Francis Hardy-on-the-Hill

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-3-8187-7198-0
Verlag: epubli
Format: EPUB
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E-Book, Englisch, 362 Seiten

The big farm was situated on the hill-the dwelling-house, that is, for Hardy's land stretched up and down and round about almost as far as the eye could see. To say the truth the hill was but a little hill, a scarcely distinguishable mound in the midst of that fertile valley which lay between the downs and the river. The big farmhouse, then, with all its wealth of tile-roofed outhouse and clustering stack, crowned the hilltop, and the Little Farm-the little old grey tumble-down house so seldom used nowadays, so much in need of repair, so forlorn with its ancient smokeless chimney stack and its shuttered windows

M. E. Francis was the pen name of Mary Elizabeth Blundell (née Sweetman; 1859 - 9 March 1930)

Autoren/Hrsg.

Francis, M. E.

Leseproben

CHAPTER I

The big farm was situated on the hill—the dwelling-house, that is, for Hardy’s land stretched up and down and round about almost as far as the eye could see. To say the truth the hill was but a little hill, a scarcely distinguishable mound in the midst of that fertile valley which lay between the downs and the river. The big farmhouse, then, with all its wealth of tile-roofed outhouse and clustering stack, crowned the hilltop, and the Little Farm—the little old grey tumble-down house so seldom used nowadays, so much in need of repair, so forlorn with its ancient smokeless chimney stack and its shuttered windows—crouched in the hollow, a mere appendage to that supplementary barton of Farmer Hardy’s, with its surrounding cowsheds and pigsties, in which the overflow stock from the prosperous premises above found refuge. Yet it was looking out on the lower barton that the noble tithe barn stood, that wonderful relic of the past, with its time-worn brick walls, its mouldering oak floor, the great granary in which the monks of old had stored the offerings of the pious. In the barn proper Stephen Hardy’s produce was stored now, but the granary above, being considered unsafe, harboured only rats and mice, in greater or lesser numbers according to the war waged upon them by such of Mrs. Hardy’s cats as chose to forsake the sociable comfort of the upper premises for the sporting opportunities provided by the lower.

Mrs. Hardy was pouring out tea for her stepson one autumn afternoon in the comfortable parlour of Hardy’s-on-the-Hill. From time immemorial the place had been known by this name to distinguish it from the abodes of those other Hardys who dwelt in the vale, and in the neighbouring small towns. In like manner the head of the family was seldom spoken of as Farmer Hardy, or even Stephen Hardy, but was invariably given his full title—Hardy-on-the-Hill.

Mrs. Hardy had been housekeeper to the last Hardy-on-the-Hill for many years before he married her, for some years, indeed, before he married Stephen’s mother. She had loved and mothered the first Mrs. Hardy to the best of her ability, and had kept things going then as she had kept them going before and after the reign—if reign it could be called—of that helpless little woman. The first Mrs. Hardy had been but “a nesh tewley poor body” as the neighbours agreed, who, except in providing that stout old yeoman, her husband, with an heir, had in every way neglected her duties as mistress of the busy household. Rebecca had ruled and taken possession of her from the first, just as she ruled and took possession of old Hardy-on-the-Hill. Stephen, too, had been her property from the moment of his birth, her more particular property since his fifteenth year, when she had stepped into his mother’s vacant place. She took possession of him, I say, but she did not rule him, for Stephen was not a man to be easily ruled. While he deferred to, and loved, the kindly, capable soul whom he continued to call Rebecca, making her feel herself in every way mistress of the house, he never for a moment forgot, or allowed her to forget, that he was master.

They presented a great contrast as they faced each other at the big round table. Rebecca, stout of form and ruddy of face with bright blue eyes and hair that was still brown though she was between fifty and sixty years of age. Stephen had dark hair and dark eyes, and the complexion of his handsome keen-featured face was suggestive of that strain of gipsy blood which was associated with his name. His figure was tall and well-knit, and he carried himself well.

Mrs. Hardy, having attended to Stephen’s wants, was about to settle down comfortably to her own tea when the sound of wheels without caused her to look up with an exclamation.

“I’d ’low there’s a visitor,” she cried. “ ’Tis a strange thing, Stephen—we don’t see much company, Lord knows, but if ever folks do come, ’tis sure to be of a washin’ day, or a Saturday when we’re a bit shorthanded. Jessie’s gone to the town now and Maggie’s just changing her dress.”

“I’ll answer the door,” said Stephen, rising.

“Go to the door yourself—why should you do that?” cried Rebecca. “I did ought to go if anybody goes—but I’m such a sight. There, for once I didn’t change my dress—bein’ Saturday and tea bein’ nigh upon a quarter of an hour late already. Still I don’t like you to take the trouble.”

