JACK HANNAFORD

In one of the dips among the hills of the red land stands a cobb cottage, thatched, and facing the sun. The red land consists of rich loam of the colour of what artists call Indian red, overlying sandstone of the same warm colour. It is a soil of the most remarkable fertility. You have but to stick into it a slip of any shrub, and it starts growing at once and does not desist till it is a tree; sow in it any seed you like, and it springs up, and, like the corn in the Gospel, produces an hundredfold. For roses there is simply nothing in the round world equal to it. The grass that flourishes on it is the richest, most succulent, and the most emerald to be found and enjoyed anywhere. Indeed, the cows that consume the herbage on it have grown red as the soil itself, and if the sheep were not shorn annually they would produce fleeces of flame. Even the streams after rain run blood, so flush is this red land with the juices of life.

When a man wishes to build a house, he takes the clay, throws in straw, tramples it about for a while, and then builds it up into a wall; it sets, and will out-endure a structure of stone, if only kept covered on top. And a house thus constructed, for warmth, for cosiness, for healthiness, and for home comfort is simply not to be surpassed.

And, once again, on this red soil the cheeks of the girls and their kissable lips are a temptation to young men sheerly unavoidable.

The cottages on this red land and built of the red clay are low, with the windows of the “chambers,” i.e. bedrooms, peering out of the thatch, that is, with the latter just lifted like a pretty eyebrow arched over them, looking coquettishly, with a soft languor in them at the passers-by in the lane.

In the lane!—and what lanes these are, deep cut in the red rock, overarched with sycamores, elms, oaks, the rich sides oozing with ripeness, scrambled over by countless creepers, occupied on every ledge by a thousand ferns, studded in March with constellations first of golden celandine, then of pale primroses, crested with dense blue hyacinths intertwinkled with crimson robin, and later towered over by a fringe of gorgeous, purple-belled foxglove, with twenty, thirty, even to fifty flowers on one rod.

In the midst of such beauty, such plenty, such softness, humanity cannot be rough and harsh. It is not so. The simplest peasant has the courtesy of a noble, and the lowliest girl the grace of a princess. In that warm, soft, crumbling soil hearts are also warm, soft, and—well, we must admit it—crumbling too.

Where Nature does so much for man, man is perhaps not greatly inclined to do much for himself, and this applies especially to his intellectual faculties. What compulsory education may do I cannot tell—it may change all this; but till of late years—allow it frankly—there was astounding ignorance in this favoured land. And with ignorance goes credulity.

Now I am going to tell of the inmates of one of these cobb cottages in the paradisaical land of New Redsandstone, in which also paradisaical ignorance was to be found.

This cottage, the face of which was white-washed and crept over with monthly roses, was occupied by Richard Redlake and his wife Julia.

They were both young people. He between thirty and forty, she half-way between twenty and thirty. Julia had been quite the prettiest girl in a village where not a girl lived who was not pretty. She had dark hair, and the softest, largest, most melting eyes, like rich agate, a complexion transparent, pure, with the sweetest rose-flush in it; and her figure was slender and willowy.

Julia could neither read nor write. Possibly because she could neither read nor write she was a most neat and knowing housewife, who kept her cottage in beautiful order, and whitened her hearth-stone and threshold every day, and even twice a day, and burnished pans and candlesticks and old mustard tins on the chimney shelf till they shone as gold and silver. Most labourers’ wives possess the alchemical art of transforming soft, succulent meat over a fire into leather or indiarubber, and are peculiarly skilful in destroying the digestions of their husbands. But Julia, perhaps because unable to read and write, turned out a bit of steak, or the meat in a pasty, or a stew, soft and delicious.

I say that this was due to ignorance of the two principal R’s, because nowadays working-men’s wives are too much taken up with penny dreadfuls and writing letters on parochial gossip to be able to spare the time for such menial work as keeping their houses neat, their own persons clean, and cooking meals with all their attention devoted to the task.

With these good qualities there was a drawback—ignorance, abysmal ignorance. Although Julia could not read, she believed in printed matter as something indisputable. What stood, as she termed it, “on the paper” was to be accepted as gospel.

For a couple of years after they were married, old Jack Hannaford, her father, lived with the young couple. And see—here is another odd thing. I am going to tell you about him after he was dead and buried.

Hannaford had been a queer old file, cantankerous, cute in his way, scheming, but doing nothing with his plans, because he neither had the means nor the vigour to carry them out. Julia had believed implicitly in him, and “Alack a jimminy!” said she, “vayther were a wun’nerful clever man; if he’d only not been crippled, and had had a penny wi’ which he could speckerlate, he’d ha’ been a gem’man by now.”

