A Daughter of the Fen

Front matter

A Daughter os the Fen NOVELS AT -s. EACH EFFIE HETHERINGTON. By Robert Buchanan. AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS. By Joseph Conrad. ALMAYER'S FOLLY. By Joseph Conrad. A FIRST FLEET FAMILY. By Louis Becke and Walter Jeffery. PADDY'S WOMAN, and Other Stories. By Humphrey James. CLARA HOPGOOD. By Mark Rutherford. THE TALES OF JOHN OLIVER HOBBES. With Portrait. THE STICKIT MINISTER, and Some Common Men. By S. R. Crockett. THE LILAC SUNBONNET. By S. R. Crockett. THE RAIDERS. By S. R. Crockett. A WINNING HAZARD. By Mrs Alexander. London: T. FISHER UNWIN. A DAUGHTER OF THE FEN BY £ J. T. BEALBY % o n tr o n T. FISHER UNWIN PATERNOSTER SQUARE MDCCCXCVI [All Rig/its reserved]

Preface

This book does not profess to be a novel in the ordinary acceptation of the term : it is only a story. Its chief claims to attention must rest upon two facts. The first is that, so far at least as most of the corporate action is concerned, the story is built up out of actual historic materials ; though for the individual actors and the several parts they play, the writer is alone responsible. The second fact is this — the social background, as well as the scene — in brief, the local colour — is all drawn from personal knowledge. True, the writer cannot pretend that he was in existence at the date of the story ; but this he dare assert, that his own observation, added to the fireside traditions of the grandfathers of his generation, and to the fireside traditions of their grand fathers, does go back sufficiently far to warrant him in claiming first-hand experience for much V

PREFACE.

VI more than the mere substructure of the tale. The customs, manners, habits, speech and so forth of the people here depicted belong to a stage and a type of English country life which is now on the verge of extinction before a more consciously polished, but, in several respects, less sympathetic stadium of our national existence. Hence, many of the aspects and characteristics of the old-fashioned society which are here presented may, with out presumption, be said to possess a certain value as a study of social history (Kultur geschichte). Nevertheless, it is the author's hope that the book may be read, primarily, as what he has striven to write it, namely, a plain, honest, English story. FlNCHLEY, N. 1896. CONTENTS C"AP- PAGE I. The Secret Mortgage ... i II. Mortal Enmity .... 10 III. Parson Snelland . . . . 17 IV.

Blackbirds and Cherries. . . 26 V. Mr Brewster Bletherwell . . 31 VI. The New Cut .... 43 VII. Madam speaks betimes ... 56 VIII. An Ice Blast .... 66 IX. The Floods are out ... 82 X. The Summons .... 94 XI. The Red Lode Sluice . . . 109 XII. Laying the Kindling . . . 122 XIII. Blowing the Turf .... 13S XIV. Surprises ..... 152 XV. Conflicting Opinions ... 161 XVI. The Fire Bursts . . . . 174 XVII. In Praise of ' Brown Kitty' . . 187 XVIII. The Conflict begins ... 195 XIX. Shooting Wild-Duck . . . 209 XX. Ladies' Eyes .... 222 XXI. Fen Buzzards .... 232 XXII. The Parson's Stratagem . . . 242 XXIII. The Attack upon the Abbey . . 248 XXIV. A Fiasco ..... 263 XXV. The Gallant Captain ... 272 CONTENTS VIII CHAP. PAGE XXVI. An Arrest ..... 281 XXVII. Madam speaks .... 289 XXVIII. A Game at Football ... 306 XXIX.

Under Review .... 316 XXX. Just as the Wind blows . . . 327 XXXI. Madam spoils Sport . . . 336 XXXII. The Fens Ablaze .... 347 XXXIII. An Adventurous Expedition . 357 XXXIV. Turnham Reports .... 368 XXXV. A Crisis ..... 374 XXXVI. Threats and Idle Words. . . 384 XXXVII. A Shot in the Mist ... 396 XXXVIII. A Wild Ride .... 409 XXXIX. Madam cogitates .... 421 XL. Madam resolves . . . . 431 XLI. Madam atones .... 438 XLII. Gentleman Dick's Vow . . . 452 XLIII. A Matter of Business . . . 459 Conclusion .....

