Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (638 page)

‘An’ how did Mary take it?’

‘She said she’d sooner go into service than go with the man. I reckon a mistress ‘ud be middlin’ put to it for a maid ‘fore she put Mary into cap an’ gown. She was studyin’ to be a schoo-ool-teacher. A beauty she’ll make!... Well, that was how things went that fall. Mary’s Lunnon father kep’ comin’ an’ comin’ ‘carden as he’d drinked out the money Jim gave him; an’ each time he’d put-up his price for not takin’ Mary away. Jim’s mother, she didn’t like partin’ with no money, an’ bein’ obliged to write her feelin’s on the slate instead o’ givin’ ‘em vent by mouth, she was just about mad. Just about she
was
mad!

‘Come November, I lodged with Jim in the outside room over ‘gainst his hen-house. I paid
her
my rent. I was workin’ for Dockett at Pounds — gettin’ chestnut-bats out o’ Perry Shaw. Just such weather as this be — rain atop o’ rain after a wet October. (An’ I remember it ended in dry frostes right away up to Christmas.) Dockett he’d sent up to Perry Shaw for me — no, he comes puffin’ up to me himself — because a big corner-piece o’ the bank had slipped into the brook where she makes that elber at the bottom o’ the Seventeen Acre, an’ all the rubbishy alders an’ sallies which he ought to have cut out when he took the farm, they’d slipped with the slip, an’ the brook was comin’ rooshin’ down atop of ‘em, an’ they’d just about back an’ spill the waters over his winter wheat. The water was lyin’ in the flats already. “Gor a-mighty, Jesse!” he bellers out at me, “get that rubbish away all manners you can. Don’t stop for no fagottin’, but give the brook play or my wheat’s past salvation. I can’t lend you no help,” he says, “but work an’ I’ll pay ye.”‘

‘You had him there,’ Jabez chuckled.

‘Yes. I reckon I had ought to have drove my bargain, but the brook was backin’ up on good bread-corn. So ‘cardenly, I laid into the mess of it, workin’ off the bank where the trees was drownin’ themselves head-down in the roosh — just such weather as this — an’ the brook creepin’ up on me all the time. ‘Long toward noon, Jim comes mowchin’ along with his toppin’ axe over his shoulder.

‘“Be you minded for an extra hand at your job?” he says.

‘“Be you minded to turn to?” I ses, an’ — no more talk to it — Jim laid in alongside o’ me. He’s no hunger with a toppin’ axe.’

‘Maybe, but I’ve seed him at a job o’ throwin’ in the woods, an’ he didn’t seem to make out no shape,’ said Jabez. ‘He haven’t got the shoulders, nor yet the judgment —
my
opinion — when he’s dealin’ with full-girt timber. He don’t rightly make up his mind where he’s goin’ to throw her.’

‘We wasn’t throwin’ nothin’. We was cuttin’ out they soft alders, an’ haulin’ ‘em up the bank ‘fore they could back the waters on the wheat. Jim didn’t say much, ‘less it was that he’d had a postcard from Mary’s Lunnon father, night before, sayin’ he was comin’ down that mornin’. Jim, he’d sweated all night, an’ he didn’t reckon hisself equal to the talkin’ an’ the swearin’ an’ the cryin’, an’ his mother blamin’ him afterwards on the slate. “It spiled my day to think of it,” he ses, when we was eatin’ our pieces. “So I’ve fair cried dunghill an’ run. Mother’ll have to tackle him by herself. I lay
she
won’t give him no hush-money,” he ses. “I lay he’ll be surprised by the time he’s done with
her
,” he ses. An’ that was e’en a’most all the talk we had concernin’ it. But he’s no hunger with the toppin’ axe.