Jack Hannaford had possessed a friend, a very knowing man named Eli Rattenbury, who lived about two miles off by himself. Eli had never been married. He did little jobs off and on for farmers, but was humorous, and at a word would leave his task and sulk and starve, rather than work for the man who had offended him. He was said to poach. He certainly gained a living by blessing wounds, “striking” tumours, and he possessed a “kenning stone,” with which he touched and healed inflamed and sore eyes. He was held to be a bit of a rogue. He possessed unbounded influence over the ignorant peasantry, even over the farmers, who dreaded offending him; and it was shrewdly suspected that, although he had no regular vocation and occupation, he had amassed a tidy sum of money. Food did not cost him much, for he either, as was surmised, took a rabbit when he wanted one, or if he coveted a duck or a piece of pork, had only to ask for it, and no one dared deny him what he desired, lest ill luck should befall the denier.

Eli Rattenbury had a wonderful faculty for finding out when a pig had been killed anywhere in the district beyond earshot of its squeals, and so surely as a porker had been slain and was being scalded, he appeared on the scene, and did not leave without a portion of the pig.

Now it happened that the Redlakes had been fattening up one of these animals, but instead of killing it, they sold it. They had a supply of bacon that would last them through the winter, and so did not require more for their personal consumption. Very soon after, when Richard was out at work, Eli Rattenbury appeared at the door, and without knocking came in.

“I don’t smell the pig in the sty,” said he.

“No; we’m rid us of him?”

“Killed? and not given me a spare-rib!”

“No, Eli; us sold ’n.”

“You don’t mean to say so! And what did he fetch?”

She told him, and added, “But, Eli, you shall have some nice salt bacon hanging yonder. We’ve sold our calf as well.”

“You’re lucky folk to be able to keep a cow.”

“Well, we are; and we can always dispose of our butter.”

“And you have fowls as well.”

“Yes; and the regrader takes them also. I’ll put you up some eggs in a basket.”

Old Eli considered.

“I thought you might have sent ’em, wi’out my havin’ to fetch ’em,” was his ungracious comment.

“I am very sorry, Eli.”

“You ort to be, considerin’ your father and me was like brothers. By the way, I ha’ had dreams—that is to say, visions—about he lately.”

“No, never! I hope all is well with old vayther.”

“Middlin’,” responded Eli.

Julia stood still, and some of her colour went.

“I hope he’s not gone——”

“Oh, no fear o’ that. He’s all right, so far. But you know, Julia, your poor vayther was never a church nor a chapel goin’ man.”

“’Cos o’ his legs,” explained Julia.

“Well, I don’t say nothin’ about the raysons, but you know so well as I do, he were not one as went to church or chapel.”

“No,” said the daughter.

“Well, then, how was he to find his way to where he ’ort to ha’ gone to when he left this world of woe? As a fact, he lost his way and got into Americay by mistake.”

“Well, now, I never!” exclaimed Mrs. Redlake.

“Yes, true; he told me so,” said Eli Rattenbury. “I don’t see as you can expect any other. What’d be your situation, missus, if you was to get sudden-like out o’ the train, and be told to find your way to Golconda—or the Transvaal. You’d go wanderin’ about, and ten to one find yourself in quite another place. ’Twas so wi’ your poor father. Hobblin’ on upon them there sticks, he came into the United States o’ North Americay. Well, I seed ’n there in a vision. I thought I were carried there.”

“You seed vayther?”

“For sure I did,” answered Rattenbury.

“Well, Eli, do tell me what he said, and how he did look.”

“‘Go and tell Julia,’ sez he, ‘that I seez my way clear to realisin’ a tremenjous fortune. I’ve talked it over with my Betsy.’”

“What—is mother there?”

“Certain; her wasn’t neither church nor chapel goer, and her were just as lost as he about the road, and so got to Americay.”

“Dear, now, to think it!”

“‘Well,’” said he, “tell my Julia that I’m goin’ to set up a bacon factory; I’m goin’ to grow pigs, and mother’ll salt’n—her does it beautiful.’”

“But where’s the money to come from?” asked the astonished woman.

“That’s it. ‘Julia,’ sez he, ‘will lend me the money to start the pigs on.’”

“There’s the money from the calf and the pig we sold,” mused Julia, “but Richard has put it away quite safe.”

“Where?”

“That I mayn’t tell,” she mused, and then said slowly, “I can’t do it wi’out axin’ Richard.”

“Your vayther laid it on me that you was on no account to speak of it to he. ‘Men,’ sez he, ‘have such tongues. Talk of women, they’re nothing to men. When they gits together in a sunny hedge eatin’ of their lunch—bless y’, they talk of everything you can think on.’”

“I don’t like to do it.”

“He said—he will return it in double.”

“How much does he want?”

“Say ten pounds, just to make a start.”

“And in a week——”

“You’ll have twenty, and Richard no wiser.”

“And how is that ten pounds to go to dear old vayther?”

Eli Rattenbury hesitated, bethought himself, then said, “Jack Hannaford said as how you should have the money doubled. And he advised that you should take the ten pounds, wrapped up in rag and put in an old sardine tin, or an old jam pot, and if you takes my advice you will bury it under the headstone near the middle, no one observin’ you, four inches below the turf. And you was not to go and look at it for a week, but if you did so and found it gone, then don’t wonder at it, Jack Hannaford has took it and has laid it out in pigs. But you may look for it in a week, or better still a month, and sure as eggs be eggs, you’ll find there twenty pounds in gold.”

