Squire Goodall

Auckland Star, Volume LXI, Issue 229, 27 September 1930, Page 14 (Supplement)

Squire Goodall

|| By W. RILEY. || ImmmimninmnmmmSulSSS

CHAPTER IX. The Shepherd and the Sheep,

What little of the night was left when Squire Goodall went to bed' was not spent in restful sleep. Usually he wa« able to close his mind on the events and considerations of the day and to devote himself to sleep with no • troublesome worries, for bedmates, but on this occasion his thoughts proved rebellious. All the same he was breakfasting at his customary hour, a little before eight, and on the stroke of eleven he was looking disapprovingly on the untidy vicarage garden at Newton Danby, and wondering why, it took so long for somebody to answer the bell. When the door opened it revealed the rotund form of the vicar who apologised? for appearing in his dressing gown. "The fact is-er-" he explained as he preceded his guest to the study, "I'm afraid we have all overslept. A ball is like Macbeth —it 'murders sleep' in the dark hours; but—er—unlike Macbeth it resuscitates it at daybreak." There was a crazy-looking oil stovo in the room.but when the vicar lit it so much smoke was emitted that he quickly turned it out again. "It's short of oil, I suppose," he said. "I .believe we have run out of oil.. If you keep your overcoat on you—cr—perhaps won't feel chilly." "You wanted to see me." said Squire Goodall, "to discuss matters of business 'on the spot.' What is the business?" The disorderliness of the man, of the apartment, and of all the surroundings irritated him; and whether or not there was chilliness in the> air there was no mistaking the. coldness in his voice. The vicar no doubt sensed the unfriendliness for ho spent quite a long time in a preliminary clearing of the throat. "Yes," he drawled at length, "there is a building I wished us to look at together. If —er —you will excuse me for a few minutes until I have completed my toilet I will accompany you there." "Eleven o'clock was the time we fixed for this business," Squire Goodall replied. "I have other appointments and I keep them —punctually. As you are not ready to keep yours we'll dispense with the visit. I know all the buildings in the village —which is the one you want me to see, and why?" The vicar avoided the eyes, which were disconcertingly searching, and looked vacantly at the faded covers' of the books on his shelves as he replied, with & number of preliminary "ers"— "It is the building used by the dissenters for their —er —meeting-house —" "The Primitive Methodist Chapel?" | Squire Goodall interposed. [ "Used as their chapel," the Vicar replied significantly. "The building »a not theirs but yours, and they pay rent for it. It was—er—at one time made use of by the Church as a sort of parish room, but Sir Stephen's father was illadvised enough to yield to the—er— solicitations of a few enthusiastic Ranters —" "I know all about that," Squire Goodall broke in. "The place was doing to rack and ruin and the Primitlws tidied it up and made it decent; after which they had the rent put up. Well; what about it?" The tone was anything but encouraging, yet the vicar went boldly forward, although at a slow pace. "There is need of a recreation-room in the village—er—billiards and that sorb of thing. Our young men are clamouring for one, like the excellent building they have in the neighbouring parish of Constable-Morton. This—er —building is well adapted to the purpose, and if you could see your way to divert it to this use —" "You needn't trouble to enlarge on that," Squire Goodall again interposed. "The idea is a good one, and I'll see that it is carried out. Something of the sort had occurred to me." This time the vicar was the interrupter. "This is a welcome surprise," he said with unusual animation," and I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. —er —Goodall. I feared you might not accede so readily to my—er—-wishes, and I am delighted to find you in agreement. The Ranters have only a monthly tenancy, I believe ?" "I don't know," Squire Goodall replied. 'As a matter of fact I hadn't thought it necessary to inquire, as I'm giving them a bit of land and am going to build them a little chapel. You see, a friend of mine—a very old friend and a friend of my dead wife —worships with them, and it'll please her for me to do it." The vicar was gazing at him openmouthed. 'His pleasure and complacency were gone, ousted by a sense of defeat and intense vexation. "You won't do this sinful thing?" he protested, not exactly with heat though certainly with emphasis.' "You won't disturb, the peace of the village by abetting and strengthening the few weak schismatics who defy the Church? You won't dare to do it?" "Don't lose your temper," t Squire Goodall replied; "I can keep mine. I don't like peice at any price, and this parish is paying too big a price for its peace. What you call peace I call stagnation. If there was a peace of that Bort in my mills I should know I was going bankrupt. This village is going bankrupt—spiritually bankrupt —and if the Ranters, as you call them, can do anything to stop tlie. rot I'll help 'em to rant. ,Is there anything else I can do for you?" ■ 1 <• "Er—r, I'm afraid not whilst you are in'thif? mood" the vicar replied. He was disconcerted and angry, but he read his man and was aware that a show of hostility would only strengthen the other's purpose so he imposed a measure of self-control. "Then if you'll spare me a few minutes ' more," said Squire Goodall. I'll turn to another subject. One of your flock is a man called Hal Clark, I believe. What can you tell me about him?" "Hal Clark?" The vicar hesitated, questioning his mind as to what might be the purposo of the inquiry. "The man is mad; a case for doctors; a rebel against his fellows. If doesn't take his own life he'll - er—end it, I m afraid, in an asylum, for he gets madder every month." "He was an efficient and respected policeman, I'm told," Squire Goodall went on. "What caused his madness?' The vicar guessed that the question was superfluous, but it had to be answered — , , "There was —er —an unfortunate liaison between the man's granddaughter and Sir Stephen," he said, with manifest reluctance. "The girl died and —er —the grandfather took a morbid view of the occurrence and exaggerated Sir Stephen's part' in it—"

