'The Root of all Evil.' A farmhouse tragedy of thirty years ago

Chapter I

fpW^lj BLAZING hot day in July. Such a day as is £j)fcz only known in England. The heal almosl tropical, but the spreading carpet of verdure belieing the suggestion of a tropical country. Undulat ing pastures ; whitening cornfields ; hedgerows with glorious elm trees in the fullest wealth of their foliage ; here and there comfortable-looking homesteads, and snug cottages with patches of gay garden and rose-covered porches; groups of houses and picturesque church steeples dotted about the surrounding hills ; over all a clear blue sky without a cloud. This was the scene which would have met the eye of one standing at the door of a somewhat isolated farm house, which, judged by external appearances, should have been the ideal home of contentment and modest comfort. It was a roomy, old-fashioned dwelling, with deep mullioned windows, and bore the appearance of having once upon a time stood higher in rank than a mere farmhouse.

That, however, was decidedly its present position. A square of garden lay between it and the lane on one side, with a flagged path running from the house door to the wicket-gate, which broke the line of a thick, closely-clipped, yew hedge. The garden was laid out in a quaint, old-fashioned style which har monized with the house. Rows of espalier apple and pear trees divided beds of potatoes and other vegetables. Near the house, and bordering the nagged path, were strips of garden bright with old-fashioned, sweet-scented flowers. Further away, bushes of gooseberries and cur rants, with narrow grass paths intersecting them. At the other side of the house, a smaller plot of ground) principally grass, bordered by evergreen shrubs over growing a low wall which divided it from the spacious farmyard with barns and outbuildings on either hand, that straggled away to a gate leading into pastures and orchards sloping far down the hillside.

There seemed little life or movement going on about the place, and had it not been in England a spectator might have supposed that the inhabitants were taking their siesta during the intense heat of the early after noon. Some fowls scratching the straw at the barn door, the occasional grunt of an imprisoned pig, the rattle of a halter or stamp of a hoof, as a stabled horse strove to get rid of a persistent fly, and the droning hum of an energetic bee, were the only sounds which broke the stillness outside. There was hardly more sign of life inside the house. The doors at either end of the flagged passage which ran through it, stood wide open, as did those of the kitchen on one side and the house-place on the other. All the casement windows were also open, and the warm, perfume-laden air filled the whole building.

Everything was clean, bright, and neat. In the kitchen grate the fire was banked up, but a kettle simmered on the hob, and an invisible cricket chirped loudly, whilst the tall oak clock in the corner kept up its monotonous "tick, tick," and enhanced the feeling of drowsiness which seemed to have fallen upon the place and its in habitants. The latter were, however, not asleep. In the scullery, beyond the kitchen and back-kitchen, an able-bodied, rosy-faced country girl was busy washing up the plates and dishes which had been used at the twelve o'clock farmhouse dinner, and on the bench beside her were ranged bread tins to be cleaned, which promised an ample afternoon's work if they were to rival the bright ness of the cooking pots which shone on the dressers in the kitchen. Presently a door upstairs opened, and a young woman came down the staircase into the kitchen.

This was Nellie Parsons, the farmer's daughter, and now the mistress of the farm. She seemed about twenty years of age, and had a somewhat pale though not delicate looking, grave face, by no means beautiful, but with an air of refinement rarely to be found in her station of life, and with gentleness and honesty stamped upon every " THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL." 4 feature and shown in all her movements. She was dressed in a clean print gown, quakerish in the simplicity of its make, but harmonizing so perfectly with her quiet manner and sweet, serious grey eyes, that a stranger would have been almost inclined to set her down as belonging to the estimable sect of "Quiet People." This she did not, but was, on the contrary, a staunch churchwoman, holding in reverence the doctrines which had been taught her at the village school, and troubling herself very little about any matters outside her own busy farm life.

The duties and anxieties connected with this were quite enough to occupy her time and thoughts, and, even had she had more leisure, her innate refinement of feeling, which had been fostered by the retired life she led, would have caused her to shrink from much intercourse with those denizens of the outer world with whom she would have been chiefly brought into contact — rough farmers and their families, for the most part, and the small artisans and tradespeople of neighbouring villages. She carried in her arms a pile of household linen and coarse stock ings to be mended, and having thrown her eye round the kitchen and seen that everything was in perfect order there, she crossed the passage into the house-place, and, taking her work-basket from a corner, sat down at a table by the open window, and set to work steadily at her darning and piecing, humming a simple ditty to herself the while.