She looked at him appealingly nevertheless, and Stephen with a good-natured smile crossed the room and went out.

A strident and particularly high-pitched voice soon heralded the approach of the visitor; at sound of it Rebecca laid down her knife and fork with an expression of dismay.

“It’s Mrs. Turnworth,” she remarked; “of all people to come such a day as to-day!”

She whisked off her apron as she spoke, and thrust it hastily under one of the cushions of the sturdy leather-covered sofa which formed part of the furniture of that homely, antiquated living-room, but a patch on the front breadth of her dress caused her countenance to assume a yet more dubious expression, and she was cogitating as to whether it might not be better after all to resume the discarded badge of honest drudgery, when the door opened, and the lady in question entered, followed by Stephen.

“Dear me,” exclaimed Mrs. Turnworth, “still at tea! Why, it’s long past six. How are you, Rebecca?”

“Quite well, thank you,” responded Mrs. Hardy, who did not deem it necessary to offer the newcomer any special demonstrations of welcome. “Yes, we are rather later than usual—we generally have tea at six o’clock. But Saturday is a busy day with us.”

“So I see,” returned Mrs. Turnworth, fixing ruthless eyes upon Rebecca’s patched gown. “Six o’clock tea—it’s your last meal of course, but still I fancy you must get hungry before you go to bed.”

“We’m early folks, you see,” responded Rebecca, in her flurry lapsing into dialect, which was not often her custom when entertaining a visitor. “At least I be. I be ready for my bed about nine. Stephen, there, sits up longer, but he seldom cares for any supper.”

“Well, go on with your tea now, anyhow,” observed Mrs. Turnworth condescendingly. “Don’t let me interrupt you. I just looked in on a matter of business.”

Stephen, who had been helping himself to a supply of cold ham, reseated himself calmly, and Rebecca, half unwillingly, poured herself out a second cup of tea.

“ ’Tis too late to offer you any, of course,” she remarked. “You’ll have had tea, I d’ ’low.”

“Oh yes, some time ago. I’ve been to the Rectory. It was Mrs. Moreton—by the way, how wretchedly sickly she does look, poor soul; but what can you expect with such a wearing husband? His sermons are enough to throw anybody into melancholia—it was she who advised me to come here. The fact is, I am looking for a house for some cousins of mine, and I thought the Little Farm might do.”

“Are they farmers, then?” inquired Stephen quietly.

Mrs. Turnworth flushed. Though she had dwelt in one of the best houses in the neighbourhood for more than twenty years and had put forward her claims to the respect and consideration of the entire community with unflagging energy and perseverance, it was now and then made patent to her that her position was even yet ill-assured. The country magnates occasionally invited her to their big parties, it is true, and she was careful to eschew such society as was provided by the country town, and to include on her visiting list nobody of less importance than a doctor or a clergyman; nevertheless she could not feel that she was making headway among those whom she was pleased to term her equals, while her obvious inferiors treated her with a cool lack of ceremony which at times verged on disrespect. In fact, no one knows better how to differentiate among his “gentry” than the Dorset rustic, who has as fine a taste for “quality” as the old-world Irishman.

“Farmers!” ejaculated Mrs. Turnworth, her already high-toned voice lifting itself another octave. “Farmers, Hardy! I tell you they are cousins of mine.”

“Oh,” said Stephen, in no way disconcerted, “in that case they probably wouldn’t want any land. I only asked the question on that account. I couldn’t let them have any land.”

“They wouldn’t want any,” returned the visitor, regaining her composure. “Mr. Leslie, the father, is a broken-down Oxford don—he doesn’t know the difference between a turnip and a potato, I should think—and as there are only two daughters, there couldn’t be any question of farming.”

“But the little house would never do for them, though, would it?” exclaimed Rebecca. “Nobody has lived in it for over a year now, and it ’ud want a deal o’ settin’ to rights.”

“It’s a wretched tumble-down place, I know,” returned Mrs. Turnworth with gusto. “I have often said you ought to put it in order for your own sake, Hardy; it’s a disgrace to your premises. But as far as the Leslies are concerned it really doesn’t matter. They’d have to live in some miserable hole, anyhow—they haven’t a penny-piece in the world.”

“Then perhaps they wouldn’t suit me,” said Stephen, with one of his quiet smiles.

“Of course I’m not speaking quite literally. They’d manage to pay your rent all right—you couldn’t in conscience charge very much for that ruin. They’re foolish, harmless sort of people. The old man would write and read all day and the girls could paint or garden. They’d keep the house aired, and you might as well have them living there as keep it...