‘The brook she’d crep’ up an’ up on us, an’ she kep’ creepin’ upon us till we was workin’ knee-deep in the shallers, cuttin’ an’ pookin’ an’ pullin’ what we could get to o’ the rubbish. There was a middlin’ lot comin’ down-stream, too — cattle-bars, an’ hop-poles and odds-ends bats, all poltin’ down together; but they rooshed round the elber good shape by the time we’d backed out they drowned trees. Come four o’clock we reckoned we’d done a proper day’s work, an’ she’d take no harm if we left her. We couldn’t puddle about there in the dark an’ wet to no more advantage. Jim he was pourin’ the water out of his boots — no, I was doin’ that. Jim was kneelin’ to unlace his’n. “Damn it all, Jesse,” he ses, standin’ up; “the flood must be over my doorsteps at home, for here comes my old white-top bee-skep!”‘

‘Yes. I allus heard he paints his bee-skeps,’ Jabez put in. ‘I dunno paint don’t tarrify bees more’n it keeps em’ dry.’

‘“I’ll have a pook at it,” he ses, an’ he pooks at it as it comes round the elber. The roosh nigh jerked the pooker out of his hand-grips, an’ he calls to me, an’ I come runnin’ barefoot. Then we pulled on the pooker, an’ it reared up on eend in the roosh, an’ we guessed what ‘twas. ‘Cardenly we pulled it in into a shaller, an’ it rolled a piece, an’ a great old stiff man’s arm nigh hit me in the face. Then we was sure. “‘Tis a man,” ses Jim. But the face was all a mask. “I reckon it’s Mary’s Lunnon father,” he ses presently. “Lend me a match and I’ll make sure.” He never used baccy. We lit three matches one by another, well’s we could in the rain, an’ he cleaned off some o’ the slob with a tussick o’ grass. “Yes,” he ses. “It’s Mary’s Lunnon father. He won’t tarrify us no more. D’you want him, Jesse?” he ses.

‘“No,” I ses. “If this was Eastbourne beach like, he’d be half-a-crown apiece to us ‘fore the coroner; but now we’d only lose a day havin’ to ‘tend the inquest. I lay he fell into the brook.”

‘“I lay he did,” ses Jim. “I wonder if he saw mother.” He turns him over, an’ opens his coat and puts his fingers in the waistcoat pocket an’ starts laughin’. “He’s seen mother, right enough,” he ses. “An’ he’s got the best of her, too.
She
won’t be able to crow no more over
me
‘bout givin’ him money.
I
never give him more than a sovereign. She’s give him two!” an’ he trousers ‘em, laughin’ all the time. “An’ now we’ll pook him back again, for I’ve done with him,” he ses.

‘So we pooked him back into the middle of the brook, an’ we saw he went round the elber ‘thout balkin’, an’ we walked quite a piece beside of him to set him on his ways. When we couldn’t see no more, we went home by the high road, because we knowed the brook ‘u’d be out acrost the medders, an’ we wasn’t goin’ to hunt for Jim’s little rotten old bridge in that dark — an’ rainin’ Heavens’ hard, too. I was middlin’ pleased to see light an’ vittles again when we got home. Jim he pressed me to come insides for a drink. He don’t drink in a generality, but he was rid of all his troubles that evenin’, d’ye see? “Mother,” he ses so soon as the door ope’d, “have you seen him?” She whips out her slate an’ writes down — ”No.” “Oh, no,” ses Jim. “You don’t get out of it that way, mother. I lay you
have
seen him, an’ I lay he’s bested you for all your talk, same as he bested me. Make a clean breast of it, mother,” he ses. “He got round you too.” She was goin’ for the slate again, but he stops her. “It’s all right, mother,” he ses. “I’ve seen him sense you have, an’ he won’t trouble us no more.” The old lady looks up quick as a robin, an’ she writes, “Did he say so?” “No,” ses Jim, laughin’. “He didn’t say so. That’s how I know. But he bested
you
, mother. You can’t have it in at
me
for bein’ soft-hearted. You’re twice as tender-hearted as what I be. Look!” he ses, an’ he shows her the two sovereigns. “Put ‘em away where they belong,” he ses. “He won’t never come for no more; an’ now we’ll have our drink,” he ses, “for we’ve earned it.”

‘Nature-ally they weren’t goin’ to let me see where they kep’ their monies. She went upstairs with it — for the whisky.’

‘I never knowed Jim was a drinkin’ man — in his own house, like,’ said Jabez.

