CHAPTER IX.

RENEWING ACQUAINTANCE.

ELSPETH fully anticipated the honour of giving lunch to this strange artist, for whom Bill had borrowed the chair. It was a good step up to the public house by the church; and common sense told her that a shelter so near at hand, where he could rest and eat, would be a convenience not to be despised.

Accordingly, she laid forward with her work, in order to be ready to do the honours of a cold-meat spread any time after eleven o'clock, by which hour she counted he might reasonably be getting hungry. As fortune would have it, however, she was doomed to disappointment.

Setting out about half-past nine for a walk his grandsons, the Squire with Hal at his side, arrived at the stile beyond the Manor Farm, intending to proceed by way of the riverbank and the fields to the church, and thence to the gate of the wood, to see how Farmer Bluff's place of exile was progressing.

Will and Sigismund were quickly over; and whilst Hal and the old gentleman were following at leisure, on they ran as usual. They no sooner disappeared beyond the corner where the path curved round the orchard than they came racing back.

"Such an odd object!" cried Will, in his clear, sharp voice. "A man under a white canvas umbrella!"

"Like a missionary teaching the heathen," put in Sigismund; for the equinoctial sun was in one of its rare hot moods, and our artist had been glad to screen his eyes from its glare.

A few moments later, the Squire and Hal were in sight of him. Hal, as usual, was just ready with some question, when his grandfather uttered an exclamation of pleasure and surprise. At the same moment, a look of recognition passed over the artist's face, and he rose, respectfully doffing his hat.

"Why, Grantley!" exclaimed the old gentleman, hurrying forward with extended hand. "I little thought you were upon my domains."

"On Tommy Tinker's ground," put in, sotto voce, Will, who always had something mischievous at the tip of his tongue.

The artist replied that he himself had not been aware of it until, inquiring his way of a labouring man up by the church, he had learned the name of the place. "I intended doing myself the honour of calling on you later in the day," he added; "when the air becomes too chilly for work."

"By all means," said the Squire cordially. "I shall be delighted. I see you have already made acquaintance with my bailiff, or his housekeeper," added he, glancing at the chair.

Grantley acquiesced. "A decent, hospitable kind of body too," returned he; "offered to get me luncheon presently—which, by the way, I think will come acceptable before long; for I breakfasted at six, preparatory to my tramp over from the town; and I find your country air sharpening to the appetite."

"You will find my bailiff but indifferent company, I fear," said the Squire. "Farmer Bluff is all that his name implies; a gouty old sinner, too, who deserves every twinge in his joints as heartily as ever any one did. However, if he is expecting you, of course—"

"Oh! From what the good woman said," interrupted Grantley, "I am not to enjoy the honour of sitting down with Farmer Bluff. She spoke of her front kitchen."

"I suspected as much," rejoined the Squire. "Bluff was never noted for the virtue of hospitality, and never will be. This is simply a scheme of Dame Elspeth's to turn an honest half-crown. That being so, I propose that you come up to lunch with me at the Manor House; or if that will take you from your work too soon, go in and have a snack of bread and bacon in Elspeth's kitchen, and come on to dine with me at six."

This arrangement seemed best to suit Grantley, who was anxious to lose none of the short spring day. "It will make a pretty sketch," said he, "if I can do it justice; but I am expecting a lad back presently—the one who fetched out Dame Elspeth and the chair; a lively urchin, from the way in which he scrambled through the hedge there, rather than go round like ordinary folk to the front entrance."

"Well for him that the old farmer has his gout on, if he is familiar with the way through that hedge," observed the Squire. "But if Farmer Bluff suffers that way, his dog Blazer doesn't; and the dog isn't a whit more bland-tempered than his master."

"Oh, grandfather!" put in Hal, who was listening as usual, his keen eyes moving quickly from one to the other of the speakers. "Blazer is ever so much nicer than Grip. He's an honest old doggie."

"Perhaps Farmer Bluff might become an honest old bailiff in your hands, my boy," returned his grandfather, "if only his gout allowed him to live long enough to see you in power. This is Hal, the coming man," continued he to Grantley; "the eldest son of your old schoolfellow, who will be Squire in my stead one of these days, I hope."

Grantley said something pleasant in answer to this information; but Hal could not help feeling that he cast a pitying glance at his crutches and irons.

"I hope I shall be as good a Squire as you, grandfather," said he in a low voice.