"Ah," Squire Goodall interrupted, "a liaison, you say? I shall, perhaps, get at the truth of the matter now. Every one who has spoken to me about it has put no restraint on his condemnation of the man who, they tell me, brutally assualted an innocent and helpless child. You, as pastor of all the parties, can put a different construction oh the— occurrence. I am glad I asked you." The vicar would not meet the eyes that were bent upon him, and his reply was preceded by an unusually prolonged "er —r." "I don't know that the facts are disputed," he admitted grudgingly, "but the man's detractors lose sight of, —er — extenuating circumstances." "Namely—" queried Squire Goodall. "The man is hot-blooded and passionate; the girl was pleasing and attractive. Sins of impulse of the flesh, are not —er — after all as reprehensible as many that are accounted more respectable." lie glanced at Squire Goodall's face and saw something there that caused him to lower his eyes again. "I agree," said Squire Goodall. "But that, I take it, is what you say to his detractors. It isn't what you said to Sir Stephen when you conveyed to him the message of tlie church, I hope?" "I rejkrd the inmates of the Towers as under Dalroy's pastoral charge," the vicar replied. "The Hall is in your parish." "In fact and—er—accidently—yes," the vicar replied; "but it is nearer Dalroy's church, and the leanings of the inmates have always been towards Con-stable-Morton." "So you left the Nathan's office to the rector," said Squire Goodall grimly, "and confined your ministrations to the man he had injured. How did he receive you? Your excuses wouldn't be well received there, I fancy." It was in the vicar's heart to refuse to answer and to dismiss his visitor, but he thought better of it — "The man —er —closed his ,door on everybody," he replied. "He is unapproachable. He is, as I say, mad." "Ay, poor beggar," Squire Goodall' agreed; "he is mad, forsaken, lost; and his shepherd never goes to seek him. He, at any rate, isn't in Dalro/s parish. All you can suggest is a lunatic asylum —or suicide. Either of these expedients will rid the village of a nuisance and you of a responsibility." "Sir!" said the vicar, stung to anger rather by the contempt in the speaker's voice than by the words themselves. "I withdraw ,nothing," said Squire Goodall sternly. 'You neglect your job, sir; and when men for whom I have any responsibility neglect their jobs I tell them of it. In your case that is all I can do; but that, at least, I will do." "He looks like a mean little Dissenter himself," said Mrs. Shepherd, when later her husband related what had taken place. "I daresay it pleases him to have a dig at the Church. I shall ask Miss Goodall to use her influence with her father against this preposterous scheme of building a chapel." "An earthquake wouldn't shake a man with a jaw like his," the vicar replied gloomily. "We're in for trouble; I'm sure of it." Hal Clark's Guest. Meanwhile Squire Goodall had made his way to the cottage occupied by Hal Clark. It had a miserable appearance, for one of the windows had been broken and was covered with brown paper, and the rest were opaque with dirt. A short lace curtain that hung across the lowen part of the window had never been washed since Dorothy's death and was now discoloured and rotten. Through the open door Squire Goodall's eyes discovered evidences of former comfort and long . neglect; but the wallpaper was discoloured, the hearth littered, and there was dirt and dust everywhere. The man was bending over a low fire stirring something in a pan, and he growled like a surly dog when a knock on the door was followed by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. "Get out 'o this!" he said; "what d'ye want?" But he did not turn his head, nor stay his hand; and Squire Goodall let his remain. "That's porridge, friend, you have in the pan," he said. "I can smell it— good oatmeal, too. It brings back old times when I used to stir ifr myself in the days when I was young and newlywed." "God's curse on you!" cried the man excitedly; "twisting the knife round in my sore with your tale of old times. God's curse on you, I say, whoever you are!" "Nay," Squire Goodall replied soothingly, "God has no curse for those who speak of the happy days Ho has given them. Why shouldn't you dwell upon the old times, friend? Light lingers after the sun sets; but sometimes we close oilr shutters and make our own night—a night in which there are no "Get out o' this, I tell you I" said the other, but sulkily now. "If it wasn't for this mess I'm stirring I'd throw you out. Who are you?" "I'm- your landlord, friend," Squire Goodall replied quietly; "—your new landlord. You've seen me before." "Ay," he answered in a more respectful tone, "I own your voice now, and that 'friend' o' yours. Nobody else calls me friend and the word's a lie in your mouth. What d'ye want,-squire-damn the word ? I'm not behind with my rent, am I?" He lifted the pan on to the hob as he put the question, and turned ' round to face his visitor; but it was clear that he saw nothing or next to nothing. "How do you manage your cooking when you are nearly blind?" Squire Goodall asked in a voice that seemed to soothe the impatient man's irritation. "Who lights your fire?" "I manage well enough," was the reply. "I do all my own work, and all I ask is to be let alone. What do you want with me, squire?" "I want to help you," was the quiet reply. "Spare me a few spoonfuls of porridge and I'll talk to you over the meal." The man laughed—a scornful, mirthless laugh. "Squire'll have his dinner with me— '11 sup porridge with me. I'll take you at your word, squire; I'll take you at your word." . Squire Goodall said nothing. He expected to find the crockery as dirty as everything else, but to his surprise the two basins the man reached down from the cupboard in the corner were clean, and the spoons he took from a drawer in the dresser had at least been washed. He set them down on the bare, unsightly table and Bkilfully poured the porridge into them. From,,