Chapter I The Secret Mortgage

A fen causeway road on a rainy day. To right, to left, as far as the eye can reach, the boundless fens, steaming with rain, morasses smothered under thickets of gigantic reeds, where the wildfowl swarm in pro digious numbers ; belts of dwarf willows, lining the lodes and creeks ; a few ruined wind-mills which once drove the drainage pumps ; here and there, at wide intervals apart, the scattered hamlets of the half civilised fenmen, marked by clumps of Flemish poplars ; and all over the fenny expanse — low, flat, limitless — vast flocks of sheep, horses, cattle, geese. A horseman, a young man of sturdy build, with a bold, independent eye in his head, is galloping along the elevated causeway at breakneck speed, plying whip and spur with merciless severity. ' Get on, you b — ,' he mutters, through his clenched teeth. ' Break your wind, your leg, your back — kill yourself, I don't care.' Arrived within sight of Hubberd's Brig and the Heronry, he draws rein, slackens speed, catches his A breath ; then stoops down and smooths back the blood flecked hair on gallant Kitty's spur-galled sides.

The Heronry was a long, low, reed-thatched farm house lying under the shelter of the Forty Foot bank, in the heart of Holland, or Haut Huntre Fen, in South Lincolnshire. The farm belonging to it, together with what was left of the estate of the manor of Swineshead Abbey (a name well known to the students of King John's reign), once formed part of the vast territorial domains of the Cistercian abbots of Swineshead. Both estates had been formed shortly after the dissolution of the monasteries in the reign of Henry VIII., and both were still in the possession of the families to which they were originally granted. The manor of the Abbey was held by the gentle-born race of the Sedgethorpes. The Heronry, so called because it was for generations the haunt of a strong colony of those noble but solitary fishers, the herons, was held by a respectable, well-to-do yeoman family of the name of Dykereave.

The present owner and occupier of the farm was a widow, Mrs Caroline Dykereave, better known by the simple but expressive title of Madam. How this title came to be associated with her nobody knew exactly. It had grown up, as it were, of itself. But it was not so difficult to understand why, having once been used, it should steadfastly cleave to her. For one thing, Caroline Dykereave was one of Fortune's favourites. Everything that she put her hand to prospered with her. No project that she em barked upon was ever known to fail. Opposition and difficulty were alike futile, powerless, when arrayed against Madam. She overcame the one as easily as she swept the other aside — without effort, by a mere decision, a mere word, as it often seemed. Even those contrarieties of circumstance, which so frequently crop up to vex and confound the best-planned undertakings of human purpose, became converted, by some strange influence, into servants and pro moters of Madam's designs.

All this, naturally enough, made a deep impression upon the rude and ignorant race who inhabited the great fen districts in the midst of which the Heronry was situated. The fen folk were only able to account for Madam's marvellous run of good fortune by one supposition : she must be possessed of powers greater, more formidable, more mysterious than fell to the lot of ordinary people. In a word, Mrs Dykereave passed, in the vulgar estimation, for something of a witch. Not an altogether strange opinion, surely, one hundred and fifty years ago, when it is remem bered what an uncommonly isolated part of the country the fen districts were at that time. 'Afternoon, sir,' said Squire Aquila Sedgethorpe, curtly, as he stalked without ceremony into the Heronry kitchen, the rain water running off his hat and overcoat on to the red brick floor in a miniature tide.

His greeting was addressed to Mr Robin Shepcott, Mrs Dykereave's half-brother, usually called in the household Unc Dobbie, a corruption of his name due to his little nephew, Dick Dykereave. The old gentleman, who occupied his accustomed arm-chair in the chimney corner, was, as it chanced, enjoying his afternoon nap, his bald head covered with a large red cotton handkerchief, to protect it from the flies. The squire's loud, harsh greeting awakened him most ungently from the peaceful slumbers of the righteous. Snatching off the handkerchief, which was so dis posed as to leave little else of his face visible except a cavernous mouth and a rubicund, snoring nose — snatching this fly-protector from his almost hairless pate, Unc Dobbie could only stammer, in helpless confusion, ' Eh — what ? What's the matter ?