"Aim at being better, my boy," returned his grandfather, laying a fond hand on his shoulder. "The higher our ideal, the higher we may hope to reach. Set before yourself not the Squire your old grandfather has been, but the Squire Christ Jesus would have been if He—the only perfect man—had been Lord of the Manor to the people here."

And somehow, with his grandfather's words, it came over the cripple boy, that with such an ideal before him, it would not so very much matter to his squireship if he could not follow the hounds or ride in the steeplechase.

Then they set forward, and presently they met Dick Crozier on his way back from witnessing Bill's encounter with the goose.

The Squire stopped.

"Well, Master Dick," said he, for he rarely forgot a name, "you're out early; and you haven't missed your way to-day."

Dick answered "No;" but coloured to the crown, for conscience reminded him that he had none the less been out of bounds.

The Squire, however, knowing nothing of his father's injunctions, misinterpreted the blush, judging him to be of a modest turn. Now the Squire liked a boy who wasn't "made of brass;" so he took Dick to his heart thenceforth.

"My grandsons will be pleased to show you the grounds at the Manor House any time you like to come up for a game," said he.

Dick thanked him.

"And if you're not too tired to turn back with us just now," continued the Squire, "we shall all be pleased to have your company."

So Dick, who had till one o'clock upon his hands, turned back towards the river with them, nothing loth to walk in such august society.

Meanwhile Bill, upon the riverbank, behind the willow clump, had just finished washing out his pockets, which he had wrung out as dry as he could before putting his jacket on again. This done, he turned to take a survey of the distant hostile squadron.

To his amazement and dismay, whom should he behold but Dick Crozier and the Squire's grandsons making straight for the very spot where he had given the goose that vicious kick; and in their midst the brisk, trim figure of the Squire himself, one hand behind his back, as usual, the other grasping the gold head of his cane.

"Now, if he ha'n't been straight and split on me!" exclaimed Bill to himself. "There's a mess!"

This was precisely what Dick—being somewhat in the same mess—had not done, and had no intention of doing. The history of the affair was this.

Turning to the left, along the riverbank, to gain the cottages by the gate of the wood, the Squire and his grandsons had come upon the extraordinary spectacle of a flock of some ten or a dozen geese huddled together in apparent agitation and concern at a distance of several yards from one member of their flock, who was writhing and flapping on the grass in evident distress and agony. Their conduct betrayed a curious mixture of fear and sympathy. Now and again, one or another would come out from among her fellows, and make a few steps forward with outstretched neck, whilst the rest of the flock chorused her with warning screams of "Ya-hi!—Ya-hi!" But having contemplated the poor sufferer for some seconds, the spectacle of a sister's sufferings evidently became too much for her feelings, and she waddled away again to seek support of the gander, who stood hindermost of all, utterly useless in such an emergency.

Hal's quick eyes had been the first to catch sight of her.

"She's dying, grandfather!" exclaimed he; and as his brothers rushed forward, he felt in all its keenness the privation of his crippled condition.

Dick was in no such hurry, for he guessed pretty accurately what was the matter with the goose; though whether Bill's boot had broken her breast-bone or bruised her internal organs, he could not tell; so he followed on with Hal and his grandfather.

The Squire looked on for some minutes with both perplexity and concern at the poor creature's distress, then he turned to Hal and Sigismund.

"Run to Farmer Bluff's, both of you," said he. "Bring one of the men. The poor thing must be attended to at once."

Off ran Will and Sigismund at the top of their speed, whilst the other three looked on, not knowing what to do.

And in the distance stood Bill, watching them, and wondering what would come of it all. At length, recollecting his appointment with the artist, and concluding that it would be safer not to venture back to Farmer Bluff's field by that path, Bill set off running in the opposite direction, intending to go round the longer way by which Dick had met him when they quarreled about the broken egg.

All this while, Dick was in a sad dilemma, for he dared not tell what he knew, although he could so easily have put them on the right track with regard to the poor bird's sufferings.

At length, two of the farm labourers arrived, and after a short examination, amid much cackling and screaming from the rest of the flock, they carried off the injured goose in a basket they had brought for the purpose, to doctor her after their simple light; or, as a last, humane measure, to put a quick end to her struggles.

"For it's my opinion, sir," said one of the men wisely, as they placed her in the basket, "that her 'll not get over this. I've seen 'em took like this before; and they never live."

"Then kill her mercifully, by all means," the Squire answered him; "and end her sufferings."

And they continued on their way.

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