the larder he brought a jug of milk and a saucer containing salt. Also cheese and a half loaf of bread. .] "Pull your chair up, squire," he said, "and reach to;" and laughed again, unpleasantly. , t • . "Let us ask a blessing," said Squire Goodall. "For what we are about to receive the Lord give us thankful hearts." He was not quite sure of the formula, for in his own home it had been long forgotten; but Mary Emma had always insisted on it, and Aunt Matilda still closed her eyes and was silent for a moment or two before she be»an her meal. It was not cant or affectation that led him to do it now but obedience to an inward prompting. It brought the man's forced merriment to an end. , "Dorothy always said something o that sort," he remarked. Nothing further was said until the basins were emptied when the man turned to his guest. . • "There's more porridge in the pan, or you can have a bite of cheese and bread with me." Squire Goodall had seen the Gbpese. "I'll have a spoonful more porridge, friend, if I may," he *aid. . The man served him, and again the was silence between them for a while. Then Squire Goodall laid down his spoon, stretched his legs and spoke. "Friend," he said, "youve done me a kindness and I'm grateful. I ve had a good meal when I was feeling hung y, and I've enjoyed it. I came in to see if I could help you, and you ve helped me. Let me tell you why I came: I want to get you away from here into more comfortable quarters." The man's face cloudcd at once, but for the moment anxiety predominated over anger. , ~ "You're for turning me out o the cottage—" he began; but Squire Goodall saw his mistake and stopped him. "Not unless you are willing to go, he said. "Listen to me. I think you will be happier in new surroundings, and can <nve you a comfortable little home in Constable Morton and fine someone I to look after you. Nobody is interested in you here, but over yonder the rector and his women folk will be your friends and do their best to comfort you and make life worth living again. For remember, friend, it's in man's power to conquer everything, even a bitter sorrow and a grievous wrong like yours. Have courage and start afresh." "Nay," was the quick reply, it isn t in a blind man's power to conquer his enemy, and that's the only sort o' conquering Hal Clark wants. To have his knee on the man's chest and his thumb on his throat, and to press —press. Oh, God! that 'ud make life worth living again; but a new home and a new parson —nay, nay, I'll bide where I be." "Revenge, friend," said Squire Goodall, "isn't the sweet thing you think it. The bee stings its enemy and loses its life—that would be your fate, and you would widen the distance between your Dorothy and you. Leave vengeance to God—" "Never!" he shouted passionately. "Squire or no squire you shan't rob me of my revenge. I'm God's officer of judgment —His executioner. I've His warrant^ —'whoso sheddeth man's blood by man shall his blood be shed." By God! I'll kill the man yet, blind as I am." The outburst left Squire Goodall unmoved. "In any case," he persisted, "change your home. They are kindly people in Constable Morton—" "Say no more, squire," said the man in a strangely altered and broken voice, "you don't understand. You must let me stay here where I can see my folks. I should leave, 'em behind an lose 'em if I was to go across t' park, and I couldn't do it. Can't you see 'at I couldn't do it?" 'Very well," Squire Goodall replied; "then I must have you made more comfortable here. If your folk are here, as you say, it'll vex them to see the dirty mess the place is in and your own neglected state. I'll find some sensible woman who will put things right and keep them right." "I'll have no woman in the house!" the man began hotly; but in firm, quiet tones, Squire Goodall stopped him — "Friend, the property is mine and I said must. It must be papered and painted and kept clean, for my sake and your neighbours' as well as yours, I say must; but I will do nothing to cause you annoyance if I can help it. I am your friend whether you are mine or not." The man's face was surly, but it was also troubled. "There's been no woman inside the house since they took our Dorothy out," he said, and Squire Goodall replied— "I know; but we are dependent on women, friend—all of us. I will speak to a good_ woman on whom I depend, and she will find some kindly soul who won't worry you. You can't suggest one yourself, I suppose?" "Rob Smithies' wife is as good as any," he answered morosely. "She was always friendly with our lasses. But I want none of 'em. I'm right as I am." "One of these days," said Squire Goodall, "you'll know that I was right. I must be getting along now. Thank you, friend, and good-bye." At the end of the alley, or "fold" as it was called locally, where Clark lived, a woman was washing the lower windows of her home and Squire Goodall saw that she was crying. She was a, woman in middle life, sparely built, with a face that was lined with care. She used her leather vigorously, but the eyes that overflowed with slow tears, showed plainly enough that her mind was not on her work. Squire Goodall stopped. "What's the worry?" he asked. She could not have heard his footsteps for she turned with a start, and recognising the squire, who by this tim* was known to everybody, hurriedly dried her eyes on her apron. "Something gone wrong?" g qu i rc Goodall repeated. The drying process had been wasted, for the noie of kindlinesa in the inquiry brought an increase of tears to the woman's eyes. "Everything goefe wrong, sir," eke answered. "There's naught goes right." "That's bad," he commentecL "You don't look like a woman who is always turning the tap on. Is there anything I can do to help you?" ° The woman looked round, as if fearing curious, eyes, but saw that they were apparently unobserved. "Thank you kindly, sir," she said., "I don't know as you can. I am not one to give way, but' it's just been one thing atop of another lately, and to-day crowns all. I'm keeping you standing, sir." "I'll step inside with you," 6aid Squire Goodall. "I can spare a few minutes." They entered the room, where an elderly night-capped woman, with a face shrivelled like an old, forgotten apple, lay with closed eyes on a bed in the far corner. A good fire glowed in the grate, lending its golden cheerfulness to surroundings that were drab and comfortless. "So it's one thing after anotha is it?" Squire Goodall inquired when he had taken the seat the woman drew forward. "What is it—sickness, want i of money or bad *uck V* J

