the sunshine, and stood like statuary, waiting to be bidden. For the beauty of simple strength nothing equals a fine carthorse: the vast frame, the ponderous limb, the massive neck, speak of power in repose. Their large dark lustrous eyes followed the girls with calm astonishment; but, docile and gentle, they gave implicit obedience to orders. The heavy harness, brass-mounted, was as much as ever the two girls could manage to lift; and when it came to hoisting up the shafts of the wagon they were at a loss. But Jabez, hearing a noise at the stables, came up; and after him slouched Augustus, muttering to himself, as usual. So just when the council indoors was beginning to wonder what had become of Margaret and May, crack, crack, and the jingling of harness put an end to their deliberations.
Geoffrey quickly followed Valentine; Felix, more thoughtful, brought a chair for Mrs. Estcourt, who, half laughing, half protesting, against Margaret’s wilful fancy, got up. Augustus sat on the shafts, Jabez stood by the leader, and, seeing them all in, started for the field.
“If you were to bring out a thirty-six-gallon cask,” said Augustus, whose red nose peered over the front part of the wagon, “and set it up on a haycock, I’ll warn them chaps would come back fast enough.” This was one word for the haymakers and two for himself.
“I’m sure I don’t grudge them some ale,” said Mrs. Estcourt. “But they are really very unreasonable. One of the servants took a mower a quart of beer. He said he did not like it, and didn’t want so much, and poured it out on the grass. Next day only a pint was sent to him: ‘Why y’ent you brought me a quart?’ said he. ‘Because you flung it away,’ was the reply. ‘Aw, that don’t matter. You bring I a quart. I’ll have my mishure,’ (measure); nor should I mind paying the extra five shillings; but you see, Felix, if I pay it, all the farmers round—for they have only struck work on my place, thinking, no doubt, that, being a woman, I must give way—will be obliged to do so, and some of them are not able. Many have called and begged me not; and Mr. Thorpe says the same. Yet I don’t like it. We have always been on good terms with the men.”
“O yes, you pets ’em up,” said Augustus, “just like so many children; and, of course, they ain’t going to work for you.”
“The struggle of capital and labour,” began Felix learnedly, when a sudden jolt of the springless wagon threw him off his balance, and he had to cling to the sides.
“O, mind the gatepost!” cried Mrs. Estcourt, in some alarm.
While they were near the house Jabez went slow; but the moment he reached the open field away he started, and what with the jingling of the harness, the creaking of the wheels, and the necessity for holding on tight, conversation became impossible. The wagon rose up and sloped down over the furrows of the meadow as a boat pitches in a sea.
“Woaght! whoa!” shouted Jabez, drawing up among the hay. “This be it; the prongs be in the ditch.”
When they had descended, he went to the hawthorn bush, pulled out some prongs, and then scrambled up into the wagon himself. “Now then, you lards and gennelmen, one on ’ee get each side, and pitch up thaay wakes (ridges of