Ser vant, sir. Very sorry — I mean, glad to see you ! ' 'Where's Madam — Mrs Dykereave ? I want to see her,' said the young squire, rudely interrupting Unc Dobbie's stammerings. But Unc Dobbie's faculties were utterly bemisted by this chilling blast of unamiability, and required a much longer time to find their way back from the sunny meads of dreamland than Mr Aquila's devouring im patience could endure to wait for. The young squire repeated, ' Is she at home ? Go, tell her I want to speak to her at once— at once, do ye hear ? ' He barely recollected himself so far as to add a lagging, ' If it please you, sir.' But Unc Dobbie sat immovable, his hands propped on the arms of his chair, his own arms akimbo, like one who is about to steady himself for the purpose of rising to his feet ; but his gaze was fixed upon the blustering young squire, as though he had been in presence of some horrible monster of the forests of primeval days. ' What the devil ails the man ? ' burst out Squire Aquila. 'Is he palsied or paralysed?

Or are you a downright idiot ? Answer me, sir. Where's Madam your sister ? ' The ringing tones of the young squire's strong voice had, however, reached the ear of Madam, occupied in some distant part of the house. She was already on her way to the kitchen to ascertain the occasion of the high words she heard, when these discourteous observations addressed to poor Unc Dobbie, who was the most inoffensive creature living, struck upon her ear. The arrogant assump tion of authority which the speaker put into his voice stung her more keenly than even the coarse words of insult. She recognised who it was before she saw him, and when she stepped into the kitchen betrayed by not so much as the flicker of an eyelash the furnace-heated anger which burned within her, so calm and collected were her features, and so dignified her bearing.

Altogether ignoring the young squire, who, on Madam's entrance, condescended to doff his dripping hat, which he had hitherto retained on his head, she addressed her brother, — ' Robin, you had better get your hat, and take a turn on the road for a few minutes. This is no place for you.' Mr Robin Shepcott looked astounded at such a request. He thought his sister must surely have taken leave of her senses, to bid him go out of doors in such a heavy rain as was then falling. Nevertheless he obeyed ; the gleam of Madam's eye was unspeakably worse than the rain. Immediately after issuing her command to her brother, Madam wheeled sharply round, so as to put herself squarely face to face with her visitor, and asked him, with icy politeness, and in a tone of un disguised irony, ' To what, sir, am I to attribute the honour of this — this visit ? ' Squire Aquila replied— he, too, schooling himself into forced calmness, 'I will tell you, Madam.

My father, as you know, is dead, and was buried ten days ago. I am his heir,' he accentuated the last word with the bitterness of indescribable scorn, 'which fact I suppose you also know. To-day I have been looking into his affairs, and examining the papers and documents he left behind him, and amongst them I have discovered a goodly number of these,' and with a gesture of sovereign contempt he flung down upon the table two or three oblong strips of blueish, parchment-like paper. ' Pray favour me with your explanation of them.' Madam, outwardly in no degree ruffled by the young man's insolent tone, quietly picked up one of the pieces of blue paper, glanced at it, and then in the same composed manner laid it down again, saying, 'Well?' 'Well!' exclaimed, or rather shouted, Aquila Sedgethorpe, his wrath boiling up under the exaspera tion of Madam's superb calmness — -'Well !

I call it d — d bad — devilish bad — as much unlike well as Hell is unlike Paradise. I ask you, what is the meaning of that ? ' and he pointed to the strip of watery blue paper lying unfolded on the table beside his beaver hat. ' It means,' replied Madam, taking the paper a second time into her hand, ' that I received from the late squire, your excellent father,' and she read from the document, ' " On the 25th day of March last, being Lady Day, the sum of — " ' ' I know all that,' interrupted Squire Aquila, im patiently. 'I don't want to have that rigmarole read over to me. I want to know how it is that my father owed you that sum, what he owed it for, why he paid you so much as that twice a year, when — ' ' One question at a time, if you please, young gentleman, if you desire me to answer them for you,' interposed Madam. ' May I trouble you to repeat your first question again ? ' ' Bluntly, then, what did my father owe that money for ? ' asked the squire. ' I will tell you, Mr Sedgethorpe,' answered Madam, throwing more animation into her voice and manner than she had hitherto condescended to display in the course of the interview, and speaking with clear and deliberate enunciation. ' It is the half-yearly interest, reckoned at — well, you see for yourself what per cent. — on jf 1 0,000, which I lent to your father on the security of the Abbey estate.