By the time the old clock in the kitchen struck three she had gone through nearly the whole pile, and, on hearing the sound, rose up and folded all she had finished, leaving the remainder in her work-basket. Having taken what was done upstairs and put it away, she returned to the kitchen, put the kettle on to boil, and then got ready the tea-things. Whilst doing so, Mary, the farmgirl, appeared, having " cleaned herself " after her work, and looking as fresh and neat as every thing else about the place. The meal was not luxurious, though wholesome : tea without milk, and excellent looking brown bread, but no butter. It did not invite one partaking of it to linger long over its despatch, and in a very few minutes Nellie had finished, and then, calling the girl, left her and a lad of about sixteen, the only other farm servant who fed in the house, to eat their share, whilst she herself, with a basket on her arm, sallied forth to visit the henhouse and collect the eggs laid that day.

Her appearance seemed the signal for a general awakening about the outbuildings. The poultry roused themselves, one or two lazy hens which had ensconced themselves comfortably in the laying boxes and gone to sleep, flew out with a noisy cackle, thus intimating to the rest of the tribe that feeding-time was near ; and when Nellie, having collected the eggs and deposited them in the house, returned with a large measure of corn, which she scattered around, the yard was soon filled with poultry — turkeys, geese, ducks, and fowls of various breeds — while pigeons flocked around, fluttering about her head and perching on her shoulders in their eager ness to obtain a share. By the time the duties of the poultry-yard were accomplished, the young broods counted, fed, and housed for the night, it was milking-time, and the boy Tim had driven the cows into the field adjoining the farmyard.

There he and Mary milked them, and then bore the frothing pails into the dairy, the pride of Nellie's heart, where she, with her white apron on and her sleeves rolled up, strained and set the new milk, and then measured out certain quantities of that which had been skimmed to mix with barley meal for the fatting pigs and fowls. All that she did she did thoroughly, leaving nothing to chance and nothing in a half-finished state. When her dairy-work was over evening was drawing on, and the long summer twilight, with its refreshing coolness, had re placed the blazing glory of the sun. The birds awoke and sang, the flowers lifted their parched heads as the kindly dew descended on them, the farm horses came in from their work in the distant fields, and whinnied as they heard the welcome " wish " of the corn being poured into the mangers ; everything spoke of peace and plenty.

Nevertheless a watchful observer would have remarked that, amid the general joyousness, Nellie alone seemed unmoved. Not that she was sad or gloomy, but that her gentle face wore an expression as though she suffered some inward care or anxiety which it was sad to note upon the countenance of one so young, where one would have expected the exuberance of spirits in accordance with her years. Her outdoor work finished she again sat down to her mending, but not with undivided attention as before. She often paused and listened, but apparently not hearing the sound she was watching for, resumed her stitching. This, too, was finished after awhile, and she put it away7, and then strolled into the garden, plucked up one or two weeds (there were not many in the showy little borders), tied up the heavy head of a carnation, and stripped off some faded leaves from a geranium.

Then she went down to the wicket-gate and looked up the lane. A short time elapsed before the sound of wheels fell on her ear. Her face brightened and a pale colour spread over her cheeks as a baker's cart rounded the corner and drew up at the gate. A young man jumped down and greeted her with a somewhat boisterous salute. " I were afraid as 'ee'd been hindered from comin', David," she said in a low, sweet voice, which, though she spoke with marked provincialism, had nothing vulgar or coarse in its tone. " I've been expectin' 'ee this hour or more." " I've been late all the way along, lass," replied the young man. " Late to begin with, and getting later all the time. You see we got the news last night as Parlia ment was to be dissolved, as they calls it, and that means a new election, and lots o' fun for we Liberals.

Well, I got talking about it with one and another, and that made me late a-starting, and then most wherever I goes they wants to hear the news, or to hear more if they knows it. So what with a word here and a word there I'm all over behind. Bless you, Nell ! we've got grand sport coming on, we have. We means to bring in our chap this time, I can tell 'ee, and no mistake about it. And then when we gets a Liberal Government just let them old Conserva tives look out, that's all I say. We ain't a-going to be no more down-trodden nor over-ridden by them, I can tell 'ee. You just keep your eyes open and see if this time next year things ain't very different to what they be now. They knows what's what, they Liberals, and as it ain't 'cos a man's got to earn his bread as makes him worse nor them as sit idle and has nothing to do for their bving.