‘No more he isn’t; but what he takes he likes good. He won’t tech no publican’s hogwash acrost the bar. Four shillin’s he paid for that bottle o’ whisky. I know, because when the old lady brought it down there wasn’t more’n jest a liddle few dreenin’s an’ dregs in it. Nothin’ to set before neighbours, I do assure you.’

‘“Why, ‘twas half full last week, mother,” he ses. “You don’t mean,” he ses, “you’ve given him all that as well? It’s two shillin’s worth,” he ses. (That’s how I knowed he paid four.) “Well, well, mother, you be too tender-’carted to live. But I don’t grudge it to him,” he ses. “I don’t grudge him nothin’ he can keep.” So, ‘cardenly, we drinked up what little sup was left.’

‘An’ what come to Mary’s Lunnon father?’ said Jabez after a full minute’s silence.

‘I be too tired to go readin’ papers of evenin’s; but Dockett he told me, that very week, I think, that they’d inquested on a man down at Robertsbridge which had poked and poked up agin’ so many bridges an’ banks, like, they couldn’t make naun out of him.’

‘An’ what did Mary say to all these doin’s?’

‘The old lady bundled her off to the village ‘fore her Lunnon father come, to buy week-end stuff (an’ she forgot the half o’ it). When we come in she was upstairs studyin’ to be a school-teacher. None told her naun about it. ‘Twadn’t girls’ affairs.’

‘Reckon
she
knowed?’ Jabez went on.

‘She? She must have guessed it middlin’ close when she saw her money come back. But she never mentioned it in writing so far’s I know. She were more worritted that night on account of two-three her chickens bein’ drowned, for the flood had skewed their old hen-house round on her postes. I cobbled her up next mornin’ when the brook shrinked.’

‘An’ where did you find the bridge? Some fur down-stream, didn’t ye?’

‘Just where she allus was. She hadn’t shifted but very little. The brook had gulled out the bank a piece under one eend o’ the plank, so’s she was liable to tilt ye sideways if you wasn’t careful. But I pooked three-four bricks under her, an’ she was all plumb again.’

‘Well, I dunno how it
looks
like, but let be how ‘twill,’ said Jabez, ‘he hadn’t no business to come down from Lunnon tarrifyin’ people, an’ threatenin’ to take away children which they’d hobbed up for their lawful own — even if ‘twas Mary Wickenden.’

‘He had the business right enough, an’ he had the law with him — no gettin’ over that,’ said Jesse. ‘But he had the drink with him, too, an’ that was where he failed, like.’

‘Well, well! Let be how ‘twill, the brook was a good friend to Jim. I see it now. I allus
did
wonder what he was gettin’ at when he said that, when I talked to him about shiftin’ the stack. “You dunno everythin’,” he ses. “The Brook’s been a good friend to me,” he ses, “an’ if she’s minded to have a snatch at my hay,
I
ain’t settin’ out to withstand her.”‘

‘I reckon she’s about shifted it, too, by now,’ Jesse chuckled. ‘Hark! That ain’t any slip off the bank which she’s got hold of.’

The Brook had changed her note again. It sounded as though she were mumbling something soft.

THE LAND

When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,

In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,

He called to him Hobdenius — a Briton of the Clay,

Saying: ‘What about that River-piece for layin’ in to hay?’

And the aged Hobden answered: ‘I remember as a lad

My father told your father that she wanted dreenin’ bad.

An’ the more that you neeglect her the less you’ll get her clean.

Have it jest
as
you’ve a mind to, but, if I was you, I’d dreen.’

So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style.

Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,

And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,

We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,

And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.

Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main

And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

Well could Ogier work his war-boat — well could Ogier wield his brand —

Much he knew of foaming waters — not so much of farming land.

So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood.

Saying: ‘What about that River-bit, she doesn’t look no good?’

And that aged Hobden answered: ‘‘Tain’t for
me
to interfere,

But I’ve known that bit o’ meadow now for five and fifty year.

Have it
jest
as you’ve a mind to, but I’ve proved it time on time,

If you want to change her nature you have
got
to give her lime!’

Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours’ solemn walk,

And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.

And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in’t;

Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

Ogier died. His sons grew English. Anglo-Saxon was their name,

Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;

For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,

And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy Autumn night