Those are the simple facts. If you require confirmation of them, I must beg you to be good enough to call at the office of Mr Weselby Grabber, at Boston. The deeds are in his hands.' ' I have just seen them — ' began the squire. ' Seen them ! ' exclaimed Madam, quickly. ' Then why do you come to me, sir ? You know as much as I can tell you.' But immediately calming down again, she continued, ' I presume you found the obli gations duly attested, and in every respect valid and good in form ? ' ' D — n it, yes. They're all as fast as a church,' replied the squire, bitterly. ' Old Weselby has done the job so damnably well, there isn't a loophole big enough for a gnat to squeeze through.' 'Fortunately for me, it seems,' retorted Madam, drily, and at the same time a slight smile flitted across her face, lighting up its swarthy paleness with a transient ray of satisfaction. ' And now for your second question ?

The young squire, instead of answering directly, exclaimed scornfully, ' I know as much as you do ! By God ! Madam, I wish I did. Anyhow, listen to me a minute. I've come here for the purpose of telling you something, and, curse it, I will tell you, whether you know it already or whether you don't.' ' That is hardly the way to get people to listen to you, sir, either with patience or with calm attention.' ' You shall listen, though ; patient or impatient, attentive or — ' ' Shall, Mr Sedgethorpe ? ' repeated Madam, with foreboding emphasis, whilst a dangerous glitter showed itself in her glowing black eyes. ' Yes, d — n it, shall,' reiterated the squire. ' I will say it again, you shall listen to me, whether or no. There's no man living shall stop me ; no, nor no woman either, were she ever so much of a wit — ' ' Stop ! ' cried Madam, so imperatively that the in sulting word died uncompleted on the young man's lip. ' You had better mind what you say, Mr Sedge thorpe,' continued Madam, after bending upon him a heart-searching look, which quelled for the moment, though only for the moment, the young squire's trucu lent bluster. ' Recollect you are speaking to me I ' ' I know it, Madam, I know it only too well.

No need to remind me of that,' replied the squire ; and then, undeterred from his main purpose, he continued, ' I tell you again, I have come here to tell you what I think of you and your miserable tricks, and I am not the man to be frightened by any of your paltry threats, my fine Madam.' ' Very well, sir, speak on,' said Madam, returning to the calm, deliberate manner which had characterised her carriage at the opening of this strange interview.

Chapter II Mortal Enmity

'Well, then, Madam Dykereave, give me leave to tell you,' said the young squire, ' that you are a crafty, designing woman, as unscrupulous as — as you are cunning. What on earth induced my poor deluded old father to come to you for money, I can't for the life of me understand. He couldn't have done worse if he'd sold himself, body and soul, to the worst enemy he ever had. He little suspected, I warrant him, the real character of the woman under whose iron thumb he was putting himself, when he signed yon cursed deeds at Boston.' ' I see you do not know the real circumstances of the case, Mr Quil,' interposed Madam, unbending something of her stubborn pride, for she was by no means destitute of a quick sense of justice. She then went on to explain how she had lent the money to the old squire at the time of his sister Betty's marriage.

Mistress Betty, who had reached a fairly mature age before embarking upon the vexed sea of matrimony was entitled, under her father's will, to a substantial dowry out of the Abbey estate. But her brother, who of course, inherited that estate, now considerably re- MORTAL ENMITY 11 duced from its original noble acreage, had, through carelessness, incapacity and prodigality, greatly im poverished himself. His sister's prospective marriage plunged him, therefore, into the most perplexing embarrassment. His estate was already so heavily mortgaged that he could scarcely hope to raise much more upon it. In fact, he was fairly at his wits' end to know where to get the money from to provide Betty's dowry of Accident led him to unburden his mind to the widow of his former school fellow and lifelong friend, Jeff Dykereave.

Mrs Dykereave was generous enough, or rather far-seeing enough, to offer to lend him the sum of money he needed. She even went further than that. Catching at a hint which the perplexed squire let drop, Madam voluntarily increased her loan to The young squire constrained himself to listen to Madam's explanation with the best patience he could perforce command. The woman spoke fair, it could not be denied ; her words were reasonable, and had the ring of truth in them, and her manner was friendly and conciliatory. He was on the point of responding in a spirit of cordiality well fitted to bridge over the last difference which still gaped between them, when suddenly a thought flashed upon his mind which at once thrust every other consideration into the back ground. ' Your explanation only accounts for Madam ; these receipts, at all events, for the last eighteen months or so, are for ,£ 10,000.