I hate them idle chaps, I do, with their smart clothes and their high and mighty airs. Just because they've got a lot of money, as they never worked for, they thinks they've a right to set themselves up, and as no one shouldn't go agen 'em and think as they knows anything. Why should they want for me to call them " sir," and touch my hat to 'em and cringe to 'em, when I'm every bit as good as they are, I should like to know ? I've been told as they never does it in America. Everybody's as good as another there, and they had oughter be here in England, and will be, too, when we gets a Liberal Parliament, as we means to this time." " Oh, David ! " said Nellie, " what dreadful things you do say. I can' think whatever makes 'ee go agen them as is our betters in this way. The Bible tells us as there'll allus be rich an' poor, summer and winter, so long as the worl' do last.

An' whatever harm can it do 'ee ter be civil-spoken an' respeckful ter them as is gentlefolks ? If so be as we was meant ter be ekal an' all alike, we'd ha' been tof so in the Bible an' the Catechism. But we isn't. We's tol' ter ' order ourselves lowly an' rev'rently ter all our betters,' an' that's as plain as words can speak." "There ain't no politics in the Bible," answered the young man, testily, " nor yet in the Catechism, not as I knows on, so it's never no use saying such things to me. You're a good lass, Nell, I know, and will make a prime wife, but politics is politics, and women don't know nothing about 'em. How should they ? It ain't none o' their business, and they've not got the heads of us men. Besides, women is women all the world over, and it's just like this — men goes about the world and see things and hear what other folks ha' got to say o' the ways o' other countries, and they think for theirselves, men do, and quite right they should.

But women bides at home, and know nowt but what they hears fro' the parson or madam up at the Hall, or some gent as comes to give the school childer a lecture about forrin parts or such-like. 'Tain't likely they'd learn anything o' politics that way, now is it?" " I don't want ter meddle wi' politics, David, thee knows that. I've as much as I can do ter mind the farm, and father growing closer and closer every day. I s'pose it's the bad times, but he's worser nor ever lately ; some times I dursen't even speak ter him, an' when I has ter ast him for money it seems like as though I were asting for his very life. An' it seems ter me as he've been growin' worse ever since he joined the club an' give up goin' ter church regler ; an' when he do, it ain't no good, he only come back ter scoff at the parson an' say what he'd heard at your las' meetin'.

I wish them meetin's was further, that I do. He were allus hard ter live with, were father, but since he've took up wi' these meetin's T don' know what's come over him, nor how ter bear his ways, that I don'." " Your father were allus a miser," laughed the young man; " but he've got a long head on his shoulders, and sees what's going on in this 'ere Government better nor most any of us. Why, bless you, Nellie, if he don't speak much at home you should just hear him at meetin's. Why, there ain't no sich speaker not for miles. You'd think, to hear him, that he knowed all them as belongs to the Government and speaks in Parliament ; and he'll just take a newspaper and read out bits o' what they say, and then he'll up and knock 'em down wi' his argyments till they han't got a leg to stand on. Why, the parson wouldn't have a chance against him, nor the squire neither, not if they was to come to one of our meetin's." " Well, I daresay he may be main clever in speakin", an' his argyments may be all very fine.

But 'ee'li never persuade me, David, as anything can be right as makes a man harder an' uncomfort abler ter live with in his own house, an' discontented with everything and everybody7 as is above him. He diden use ter say such things o' the squire an' the parson as he do now, an' I say as he diden ought er." " That's just what I were saying awhile ago," interrupted David, impatiently. "You women don't understand things " THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL." 11 You think the squire and the parson is everybody, and as what they says is Gospel truth, and because the squire lives in a big house and sees fine company, and has a lot of horses and carriages, you think he's better nor us chaps as has to work for our living. But that's where you're wrong. We've got brains and feelin's just as much as ever he have, and because we've got to work for our bread we, in course, knows more about what laws is wanted for working-men than he do as never did a day's work in his life.

Take my word for it, lass, there'll be good times for us soon, and before you've been my wife long you'll dress as fine, and have your carriage like madam herself; and why shouldn't you ? You're as good as she is any day o' the week, and a deal better, too, I warrant, if the truth were known." " Oh, don't 'ee talk like this, David, I can't abear ter hear 'ee. Have 'ee forgotten how good madam was when poor mother were dyin', an' how she used ter bring her soup an' jelly, an' come herself an' set an' read jes' as simple an' neighbour-like as one o' ourselves ? Not a bit o' pride in her for all she's such a gran' lady." " And so she ought, my girl. Them things as she brought were as much yours as hers, and if she'd not brought 'em you'd ha' had a right to take 'em. Folks has no right to keep their good things to theirselves ; you'll see when we comes to the top it'll be share and share alike, and them as don't give up o' their own free will will be made to do it whether they likes it or no. You see if they haven't, and that before many years is past."

" THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL." 12 " David, it jes' frightens me ter hear 'ee talk like this. I'm sure it's wrong, an' one o' these days 'ee'U be gettin' inter trouble by it. Ye're cleverer nor me, I know, an' I can' put my thoughts inter fine words. But I can under stand when the parson preaches about bein' content in one's own station, an' about the troubles as all has ter bear, rich an' poor alike, an' as 'tain't riches as makes happi ness. I'm sure I don' want ter be no richer so long as there's enough, an' please God we shall have that. If father were but kinder an' more cheerful-like I should be quite happy with my work. I shoulden' be no happier, nor not so happy, ter be a lady an' wear fine clothes, an' have others see ter the farm an' the dairy, an' me doin' nothin'. An' when we're married, David, 'twould spoil my pleasure ter think as other were doin' things for 'ee in the shop an' in the house an' me settin' idle or ridin' in a carriage all alone.

I do wish as 'ee'd come ter church sometimes, an' father too. The parson he puts things plain and straightforward-like, au' if 'ee'd been there las' Sunday 'ee'd a heard what he said about contentment, an' bearin' all as comes to one, knowin' as there must come troubles to every one, be they who they may." " Ay, ay, lass, I heerd o' that sermon. He used what he called a ' simly,' didn't he, and told 'ee summat about a camel, eh ? " " Yes, he did, David, an' I min' his very words. He said as how we might take example from ' the patient camel which kneels to receive its burden, an' when it rises fin's it no heavier than it can bear ' — an' that we should fin' our burdens seem lighter if we only prayed more earnestly for help to bear them." " Ha, ha," laughed David. " You know Joss Evans's son, him as went for a sailor four year agone ?

Well, he were in church last Sunday and heerd the parson say that, and when he come out he said as how 'twere easy to see as parson had never been abroad in forrin parts or he'd never ha' took the camel for his ' simly ' ! An' then he told us as how he'd often and often seen 'em in the countries where he've been, and they's about the most contrariest beasts as ever he set eyes on. They's not patient, and they grumbles and growls when they's made to kneel down, and as oft as not they'll jump up afore their packs is half fixed and get rid of 'em, and then turn round wi' their great jaws wide open and try to bite the blacks as is loading of 'em. But there, lass, I didn't mean to vex 'ee. Don't 'ee take on about what I says. I must be going, and your father '11 be back directly. I s'pose he'll be at the club to-night ?

Tell him as the new schoolmaster be coming. He've half promised to join us if so be he can. He's a real Liberal he is, but he says a man must live, and as he've had eddication for a schoolmaster he's bound to keep in a bit wi' the squire and the parson, and sich-like, else maybe they'd get him into trouble. But he's coming all the same, jest to see what the meetin's like, and if so be he speaks and we wants an answer for him, why, your father's the man as must do it and no one else. But there, I must be going. Give us a kiss, lass, and don't be down-hearted. You're a sight too good for me, but I'll be a kind husband to 'ee, and you shall have a good time of it when we're married, I promise you." The young man stepped lightly into the cart which was waiting in the road, and with a cheerful nod and " good night, lass," drove rapidly away.

Nellie watched till he disappeared at abend in the road, and then turned and made her way slowly to the house with an expression of deepened anxiety on her sweet, grave face. She presently reappeared accompanied by Mary, and between them they laid a coarse, though scrupulously clean, cloth, over a rickety table standing in an old-fashioned arbour at the end of the garden, and pro ceeded to spread what even in " hard times " looked like an evening meal frugal to meanness for a farm bearing the appearance of so much prosperity. Nellie sighed as she looked at the meagre fare, and then called after the retreating figure of the girl : " Mary7, bring out a small plate, an' come an' help me get some gooseberries," adding to herself, " Father can' mind jes' now an' again. There's a plenty, an' 'twill refresh him arter the hot day i' the town."

Even with the addition of the small plate of gooseberries the repast could hardly have been called sumptuous ; but the fresh fruit lying on a cool cabbage leaf gave the meal, in Nellie's eyes, the air of a feast. Finally she placed a coarse earthen jar of tobacco and a long clay pipe on the table, and then surveyed her work with a satisfied air and again murmuring " He can' mind jes' for once " as her eyes fell on the gooseberries, betook herself to the gate whence she would see her father approaching. She had not waited long before he appeared round the same bend in the road that had hidden her lover from view, and in another minute he drew up at the gate. A lean wrinkled visage, and a spare bent figure, keen grey eyes the same colour as, but very different in expression from, his daughter's, thin cruel lips to which a smile had long been a stranger, a high narrow forehead with thin locks of dark grey hair hanging round it.

