Part 22 (1/2)

'She thought of the dark plantation, And the hares and her husband's blood, And the voice of her indignation Rose up to the throne of G.o.d.

'”I am long past wailing and whining-- I have wept too much in my life: I've had twenty years of pining As an English labourer's wife.

'”A labourer in Christian England, Where they cant of a Saviour's name, And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's For a few more brace of game.

'”There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire; There's blood on your pointer's feet; There's blood on the game you sell, squire, And there's blood on the game you eat!”'

'You villain!' interposed the squire, 'when did I ever sell a head of game?'

'”You have sold the labouring man, squire, Body and soul to shame, To pay for your seat in the House, squire, And to pay for the feed of your game.

”'You made him a poacher yourself, squire, When you'd give neither work nor meat; And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden At our starving children's feet;

'”When packed in one reeking chamber, Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay; While the rain pattered in on the rotting bride-bed, And the walls let in the day;

'”When we lay in the burning fever On the mud of the cold clay floor, Till you parted us all for three months, squire, At the cursed workhouse door.

”'We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders?

What self-respect could we keep, Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers, Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?”'

'And yet he has the impudence to say he don't mean me!' grumbled the old man. Tregarva winced a good deal--as if he knew what was coming next; and then looked up relieved when he found Lancelot had omitted a stanza--which I shall not omit.

'”Our daughters with base-born babies Have wandered away in their shame; If your misses had slept, squire, where they did, Your misses might do the same.

”'Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking With handfuls of coals and rice, Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting A little below cost price?

”'You may tire of the gaol and the workhouse, And take to allotments and schools, But you've run up a debt that will never Be repaid us by penny-club rules.

'”In the season of shame and sadness, In the dark and dreary day When scrofula, gout, and madness, Are eating your race away;

”'When to kennels and liveried varlets You have cast your daughters' bread; And worn out with liquor and harlots, Your heir at your feet lies dead;

”'When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector, Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave, You will find in your G.o.d the protector Of the freeman you fancied your slave.”

'She looked at the tuft of clover, And wept till her heart grew light; And at last, when her pa.s.sion was over, Went wandering into the night.

'But the merry brown hares came leaping Over the uplands still, Where the clover and corn lay sleeping On the side of the white chalk hill.'

'Surely, sir,' said Lancelot, 'you cannot suppose that this latter part applies to you. or your family?'

'If it don't, it applies to half the gentlemen in the vale, and that's just as bad. What right has the fellow to speak evil of dignities?' continued he, quoting the only text in the Bible which he was inclined to make a 'rule absolute.' 'What does such an insolent dog deserve? What don't he deserve, I say?'

'I think,' quoth Lancelot, ambiguously, 'that a man who can write such ballads is not fit to be your gamekeeper, and I think he feels so himself;' and Lancelot stole an encouraging look at Tregarva.

'And I say, sir,' the keeper answered, with an effort, 'that I leave Mr. Lavington's service here on the spot, once and for all.'

'And that you may do, my fine fellow!' roared the squire. 'Pay the rascal his wages, steward, and then duck him soundly in the weir- pool. He had better have stayed there when he fell in last.'