How do you account for that ? ' ' Quite simply — in this way,' replied Madam. 'There was already a mortgage for upon the Abbey property at the time I lent my money to your father.' 'Well, and how come you to receive the interest upon that £7000 as well ? ' interposed Aquila. 'Very simply, sir. In order to save your father from a painful exposure, I took over that mortgage when it was called in.' This frank avowal from Madam's lips, made with every show of sincerity, was well calculated to disarm all ordinary suspicions. But, unfortunately, the young squire's rash, headstrong passions had been inflamed rather than soothed by the subtle craft of the Boston lawyer. When Aquila Sedgethorpe, in his brief inter view with Mr Weselby Grabber, hinted in his blunt, impetuous way that all was not fair and square and aboveboard in the transactions between his father and Madam, the lawyer replied, 'Well, your father did — ■ I believe — ahem — on one occasion drop a remark to the same effect.

But I assured him that, to the very best of my judgment, Mrs Dykereave is a woman altogether incapable of doing anything underhand or deceitful.' But the lawyer's words, or rather his manner, pro duced the diametrically opposite effect upon the young man's mind from what, at first intention, they might seem calculated to produce. They craftily suggested suspicion, mistrust ; and during the young squire's headlong ride from Boston, these seeds of doubt shot up with mustard-like celerity to fulness and ripeness of growth. Never accustomed to contend against the impulse of the moment, or to suppress what leapt to his tongue for utterance, Aquila Sedgethorpe said, in reply to MORTAL ENMITY 13 Madam's explanation, ' What you say is all very fine, Madam ; but it's only one side of the story. I should like to hear the other side — ' 'But unfortunately you can't,' broke in Madam, drily. ' Nobody else was present at the interview between Squire Sedgethorpe and me.

Your father particularly begged of me to keep the transaction a secret. I have done so — faithfully — down to this minute.' ' Very likely, Madam — very likely,' retorted Mr Aquila. ' But why then did my father — well, what shall I say ? — why did he not feel altogether comfortable in his mind with regard to these dealings with you ? Why did he wish it had not been you, of all people, from whom he had this money ? Pray answer me that question, if you can.' ' Did your father wish that — did he really wish that ? ' asked Madam. ' Well, he — I have been informed — that — that he — ' ' Come, out with it, young sir. No beating about the bush. The matter is far too serious for shilly shallying. You mean, your father suspected me of fraud, if not trickery — isn't that it ? ' continued Madam. ' You are not very wide of the mark,' replied the squire. ' And you, Mr Aquila Sedgethorpe — you, too, share his opinion — his mistrust ? ' asked Madam, hurrying her words one upon the other. ' Why shouldn't I ?

What is there to lead me to think differently ? ' retorted the young gentle man. 'Then the explanation I have just given you goes for nothing — it weighs no more with you than so much empty wind ? ' pursued Madam, her passions at length stirring. The admirable self-possession she had hitherto maintained was rapidly giving way before the hot assault of pride and resentment, and the sense of outraged justice. 'Certainly I do,' replied the young squire. 'Why should I accept what rests upon your bare assertion, unsupported by witnesses ? ' ' Then you absolutely refuse to credit my state ment ? ' ' Yes, d — n it, yes,' burst out the squire. ' Your talk is all very fine ; but it's like the sunshine on a puddle of water ; it's nothing but glitter and shine. I'm not such a fool as to trust to it. You gulled my father ; but I can tell you you are not going to gull me, though I am not much more than half as old as you are, Madam.' ' And you have the cool assurance to allege that I have told you untruths ? ' persisted Madam. ' Yes, if you choose to put it so ; or if you like it plump and plain, in downright, honest English — a parcel of lies,' answered Sedgethorpe. ' That will do, sir squire,' said Madam, with angry emphasis, 'you have said quite enough.