Such was Michael Parsons, Nellie's father, as seen by a stranger. " Where's Tim ? " he enquired sharply, as without a word of greeting he got down from his gig. " Ah ! there 'ee be, be 'ee," he continued, as the lad came up and pro ceeded to lead away the mare. " Now none o' your lazy tricks to-night mind, unless 'ee wants a hidin'. The mare be all of a sweat, an' if I don' fin' her dry when I comes roun', ye'll catch it I promise 'ee, d'ye hear ? " " Ay, measter, I bean't deaf," growled the boy with surly stolidity, whilst the farmer turned away and in an equally surly manner grumbled to himself, " Lazy young rascal ! an' he want his wages riz, do he ? The wusser times is for us the more wages they wants, jes' like 'em ; they doesn' pay for their vittles, so wat do they care ? — but they won't get it fro' me, I'm none o' your milk-an'-water sort to give in to everythin'."

His soliloquy was interrupted by his daughter. " I've put supper out in the arbour, father. I thought 'twould seem fresher-like nor the kitchen this hot night." " Hm ! " grunted Parsons ungraciously. " I'd as bes ha' had it i' the kitchen ; but as 'ee've put it i' th' arbour I s'pose I'd bes' come there wen I've put away my books." Putting away his books was the farmer's euphuism for counting out his money, and locking up so much as remained to him on market days after depositing the bulk of it in the county bank, where rumour credited him with possessing no inconsiderable sum.

Chapter II

niifflli^AYING carefully locked away both money ami cjiæ^ books, Parsons returned to tlie arbour where <s"***^'> his daughter and his supper awaited him. The first thing his eyes fell on was the small plate of goose berries. " Hullo ! wa's this ? " he exclaimed, angrily ; and then with a sneer, " Some one been bringin' a present, have they ? " " No, father," answered Nellie, gently, " I thought as 'twere so hot, an' you in town all day, as maybe ye'd like 'em, an' they'd be refreshin' for yer supper. There's such a plenty it can' make no differ in the sellin' — an' jes' those few, no one 'ud ever know as they was gone off the bush where I took 'em." "An' how often have I tol' 'ee as I won' have luxuries an' waste on this 'ere farm, eh, girl ? ' It can' make no differ in the sellin',' can' it?

I dessay not. I dessay 'twoulden' make no differ, not ter you. I dessay 'twoulden' make no differ not if we was to have fresh eggs for breakfast an' a goose for dinner every day o' the week, not ter you. But I tell 'ee / can' afford no luxuries, and wat's more I icon', so there ! One word for me an' " THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL." 18 two for yerself I expec's. I sha'n' eat 'em, so thee'd bes' do so since 'ee've gathered 'em, an' save the cheese." " Father, you know I diden' gather 'em for myself, an' it's hard ter hear 'ee say sich things. If I wanted ter go agen yer orders, I could eat 'em in plenty unbeknownst. You coulden' count' 'em like the geese an' th' eggs. But I never do, an' 'twas only when I minded how poor mother would allus have a dish o' fruit market night, as it come ter me as maybe ye'd relish 'em after yer dusty ride."

It was well known in the neighbourhood that the late Mrs. Parsons, an excellent woman and thrifty farm-mistress, had steadily and, to a certain extent successfully, combated her husband's miserly ways. Since her death, about two years before this tale begins, he had, however, grown more and more parsimonious, and was fast develop ing into a regular miser. It was whispered that he had been somewhat afraid of his wife, who had possessed no conscientious scruples as to the employment of plain speaking, when in her opinion the case seemed to re quire it ; and even now a reference to her would some times influence him favourably, as on this occasion. " Well, well," he said, or rather sighed, " say no more about 'em. But min' you, your mother, for all she were a good woman, were that extravagant I dunno how we managed ter keep the farm an' get along, that I don' — bills here an' bills there, cap-ribbons, and bonnets, an' wat not, 'twere a'most a mussy for the farm she were took wen she were."

Then, as his daughter wisely held her peace, though with an effort, for she honoured her mother's memory as much as she had loved and obeyed her in life, he continued, pushing away the cheese from before him : " Here, take this 'ere away. As 'ee've gathered 'em we'll eat 'em, and save the cheese ter-night,"and then with the strange twist in his nature which caused him to flatter himself that in all his dealings he was an essen tially just man, he began carefully counting out the gooseberries and putting them one by one alternately on his own and on his daughter's plate, and when he came to the last, seeing it was an odd one, he replaced it on the cabbage leaf, with a magnanimous air, saying as he did so, " There ! we'll leave this 'ere as a treat for Mary." " How was prices to-day ? " asked Nellie, presently.