"It's all of 'em put together," she replied wearily. "I've a little 'tm upstairs, bad with her chest, and my man a: old mother, there, slippin' away fast and frettin' for her old home and her old friends. We had to bring her away, you see, wlieii she couldn't look after herself, hut there's nobody to bother with her here, and it grieves her. "She's your husband's mother, you say? Who is your husband? Does he work for me?" "No, sir, I wish he did. He works for Sir Stephen. He's ono o the few that followed him when he left. 'Bert Newbold, they call him, sir. If you've heard of him you'll have heard no good, I doubt*" "I haven't heard of him." "He hasn't one o' the best o' names, sir, and spends a deal more time and money down at the Dog and Gun than what he can afford. But I could a managed if it hadn't been for this last trick." "And what is the last trick?" Again the woman had to make use of her apron. "He's takin' our Sarah away/from vour place, sir, to be parlourmaid for Sir Stephen. She's a bonny girl, _is Sarah, and only 18, and she was doing right well at The Towers. But Bert says Sir Stephen'll give her more money. We'd words over it this morning, for I told him he was selling her soul, asking your pardon, sir, for saying it, but it's true. And he struck me—not 'at that matters, but it frightened grannie, and she's scarce opened her eyes since." "I'm sorry," said Squire Goodall simply. "You've plenty to cai'ry, friend. Would it help you; if I called and asked the vicar to see you—or his wife?" "Them?" she answered. "They wouldn't come; or if they did they'd tell me I was a wicked woman to hint things about Sir Stephen. Mr. Shepherd has only been in once since grannie came eight months since, and then it was to say summat about a confirmation class. It isn't such as us the likes of them visit." "Let me look at grannie," said Squire Goodall. ' He went over to the bed, and as he bent over her the old woman opened her eyes. They were very dim, but were still strong enough to recognise a friendly face. "This is squire, mother," said Mrs. Newbold. "Squire from The Towers, you know —new squire." "I've 'eard of 'im," she answered feebly. Her mind wandered. "They say he's a kind man," she murmured, and closed her eyes again. "She's a long way on her journey," said Squire Goodall gently as. he turned away. "I'll look in again before long. Keep your heart up, and I'll think things over and see if anything can be done." (To be continued Saturday next.)