“Are you to go with me?”

“No. You do it yourself; folks might observe and wonder if they seed me wi’ you at the grave, but if you go, that’s nothin,’ they’ll think you’ve gone to weed it, or put flowers.”

“Well, I will do it,” said Julia.

“When?”

“To-day.”

“And mind, not a word to Richard.”

Then, precipitately, Eli Rattenbury departed, and about an hour later, from a secret place in the thatching, Julia drew some money, counted out ten sovereigns, wrapped them in rag, put them in a little pot, and hurried to the churchyard and buried the store exactly at the place she had been told by the old rogue to place it. Then she fled home.

Had she remained in hiding, and watched, she would have seen Rattenbury creep out from behind the church porch, go to the grave of Jack Hannaford, dig up the money and pocket it.

That same evening, on Richard Redlake’s return, he clapped his wife on the back, and said “Julia! news. I’ve arranged to take another field; and I’m going to buy another cow. I’ve seen her, half Jersey; ours runs dry at times, and we can’t supply our customers reg’lar as they likes. If we have two, why, then one will be yieldin’ whilst t’other’s dry. She’ll cost twenty-five pound, and I’ve bought her. I shall pay to-morrow. We have the money in the thatch.”

Here was a pretty kettle of fish! If Dick looked at the hoard he would discover that it was diminished. So Julia made the best of a bad business, and told him all.

“In a month when old vayther has turned it over, you’ll have it doubled,” said she.

“You are a fool! That old rascal has befooled you,” said her husband. He was very angry, but scolding would not bring back the money. He strode to the churchyard and of course found the gold gone. The jam pot was there—not its contents. What should Richard do? If he went to Rattenbury, the rogue would brazen it out. He had not been to the churchyard, he would protest. Let his pockets be turned out, his house searched, the money was not with him. If any one had taken the gold it must have been some one who had watched Julia surreptitiously, as she concealed it. No! there was nothing to be got that way. However, instead of returning home, Dick marched off to the cottage inhabited by Eli. The old fellow was there, and seemed alarmed as young Redlake came up.

“How do?” said Richard.

“Very well, I thank y’,” answered Eli in a restrained voice, and looked from side to side, as though for a place of escape.

“Julia has told me all,” said the young man, “and I always did think Jack Hannaford was a wun’nerful schemin’ man. That there is a clever idea of his. I’m sure he’ll succeed.”

Old Rattenbury breathed freely.

“Sure—cock sure,” said he.

“Now, look here, Eli,” continued Dick; “I ask your advice. I’ve saved a bit o’ money—in all some twenty-five pounds—a little more or less. Now, that wi’ the ten pound Julia has lent to the old gem’man makes thirty-five, and if it be doubled, as you say, it will be forty-five. Now, if I’d a matter of about a hundred pound, I’d take Yatton Farm, and would stock it; it ain’t a terrible big place, and I could manage it. What say you? would old Jack Hannaford double the twenty-five as well as the ten?”

“Sure he would.”

“Then I’ll risk it, and yet I’d like to be sure first. I think I’ll see if he doubles Julia’s loan. If he do that, then I’ll trust him in the same way with the rest—twenty-five. But you say I must wait a month.”

“Oh dear no, two days suffice. Pigs fatten, as dandelions blow, all of a night in Americay.”

“Well, I can but try.”

“Don’t go to the grave till Thursday, and we’ll be there together. We’ll see; maybe the money may then be doubled, maybe it won’t.”

“Very well, Thursday; I’d be afraid to go alone.”

On the following Thursday Eli Rattenbury appeared at the cottage door; Richard Redlake was awaiting him.

“Look here,” said he, pouring out a sack of gold on the table, “twenty-five sovereigns. Won’t somebody be pleased?”

“I believe you,” said Eli, “let’s make haste.”

So the two men went to the churchyard. No one was about—no one observed them.

“I don’t know where Julia put the money,” said Rattenbury.

“But I do,” said Dick. “Here in the middle, and sure enough, here is a jam pot, and something in it, on my word! Money—gold—Eli. Well, now, they do turn cash over up there pretty smart. How much is it? Twenty sovereigns, as I’m a man. By George, Eli, all this mine?”

“Certainly, it is the interest on the loan.”

“But for three days!”

“They’re wun’nerful generous over yonder, to Americay.”

“And I can take it in all honest conscience?”

“To be sure you may. If not yours, whose is it?”

“Then, Eli Rattenbury, I don’t think I’ll put any more out to interest. I’ve done so well with this that I’ll bide content.”

And Richard put the twenty sovereigns in with the twenty-five. Then he looked up into Rattenbury’s face.

“What’s the matter, man? got a stomach ache?”

“I ain’t well, I’ll go home. Don’t y’ think now ’twould be fitty to share with me?”

“Not at all, Eli; the loan was mine. The interest accordin’ is mine. Suppose you now go and put a little money under the turf and see if Jack Hannaford will treat you in the same way? You don’t look comfortable as I likes to see you, Eli; go home and sleep and dream again.”