I would I could be a man, if only for ten minutes ; I would make you smart for your insolence, young sir, as sure as you are a man.' ' Bah ! what difference does that make ? ' retorted Sedgethorpe, scornfully. 'I despise your threats. You can't work upon me as you do upon the poor ignorant devils around you. Everybody knows what you are, Mistress Dykereave.' Then, dropping his voice to a hissing whisper, 'You would never have MORTAL ENMITY 15 extorted those deeds from my unfortunate father if you hadn't bewitched him first.' In an instant Madam's self-control vanished, con sumed in the furnace of her wrath, like a shaving shrivelling on the burning coals. Her black eyes blazing with ungovernable rage, Madam, by a rapid gesture, seized upon the young man's riding-whip, struck it two or three times vehemently upon the table, and screamed, 'Go, go, you ungrateful, un mannerly dog — go, before I do you a mischief.

I am old, am I ? I will teach you I am not too old to chastise a coward and a bully. If I can't do it myself, I will have you held fast, here, before me, and I will thrash you with your own whip till you can't stand. Go, I tell you, go — and never you dare to show yourself within these walls again, or it will be the worse for you.' With a gesture of passionate scorn, Madam tossed the squire's whip through the open doorway into the wet causeway beyond ; and neither deigning to utter a word more or to witness the young man's departure, she hastily quitted the kitchen. As for Aquila Sedgethorpe, he shrank visibly before the withering tornado of Madam's wrath. The out burst was so unexpected, and so fierce in its concen trated passion, that he was, for the moment, actually appalled by it. Never in all his life before had he witnessed in any human being a display of anger of such crushing force and intensity as this.

As soon as he recovered himself a little from the shock, Sedge thorpe caught up his hat from the table, picked up his whip from the causeway, loosed Kitty's bridle, mounted, and made the best haste he could to get out of sight and sound of the Heronry. But though he was able to remove himself thus easily from Madam's presence, it was a task that far outran his ability to remove from Madam's mind the traces of the wanton insults which he had hurled at her ; they sank so deeply into the substance of her memory as to become part and parcel of its essential nature, never more to be obliterated so long as her conscious life should last.

Chapter III Parson Snelland

It was high summer. The sky vibrated like tightly stretched membrane. There was not a shimmer of cloud, not a tint of colour, to blot its limpid purity ; and it was so deeply, so intensely blue that the streams of jubilant melody, which the larks poured forth as they mounted up and up and up, seemed to gush from the very fountains of the sky itself. The heat was intense. You could actually see it with the naked eye, undulating like spirituous liquor against the brick walls and along the hard white roads. The tar on the big barn doors blistered into bubbles, and ran down in melting runnels. The wide, shelterless fens panted beneath the fierce, un pitying heat-rays. A ring of flimmering haze, the smoke-vapour, as it were, of the vast fen furnace, shut them in all round. The long rows of dwarf willows turned up the edges of their leaves to the sun.

The sheep, their tongues lolling out, their ribs heaving, huddled beside the troops of half-wild horses underneath the scrubby thorn-trees. Every pool of brackish water was thick-set with cattle, sunk up to their bellies in the cooling mud, whisking their tails B ,8 A DAUGHTER OF THE FEN and twitching their ears with never-wearying patience, to dislodge the swarm of flies that tortured them. The only creatures which possessed the least show of energy were the geese. Every quarter of the fen, from the one end of it to the other, was white with them, cropping the grass with restless industry ; floating idly on the meres and ponds, or lazily preen ing their feathers, and stretching their wings along their legs, by the water's brink. Notwithstanding that there was scarce breeze enough to waft the thistledown, the reed brakes, which swallowed up huge slices of the stagnant marshes and meres, rustled with multitudinous mur murs.

A listener whose ears were schooled to catch the characteristic fen sounds would have been able to distinguish the cracklings of the reed flags from the lively twitterings of the reedchats, and single out the soft whisperings of brooding teal and gar ganies, and the stealthy movements of the snake eyed bittern, as he crept from one lurking lair to another. The deeper parts of the fen waters, where the bulrushes grew, were enlivened with the dartings, and sudden divings, and splashings of several varieties of wildfowl — golden-crested grebes, shy didappers, sooty black coots, and may be a straggler or two from the very last flock of cranes which visited old England's shores. In the opener parts, where the dykes and drains were less smothered in reeds and long coarse grasses, clouds of butterflies and dragonflies glinted like flashes of lightning above the patches of blue forget-me-nots and dog roses, and wild tares and thick red clover.